The biting November wind whipped through the skeletal remains of London, carrying with it the stench of decay and burnt memories. Elias Vance huddled deeper into the tattered remains of what was once a designer overcoat, its silk lining long ripped away, offering little resistance against the encroaching cold. He pressed his back against the crumbling brickwork of what had been a bustling Pret a Manger, now a silent tomb filled with the ghosts of hurried lunches and lukewarm lattes.

Elias hadn't eaten in two days.

London had fallen hard and fast. One day, the city was a vibrant tapestry of life; the next, a canvas painted in shades of crimson and decay. The Crimson Rot, they called it. A poetic, yet brutally accurate, description of the virus that had ravaged humanity. It didn't kill outright, not always. It twisted, corrupted, transforming its victims into grotesque parodies of their former selves: the Rotted.

He remembered the first cases, whispered rumors dismissed as conspiracy theories. Then came the televised reports, sanitized and sugar-coated, speaking of a 'severe flu outbreak'. Lies. He'd seen the truth in the overflowing A&E wards, the desperate faces of doctors and nurses, the horrifying transformations that defied all medical understanding.

He’d been a medic then, still clinging to the naïve hope of saving lives. A medic in the Royal Army Medical Corps, stationed at a field hospital just outside of London. They had been overrun. The screaming, the chaos, the… the smell. It clung to him even now, a phantom scent of rot and fear.

He flinched, pushing the memories back into the dark recesses of his mind. Dwelling on the past wouldn't keep him alive.

He peered cautiously around the corner, his breath misting in the frigid air. The street was eerily silent, save for the mournful howl of the wind. Empty cars lay abandoned, like metal carcasses, their windows smashed, interiors ransacked. A skeletal black cab, its paint peeling like sunburnt skin, sat forlornly in the middle of the road.

He was scavenging for supplies, a daily, desperate ritual. Food, water, anything that could prolong his survival. He needed to reach the pharmacy on Oxford Street. He remembered it well, stocked with essential medications and, if he was lucky, a few remaining packets of dried rations.

He moved quickly, hugging the shadows, his senses on high alert. The Rotted could be anywhere, lurking in the darkness, their hunger a constant, gnawing presence. He’d learned to distinguish the different types: the Shamblers, slow and predictable; the Runners, terrifyingly fast and aggressive; and the Bloaters, grotesque abominations filled with festering fluids. He knew their weaknesses, their patterns. He'd had to. His life depended on it.

As he neared Oxford Street, a guttural moan echoed from the alleyway across the road. Elias froze, his hand instinctively reaching for the rusty pipe wrench he carried. He scanned the darkness, his heart pounding against his ribs. A figure emerged, shuffling slowly into the light.

It was a woman, or what was left of one. Her skin was a sickly green, mottled with patches of crimson. Her eyes were milky and vacant, her jaw hanging slack, revealing rows of blackened teeth. A familiar face. Sarah. He remembered her bright smile, her quick wit. She’d been a junior nurse at the hospital, full of life and hope.

Now, she was nothing more than a walking corpse, driven by a primal hunger.

A wave of nausea washed over him, a familiar cocktail of grief and guilt. He should have done more. He could have done more. He’d failed. He’d failed them all.

He closed his eyes for a moment, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill. He couldn't afford sentimentality. Not anymore.

He tightened his grip on the wrench. He didn't want to do it, but he had no choice. It was either him or her.

He took a deep breath and stepped out of the shadows.

"Sarah," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

The Rotted woman turned, her milky eyes focusing on him. A low growl escaped her throat. She began to shamble towards him, her arms outstretched.

Elias raised the wrench. He aimed for the head, the only vulnerable spot. He swung.

The impact was sickening, a dull thud followed by a wet crack. The Rotted woman crumpled to the ground, her body twitching violently before falling still.

Elias stood there, panting, the wrench dripping with crimson fluid. He felt nothing, just a hollow emptiness.

He continued towards the pharmacy, the image of Sarah's vacant eyes seared into his mind.

The pharmacy was a mess. Shelves had been overturned, medications scattered across the floor. He carefully navigated the debris, searching for anything useful. He found a half-empty bottle of antibiotics, a few bandages, and a crumpled packet of dried beef jerky. A meager haul, but enough to keep him going for another day.

As he rummaged through the wreckage, he noticed something strange. A flickering light emanating from the back room. He approached cautiously, his wrench raised.

The door to the back room was ajar. He pushed it open slowly, revealing a small, cluttered office. The light came from a laptop, its screen displaying a complex series of algorithms and genetic sequences. A faded military insignia was etched into the back of the laptop.

He recognized it instantly. The Genesis Project. A top-secret military program he'd heard whispers about during his service. A program rumored to be capable of manipulating the very building blocks of life.

He cautiously approached the laptop, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He didn't understand the complex code, but he recognized the underlying principles: genetic engineering, gene therapy, cellular regeneration.

Suddenly, the laptop screen flickered violently, then went black. A low hum filled the room, growing in intensity. Elias felt a strange tingling sensation spreading through his body, starting in his fingertips and radiating outwards.

He stumbled backwards, clutching his head, his vision blurring. He felt as if his brain was being flooded with information, a torrent of data and complex equations. He saw swirling patterns of DNA, intricate cellular structures, the very blueprint of life itself.

He collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony. The pain was excruciating, as if every cell in his body was being rewritten. He wanted to scream, but no sound escaped his throat.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the pain stopped. The humming faded. The images disappeared.

He lay there, gasping for breath, his body trembling. He felt different, changed. He didn't know how, but he knew that something profound had happened.

He slowly sat up, his head throbbing. He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers. They felt stronger, more responsive. He felt a strange energy coursing through his veins, a power he didn't understand.

He looked back at the laptop, the screen still black. The Genesis Project. It wasn't just a military program. It was inside him. Activated.

He was no longer just Elias Vance, a former military medic struggling to survive. He was something else. Something more.

He was the Genesis Protocol.