She looks at him, her eyes beginning to redden at the corners. Then she's on him and it's like being hit by a falling tree, this ninety-pound girl slamming herself into him. He falls and the impact with the floor sends his air rushing out of his lungs.
The blade's edge is so sharp he barely feels the slice, but her palm is warm when she places it on him, and it's wet.
Blood to blood. He knows, rationally, he can't feel the virus enter him. But he can. Feel it wriggling into his body.
It brings madness. And death.