Hospitals filled up the morning after the Broadcast.
Not with injuries.
With people who couldn't stop singing.
---
They weren't humming or whispering.
They weren't even conscious of it.
Their mouths just moved.
Rhythmically.
Softly.
In harmony with others across the ward.
---
Every time doctors silenced one…
Another nearby would pick up the note.
And when none were audible?
Heart monitors would beep in sync — completing the chorus.
---
They weren't sick.
Their scans showed nothing wrong.
But when one patient was placed in an MRI…
The machine recorded a pattern forming in the brain's electrical output:
Musical notation.
Composed directly into the cortex.
---
Governments issued silence protocols.
Soundproof zones.
White noise blockers.
Auditory curfews.
It didn't matter.
Because the choir didn't need ears anymore.
They had blood.
And blood remembers music better than bone.
---
In Brazil, a boy wrote "HER VOICE IS INSIDE ME" using only his nose.
His hands were broken.
His jaw wired shut.
But still he smiled.
And in his IV tube, a bubble moved…
to the rhythm of the chorus.
---
Those infected weren't violent.
They weren't manic.
They were devoted.
Willing to hum in public.
To chant in courtrooms.
To sacrifice silence for unity.
---
The Blood Choir was never officially named.
But the name spread through a whisper chain, jumping continents in hours.
And their motto?
Not a verse.
Not a threat.
Just a promise:
> "When the world stops talking…"
> "We will still sing."