Chapter 1

London, 2027

Monday, October 11, 2027, Clerkenwell

Dale woke up at 7:00 A.M. to his alarm screeching like a banshee. He killed the noise with a slap, lay there half-awake for a few more minutes, and finally dragged himself up at 7:15. After a quick shower, he yanked on a shirt and tie, then shuffled into the kitchen. James and Alex were already there, each clutching a mug of coffee.

James, tall and gaunt, always hunched over his laptop like it was an extension of his body. He’d throw out snarky, dry remarks whenever he felt the conversation needed spicing up. Alex, a junior architect, was the annoyingly organized one—already halfway out the door.

“Mornin’, lads,” Dale said.
They grunted back.

The TV bleated the usual political nonsense. President Trump’s fresh wave of deportations was rolling forward, with an angry activist on-screen complaining about mass human rights violations. The Labour government pretended it didn’t hear. Europe was doubling down on right-wing policy, which only heightened tensions around Britain’s so-called lenient migration rules. London had flared with riots over the years, but Prime Minister Keir Starmer—thanks to his experience as Director of Public Prosecutions—smashed them down decisively. Courts ran overtime, locking people away on outdated, catch-all offences: “attending unauthorized gatherings,” “causing disruption,” “causing distress online.” The Race Relations Act kept the press tame; next election was two years off, so Starmer had time to push policies without fear of immediate backlash. The story of the day was about France actively encouraging people to leave for Britain. The Calais camps had been cleared, “safe and legal routes” being the euphemism for an immigration system so lax that there was little need to pay someone to get over on a boat. Things where Dale lived hadn’t changed too noticeably. Central London was already quite cosmopolitan and most of the new arrivals crowded poorer areas.

Sipping his coffee, Dale flicked his gaze to a short segment on a new disease called HCV-25 popping up in the Niger Delta. He raised an eyebrow at the ominous headline.

“Looks like they’re finding a new excuse to lock us all up,” Dale joked.
“Not again,” James groaned.

The reporter said there were a few clusters in West Africa but no urgent alarm. Dale shrugged it off. By 8:15, he was pushing through Clerkenwell’s morning crowd, passing Farringdon Station on his way to his associate job at an American bank. He grabbed a stale office coffee, settled at his desk, and tried to ignore how bored he felt.

He clicked open the latest email from HR.

New mentorship opportunities for diverse employees! Ensuring equal access to leadership pipelines and professional growth!

Dale’s teeth clenched.

Same shit, different day.

He knew the score. The “diverse” employees weren’t people like him. He’d seen it play out over the last couple of years. New hires, fast-tracked up the ladder while he kept getting told to “wait his turn.”

He glanced across the office at Ayodeji, the newest associate, who had barely been here six months but was already getting big assignments. Dale had been at the bank for four years.

The last time he’d spoken to his manager, it had been all the usual platitudes. You’re doing great, Dale, but we’re really looking for a broader range of perspectives in leadership right now.

Ayo caught his eye.

The guy smiled, nodded politely, then turned back to his screen.

Dale exhaled, forcing his jaw to unclench.

He wasn’t stupid.

He wasn’t paranoid.

But it was always the same story.

Tuesday, October 12, 2027, Clerkenwell

The next morning was mechanical: alarm, shower, forced breakfast, then walking to work. At the water cooler, he nearly collided with Sharon, who wore a disposable mask like some paranoid lab assistant.

“What’s with that?” he asked, trying not to laugh.
She shrugged. “I’m cautious. I don’t want another COVID fiasco.”
“It won’t be as bad as that was,” Dale insisted. “The media always hypes this stuff up.”

Still, HCV-25 had spread to Brazil according to his phone’s news alerts. He filed it away as another scare story. After work, he met Tom at the gym—squat day. They’d been friends since uni; Tom came from money and had his own place in Camden. Dale, despite earning decent cash, was stuck in a flat share with two other guys. Life was no fairy tale.

That evening, Dale texted Emily to confirm their date for Wednesday. They’d been together for about three months. She lived in Marylebone which wasn’t that far away but worked long hours for a consumer goods company in the home counties, so they only saw each other for three or four days a week.

Wednesday, October 13, 2027, Clerkenwell

Dale met Emily at a cozy pub. She was as energetic as ever, babbling about how her company might rebrand products if a pandemic hit. She was always two steps ahead, even if some of her work talk bored him to tears.

As she spoke, Dale’s eyes flicked across the room. A group of young Black guys near the bar were watching her, murmuring between themselves. One of them grinned, nudging his friend, eyes flicking up and down her legs. Dale’s grip on his pint tightened.

Emily didn’t notice. Or maybe she was used to it.

Dale wasn’t.

The group didn’t approach, didn’t do anything—just watched.

But Dale felt it. The implicit challenge.

He pulled Emily closer, pressing a hand against her lower back, making sure they knew she wasn’t alone.

She turned, flashing him a smile before taking another sip of wine, oblivious.

They ended up back at her flat. When they had sex that night, Dale caught himself wondering if he truly loved her, or if it was the routine—a relationship that felt good but not heart-thumping. They still used condoms; they weren’t at the “trust each other’s STDs” stage yet. Meanwhile, Emily was half-focused on tomorrow’s presentation. Post-sex, they did a quick rinse in the shower and conked out.

Thursday, October 14, 2027, Clerkenwell

Dale shifted uncomfortably in his chair, staring at the spreadsheet on his screen while half-listening to the conversation happening behind him.

Ayo and Lucy from HR stood near the coffee station, chatting easily, voices carrying just enough for Dale to pick up bits and pieces.

“ ... really promising ... think leadership potential is definitely there...”

Dale already knew who they were talking about.

Ayo.

Fresh off the plane from Lagos. Hadn’t even been in the country a full six months and was already on the firm’s leadership fast track.

Dale tried to ignore it, but his jaw tightened anyway.

He knew the score. The “diverse” leadership initiative wasn’t finding enough local Black candidates, so now they were importing people.

Ayo was new to the company, new to the country—but already ahead of him.

Dale wasn’t stupid.

He’d seen the same thing before—mentorships, “development opportunities,” all designed to skip the queue for people like Ayo while guys like him got left behind.

A few desks over, James—one of the only other white guys in the office—wandered over, holding a coffee.

“You hear about Ayo?” James asked, smirking.

Dale didn’t look up. “Yeah.”

“Fast-tracked, mate. Guess they couldn’t find enough talent here, so they flew it in.”

Dale forced a chuckle, but it sat bitter in his throat.

Across the room, Ayo and Lucy laughed at something, their conversation easy, relaxed.

Ayo had no idea what it was like to be pushed aside in your own country, in your own company. He wasn’t just jumping the queue—he was a replacement.

Dale turned back to his screen.

His fists curled under the desk.

Not because he was angry.

Because he understood exactly where this was going.

At the gym for deadlifts, Dale managed 205 kg for five, which he found respectable. Tom took a break between sets to grumble about how London had changed.

“Look around, mate. We’re practically an endangered species in our own hometown.”

Dale couldn’t entirely disagree. Under the Tories, mass migration had already changed the city, but Labour opened the floodgates and hammered anyone who complained. It felt like a punishment for the riots. London was what—maybe 20% ethnically English now, if that? Dale didn’t mind diversity to a point, but the blatant preference for foreigners in universities and jobs left a bitter taste in his mouth. People like Tom, with family money, got by fine. Dale felt the crunch. Tax hikes, rising crime, and government lip service about “cultural enrichment” had only stoked his resentment.

Friday October 15, 2027, Clerkenwell

They were calling HCV-25 a pandemic, floating the idea of flight restrictions. Some wanted the borders closed yesterday; Starmer refused, not wanting to look “racist” by shutting down flights from Africa. Meanwhile, Whitehall was preparing for an emergency repatriation—couldn’t let “stranded Brits” stay abroad in the middle of an epidemic, apparently. Dale wondered if it qualified as being stranded abroad if a Nigerian was stranded in Nigeria, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t the one setting policy.

That evening, Dale met Emily and some of her friends for drinks. He took a minute to appreciate Emily’s long legs and calm confidence. She was a year older than him at 28 and kept in decent shape with regular runs.

They had met on Tinder and immediately hit off. The sex was generally good, and she was clever and driven which he admired. Her friends were a mixed bunch that he mostly wasn’t that interested in, though he was good at not showing it.

Her best friend, Allegra, was one of Emily’s uni friends. She was petite—maybe five foot two—with chin-length light brown hair, a tight skirt hugging an undeniably firm, shapely ass. Rumour had it she’d studied something about the history of religion, then landed in marketing. Emily once said Allegra came from money in Milan, but you wouldn’t guess it from her easy-going banter and quick wit.

Dale couldn’t help daydreaming: If I’d met her first...? He pictured scooping her up in bed without trouble because she was so small. That mental image sent a hot tingle through him. Allegra noticed him staring once or twice, gave him a little smirk, and turned back to the conversation. Italians could be huge flirts—or maybe she was just being friendly. Either way, it rattled him.

The group chatted about the looming pandemic, tossing around rumours. Allegra sipped her cocktail and joked that they’d all end up locked inside for months. Dale cynically pointed out the government’s incompetence, letting half the world in while Brits got hammered with taxes and zero perks. Allegra raised an eyebrow, not outright disagreeing. Emily quickly changed the subject.

A few more drinks later, Dale and Emily peeled off from the group. Allegra offered them both a quick goodbye hug—her perfume a lightly spiced scent that made Dale’s stomach tighten—then hopped in a taxi. He tried not to stare at her backside as she climbed in, but he failed. Emily elbowed him, half amused, half exasperated.

By the time he and Emily got back to her place, he was half drunk and more worked up than usual. They tumbled onto her bed. Emily was still talking about Allegra’s job or something, but Dale’s mind lingered on Allegra’s compact frame. He slipped in behind Emily, who pressed her hips backward, moaning softly. But every so often, he imagined it was Allegra’s petite body in his hands, Allegra’s breathy gasps in his ear.

He thrust harder than usual, trying to bury the fantasy, but part of him clung to the image until he finally came. Emily didn’t seem to notice. They collapsed onto the sheets, breathing hard. As she drifted off, Dale’s thoughts once again spun to Allegra’s teasing grin and the silhouette of her tight skirt. Tomorrow, he told himself, he’d focus on real life—but in that moment, he couldn’t shake the pulse of raw attraction that flickered any time he thought of Allegra

Saturday, October 16, 2027, Marylebone

They grabbed a greasy Wetherspoons breakfast, then parted ways. Emily went shopping with friends; Dale planned to meet Tom at the gym again. Tom, who was gay, ranted about how the gay scene felt superficial—everything was about having the right body. Plus, he hated the flamboyant activism he felt turned regular Brits against them.

They decided to have a guys’ night, texting some other friends to meet near Leicester Square. Six of them hit Imperial China for dinner, then drifted around Soho, landing in Waxy’s. Crammed with tourists, it was deafening.

Dale got tipsy enough to end up on the dance floor, groping and snogging a fit Indian girl. His groin burned, urging him to go further. Sense prevailed. He wasn’t about to blow things with Emily over a random fling. They still swapped numbers, though. He only got her name then, Sneha. In the back of his mind, he liked having a backup plan in case Emily didn’t work out.

Sunday, October 17, 2027, Clerkenwell

Dale slept in, ate a banana, then went for a run along the river. He made it nearly to Canary Wharf before turning around. The throngs of camera-happy tourists on the South Bank made the trek back almost unbearable.

That afternoon, he and James wandered into the Griffin, an old-school strip pub. For a pound per round of dancing, you got a pretty bare-bones show. The highlight was some Eastern European girl who moved like a failed ballerina, all precise moves and pointed toes. Two black dancers came on after; he barely paid attention. Not his type.

Feeling cheap and bored, they downed the last of their pints and stepped out onto the street, the cool evening air hitting them after the warmth of the pub.

That’s when Dale saw them.

Across the road, near the entrance of a late-night takeaway, a white girl stood stiffly, clutching her phone, clearly uncomfortable.

Two Pakistani lads, both in puffer jackets, stood close, grinning, whispering to each other, their bodies angled inward, cutting off her exit.

She shifted, trying to move past them, but one of them mirrored her step, blocking her path.

Dale felt his stomach tighten.

The girl gave a forced laugh, the kind people do when they don’t want to escalate things.

“C’mon, we’re just talking,” one of them said, his voice low, coaxing.

Dale gritted his teeth.

They weren’t touching her. They weren’t being loud. But they weren’t letting her leave.

James saw it too. “Christ,” he muttered.

Dale exhaled sharply. Every instinct told him to step in.

But what then?

Two of them. No way to tell if they had knives.

And even if he got involved, what was he supposed to do?

The girl tried again, stepping sideways.

This time, the shorter one grabbed her wrist—lightly, like he was making a joke of it.

“Stay a bit, yeah? You’re too pretty to walk home alone.”

She yanked away, her smile gone. “I have a boyfriend,” she snapped.

The taller one laughed. “Nah, he ain’t here though, is he?”

Dale stared, pulse hammering.

He could feel his own frustration boiling over.

The girl looked around, clearly hoping someone—anyone—would step in.

Dale took a half step forward.

Before he could do anything, another group of people walked by—a couple of big guys, rugby lads, maybe—laughing about something unrelated.

The two Pakistanis saw them, hesitated—then backed off.

“Whatever,” the shorter one muttered, giving the girl one last look.

They turned and sauntered off, disappearing around the corner.

The girl exhaled sharply, rubbing her wrist, before walking off quickly in the opposite direction.

Dale let out the breath he’d been holding.

James shook his head. “Fucking joke, mate.”

Dale didn’t reply.

Because he knew the truth.

If those rugby lads hadn’t walked by, nothing would’ve stopped them.

And people like Dale?

They weren’t allowed to do anything.

The newscast that night blared more about HCV-25, speculating that flight bans might drop as early as tomorrow.

Monday, October 18, 2027, Clerkenwell

Dale’s life hadn’t shifted yet, just more ominous headlines about HCV-25. He started the day with squats at the gym, powered through a dull workday, and ignored a follow-up text from Sneha. Emily was stuck working late.

Tuesday, October 19, 2027, Clerkenwell

By morning, the pandemic talk had grown louder. The government activated its old COVID-era protocols—social distancing, masks, remote work guidelines. Some people Dale knew were already staying home. The vibe was tense.

“We need more supplies,” James said over a half-eaten slice of toast. “Never hurts to stock up.”
“No one wants to fight over bog roll again,” Dale agreed.

The big supermarkets were jammed, but local shops had enough. They crammed the kitchen with tins, rice, and, yes, far too much toilet paper.

Emily dropped by that evening, anxiety in her eyes.
“You think this is serious?”
Dale tried to shrug it off. “Couple weeks of lockdown, max. The government can’t be that incompetent, right?”

Emily had to head home early so she could get to work more easily in the morning. Sex was rushed Emily managed to get off quickly but Dale didn’t and when she left, he hadn’t come.

Wednesday, October 20, 2027, Clerkenwell

Commuters were vanishing. Even Dale’s office, which practically forced you to show your face, had entire vacant floors. Sharon had switched to remote work. During a lunch break squat session, Dale and Tom talked about life if a new pandemic really hit. At that point, there were reported clusters on every continent, though Britain was still officially at “a handful of cases.”

Thursday, October 21, 2027, Clerkenwell

Come Thursday, the news took an ominous turn. Two confirmed cases of HCV-25 in Scotland, and a worrying cluster in London. That was enough for the government to hit the “panic” button. They unleashed a wave of regulations—mandatory remote work, citywide travel restrictions, obligatory quarantine for anyone entering the country. Even non-essential travel inside London was banned, though plenty of people were still flouting the rules.

The bigger concern was West Africa, where the death toll from HCV-25 had started piling up. Footage showed overwhelmed clinics and mass graves. On the BBC, a grim-faced correspondent explained that HCV-25 was believed to be some nightmarish hybrid, a freak recombination of a virulent flu strain and a hardy fungus. It had the transmissibility of a virus, but the nasty resilience of fungal spores—meaning it could latch onto surfaces and linger in the air longer than anyone wanted to believe.

Back at the flat, the tension felt heavier than usual. Dale’s place was cramped with him, James, and Alex all trying to work remotely in that small living space. At least Dale had a desk in his room, so he didn’t have to listen to James muttering curses at bug-ridden code or Alex rattling on about architectural specs.

Around 7:00 P.M., Emily called, sounding breathless and anxious.
“Do you think we should stockpile more essentials?” she asked. Dale could practically hear her pacing.
“We’ll be fine, Em,” he reassured her. “I’ve got enough tinned beans and bog roll to last us till the next millennium. If it all blows over, at worst the food bank gets a windfall.”

She hesitated. “Any chance you could come over? I hate being holed up alone.”
Dale glanced at the TV, a health official insisting no one leave their homes. But honestly, rules or no rules, he wanted out of the flat.
“Is that smart?” he asked. “We don’t want to make each other sick, if one of us is carrying it.”
Emily countered, “We’ve probably both been exposed. And if the cops stop you, say you live here. Or just bike over. The Tube’s a disease trap anyway.”

He didn’t argue. He threw a few supplies in his backpack—some extra tins, maybe a pack of condoms he grabbed from his dresser—and hopped on one of those Boris bikes, weaving through eerily quiet streets. The once-crowded roads and sidewalks were nearly deserted, the occasional passing car or siren the only sign of life.

At Emily’s Marylebone flat, they made a lazy dinner of pasta from her dwindling groceries, then flopped onto the couch. The lockdown vibe clung to them like a damp blanket, making the place feel smaller than it was. Emily snuggled against him, though he could tell her mind was elsewhere—maybe on the nightmare headlines, or how quickly this new virus was spreading.

Dale found his thoughts drifting, too. If this got worse, would he end up quarantined here with Emily for months? He remembered the long COVID lockdown he’d spent at his parents’ place—comfortable enough, but lonely in all the ways that mattered. At least now he had Emily. They hadn’t been together that long, but she was a damn sight better than solitary confinement, physically and otherwise.

His mind wandered to the conversation they’d had a few weeks ago about being exclusive. In truth, he’d already scaled back his side flings, even if he sometimes teased the line—like that night with Sneha. It wasn’t that he hated the idea of commitment; it was more that he got bored fast. Emily was ambitious, a trait he respected. She had this ankle tattoo he found a bit tacky, and she’d hinted at getting another. That rankled him more than he’d admit. But hey, maybe none of that mattered if the world was ending.