You drop to a knee and yank the fat override handle. A throat of grating yawns at floor level, hazard chevrons blinking as the quarantine conveyors spool up with a belt-whisper that tugs at the violet haze. Negative pressure kisses your boots; amber run-lights chase into the chute’s ribbed dark like hungry fireflies.

You go shepherd. A crescent of biofoam hisses across the tiles, redirecting the glistening swarm away from drains and toward the belt. Absorbent pads thump down as a soft ramp; the industrial vac on reverse puffs and startles them into waddling clumps. Rubber-soft bodies plop onto the moving strip; quarantine sensors chirp. A stubborn knot keeps prying at an outlet plate, sparking blue; one derpling suction-cups your glove before you flick it onto a pad and its momentum carries it squeaking onto the conveyor. The lab thrums, the belt hum deepening—if you don’t hurry, the grate ahead could jam with pear-slick bodies.