Page 17 of Outbreak Protocol
"It's not callous, it's analytical. But fear also drives people underground—they stop seeking medical care, avoid reporting symptoms, refuse to cooperate with contact tracing. We need trust, not just compliance."
Erik nods, making notes that I suspect include observations about community psychology alongside epidemiological data.
By late afternoon, we've conducted eight family interviews and visited six outbreak sites. The pattern becomes clearer with each location: a cluster centred on the port district, with secondary transmission through social networks, workplaces, and community gathering spaces.
Back at the hospital, I find Erik hunched over his laptop, correlating GPS coordinates with transmission timelines. Sarah sits across from him, reviewing viral genetic sequences, whileYuki builds predictive models and Aleksandr coordinates with local health authorities.
"The spatial analysis confirms Felix's initial observations," Erik announces to the team. "We have clear evidence of human-to-human transmission with an R0 between 3.7 to 5.2. That's alarmingly higher than any of our preliminary estimates."
"Any luck identifying the pathogen?" I ask Sarah.
"Still running comparisons, but it's not matching any known viral families in our databases. We may be dealing with a novel strain or significant mutation of something familiar."
The weight of that possibility settles over our makeshift command centre. Unknown pathogens mean unpredictable behaviour, limited treatment options, and complicated vaccine development timelines.
"We need fresh eyes and clear heads," I find myself saying. "When did any of us last eat something that wasn't hospital cafeteria food or vending machine coffee?"
Erik glances up from his laptop, those pale blue eyes showing fatigue despite his methodical focus. "Proper nutrition does improve cognitive function."
"That's not exactly what I meant," I laugh. "I was thinking more along the lines of getting our minds off the negativity for a few hours. There's a quiet restaurant about ten minutes from here—nothing fancy, but they do excellent fish and the atmosphere is calming."
Sarah raises an eyebrow smirking. "Felix is asking you to dinner, Erik."
The suggestion hangs in the air between us. Erik's fingers move to his hair, that unconscious gesture I've come to realize he uses when he's processing unexpected information.
"I suppose a proper meal would be beneficial," he says carefully. "And discussing the case in a different environment might provide new perspectives."
"Great. Give me twenty minutes to finish my patient notes and we can head out."
As I complete my documentation, I catch Yuki and Aleksandr exchanging glances with Sarah. The team dynamic has been forming all day—professional collaboration deepening into genuine camaraderie despite the crisis circumstances.
"Felix seems good for Erik," Sarah murmurs to Yuki, probably thinking I can't hear. "I've never seen him this engaged with anyone outside pure data analysis."
The observation makes me pause. Erik does seem different than the first time I met him. When we're working together—more present, more willing to consider perspectives beyond epidemiological models. And I find myself drawn to his analytical mind in ways that surprise me.
Twenty-five minutes later, we're walking through Hamburg's early evening streets toward Fischmarkt Stube, a small restaurant tucked between maritime supply shops and shipping offices. The evening air carries salt from the harbour mixed with cooking aromas from nearby restaurants.
"Your jacket," Erik says, noticing me shiver slightly in the cool breeze. Before I can protest, he's draping his perfectly pressed blazer over my shoulders.
The gesture is unexpected and intimate. His jacket retains warmth from his body and carries a subtle scent—clean soap and something distinctly masculine that makes me acutely aware of his physical presence.
"Thank you," I manage, pulling the jacket closer. "Though now you'll be cold."
"I run warm," he says simply, but I notice how his shirt sleeves reveal strong forearms and elegant hands that somehow look capable of both precise data entry and more physical tasks.
Fischmarkt Stube proves to be exactly what we both need—dim lighting, quiet conversation, and tables far enough apart to ensure privacy. The owner, a weathered man in his sixties, seats us at a corner table near windows overlooking the harbour.
"No shop talk," I announce as we settle into our chairs. "Weneed to remember there's a world beyond outbreak investigation."
Erik's expression shows mild panic. "I'm not particularly skilled at non-professional conversation."
"Neither am I, apparently. Emergency medicine doesn't leave much time for social interaction outside work."
We order wine—a crisp Riesling that Erik selects with surprising knowledge of German vintages—and study our menus in companionable silence. The restaurant's atmosphere gradually works its intended magic; tension eases from Erik's shoulders and I feel my own hypervigilance beginning to relax.
"So what do you do when you're not saving lives or investigating disease outbreaks?" I ask.
"I read epidemiological journals," Erik replies, then catches my expression. "That's probably not what you meant."
