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A lethal strain of the Corona biovirus pulses within the containment chamber—a mutating nightmare that claws at your sterile suit with phantom tendrils. Your grip tightens on the antiviral lance; its glowing tip thrums with precision serums designed to dismantle the pathogen’s core. Strike true. Hesitation is extinction. Every thrust must pierce the shifting nucleus—miss by a micron, and the viral membrane ruptures, flooding the lab with apocalyptic toxins. Survival demands perfection. The countdown blares. Walls tremble. One error, and the facility becomes a tomb of shattered glass and your final breath.
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