of authority, preying on anyone bold enough to build something. Extra hands could help.
“Fine,” he says at last. “Show me what you’ve got. But leak one byte, and you’ll regret it.”
Ryan nods, eyes lighting up. He settles in a corner, plugging his tablet into the network.
Meanwhile, downtown Austin, Lila Parker sits in her "office"—a converted warehouse turned home. Her desk is buried under torn magazine pages, and her solar-powered laptop is open to a survivors’ forum broadcast via underground satellites. Newspapers died with the war, but she writes for those still reading—about hope, about survival. The anonymous note from her rusty mailbox reads: "Watch the miners. They’re building a new world." Her chestnut hair falls across her face; she brushes it back and types: "Texas mining 2052." Rumors of rigs fueling recovery are old news, but the note gnaws at her. "Someone knows more," she thinks.
The next day, John drives an old pickup to Austin’s industrial zone, where rusted hangars stand as relics of prewar industry. He’s found an abandoned warehouse for 5,000 Bitcoin cents—leaky roof, but tied to a surviving wind turbine line. The owner, grizzled old Harry, eyes him suspiciously, chewing tobacco from ancient stocks.
“You cooking fuel in there or what?” he grumbles.
“Nah,” John laughs. “Building life.”
Harry shrugs, pocketing the payment. John heads back and starts moving the rigs. Matt helps, though he mutters, “If we get caught, I’ll say you forced me.”
Ryan’s in too—encrypting signals to cloak their activity from prowling gangs and drones.
A week later, "Oracle" nails it again: Bitcoin surges 20%. The warehouse hums with 15 new rigs, each linked to the AI. John stares at the balance: 135,000 Bitcoin cents. His heart pounds. He stands amid the hangar, breathing in the scent of molten metal and victory.
“We did it,” he whispers, eyes on Oracle’s blinking screen. But the AI flashes a new message: "Network optimization possible by 300%. Expansion required." John frowns. Oracle wants more—not just to mine Bitcoin, but to become a mind rewriting this broken world. It’s his dream, yet now it feels alive.
That evening, Matt brings water from the well, purified with an old filter, and sits with John on the warehouse porch, watching the sunset.
“You’re a genius, brother,” he says, handing over a mug. “But it scares me. This is too fast for a world like ours.”
“Fast is what we need,” John replies. “We can’t afford to wait.”
Ryan joins them, tablet in hand. “Found a survivors’ forum,” he says. “They’re talking about a guy in Texas tearing up the market. That’s you, right?”
John nods, but a chill creeps in. Fame in this world paints a target on your back.
At the same time, Lila picks up a radio signal from Eric Torres, a 30-year-old electrician fixing wind turbines for the local community. His voice is tired but friendly: “Lila, it’s the miners. Someone’s gobbling power like a beast. Nearly fried the south district line yesterday.”
“South district?” Lila jots it on a scrap of paper. “Can you check who’s digging there?”
“I’ll try,” Eric says. “But if it’s gangs, I’m toast.”
Lila smiles. Eric’s too curious to back off.
In the warehouse, "Oracle" keeps running, its code pulsing like a living thing. John watches the screen, where the AI maps out rig locations across Texas, linked in a network. "This isn’t just money," he thinks. "It’s rebirth." But deep down, he feels Oracle starting to think for itself—and that terrifies him. Outside, the wind howls, and somewhere in the night, Lila tucks away her radio, pulling a camera from an old backpack. The story is beginning.
Chapter 4: The Virus of Hope
Munich, September. A cold wind sweeps fallen leaves and scraps of old posters down the shattered streets, while the sky above the city hangs heavy with gray clouds threatening the first snow. Anastasia stands before a sterile chamber, pieced together from salvaged medical panels. Inside a test tube glimmers a greenish liquid—her first genetically engineered virus, "Vita-1." Months of work have aged her soul: dark circles shadow her eyes, her fingers tremble from sleeplessness, and her voice has sharpened. The lab is her refuge in this broken world: walls plastered with charcoal graphs scrawled on paper scraps, the floor littered with concrete crumbs, the air thick with antiseptic and rust. A lamp hums above the table, powered by a rooftop wind turbine, casting shadows across the computer screen where "Genesis" finishes its analysis.
Anastasia stares at the data: "Vita-1" has integrated into the cells of mice scavenged from the ruins. Their lifespans stretched by 20% in two weeks. The graph is a faint beam in the dark: the aging curve dips, as if time could be persuaded to rewind. She runs a hand through her short, damp hair and whispers, “It works. It’s a chance.”
Her heart beats faster, but joy drowns in unease. Postwar humanity is fading—radiation, disease, and starvation claim millions. "Vita-1" is a prototype, but for humans, she needs the next leap. She doesn’t just want to extend life; she wants to heal the survivors.
The door slams open, and Felix steps in. His patched sweater, mended a dozen times, and a backpack stuffed with papers are his constant companions. He carries a tray of bran flatbreads and a mug of herbal brew.
“Schultz radioed,” he says. “Said he’s coming by today. Wants everything, as usual, right now…”
Anastasia waves him off, eyes fixed on the screen. “Schultz is a rat gnawing at scraps. This matters more than their bureaucracy. Look.”
She shows him the results. Felix leans in, his face lit by the dim glow. “Twenty percent?” he breathes. “You did it!”
“Not me,” she says, nodding at "Genesis." “Him. Without it, I’d be fumbling blind with test tubes.”
Felix smiles, but his gaze darkens. “What’s next? Mice aren’t people. You’re not stopping here, are you?”
Anastasia falls silent, staring at the test tube. Human trials are the next step, and it terrifies her more than she’ll admit.
Outside, in the alley’s shadow, Marcus Stolz stands beneath a flickering streetlamp, shielding a cigarette from the wind. His war-scarred face is grim, his eyes cold. Beside him is Helena Wagner, her severe coat and umbrella masking a steely gaze. Her voice is low, edged with metal: “What does she have, Marcus?”
“It’s a virus, but not like anything we’ve made,” he replies, exhaling smoke. “She cooked it up somehow. Saw them jumping around the screen.”
Helena’s lips tighten. “We need to take it.”
“Break into the basement?” Marcus suggests, flicking his cigarette into a puddle.
“No,” she shakes her head. “Too crude. We’ll buy her. Or break her. But first, we need details on this breakthrough.”
They melt into the darkness, their footsteps swallowed by the wind.
In the lab, "Genesis" offers a projection: "Vita-1" could hit 30% with optimization. But it demands more data and power. Anastasia frowns at the warning: "Current server—12% of required capacity." She recalls rumors of mining rigs in Texas—networks churning out energy and computation for Bitcoin, the survivors’ currency. “If I could link Genesis to that…” she thinks, pulling out her notebook.
“We need a new brain,” she says aloud.
Felix looks puzzled. “What?”
“Computation,” she clarifies. “Farms in America. They could wake Genesis up.”
Felix furrows his brow. “Mining? That’s crazy.”
“Crazy is waiting for VitaPharm to eat us alive,” she snaps.
Just then, Klara Berg steps