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It was 3:47 AM when the notification pinged on Dr. Aris Thorne’s encrypted terminal.

Somewhere in the dark, a very patient, very silent armada of decoys waited. And in a control room far from the river, a hand hovered over a single key labeled quackprep.rg

He clicked the file.

Aris rubbed his eyes. He’d been dozing off over a half-eaten bagel and a stack of old virology journals. For the past six months, his team at the CDC had been chasing a ghost—a biological signature that appeared in a single blood sample from a remote village in the Amazon, then vanished without a trace. The sample’s file tag? QUACKPREP.RG . It was 3:47 AM when the notification pinged on Dr

The duck’s beak opened wide—not to quack, but to whisper the beginning of the end. And in a control room far from the

Suddenly, the duck’s empty eye socket flickered. A red light bloomed from within. The image sharpened, and Aris felt his blood run cold. The duck wasn't just a marker—it was a collector . A rudimentary, low-tech drone built from scrap wood and stolen servos. Someone had programmed it to sit, motionless, for weeks at a time, sampling the river water every twelve hours.