You rip the hose from its cradle and thumb the vac to max. The motor howls like a shuttle spin-up; the nozzle gulps a chain of derplings off the bench with a squealing slurp. They balloon, split, and wriggle as they funnel in, but suction wins—rubbery bodies smack the clear prefilter, tumble, and hammer into the sealed drum with wet, indignant thuds. The sight window fogs with frantic palm-prints. A green band spins to red; the drum’s lid bites down with a locking hiss.

Gloved, you slap on a yellow QUARANTINE tag and ping pickup. The system chirps back through the lockdown: “Deferred—physical handoff required.” The maintenance chute’s manual handle pulses amber by the floor, promising a one-way slide to clean rooms. Around you, stragglers still nose at outlet plates and the sink lip, skins opaling in the violet haze that hangs like glittered syrup in the air. The cart wobbles at your knee—foam sprayer ready, chute within reach, drum rumbling like a heart in a barrel.