obsessed. This isn’t about us anymore.”
Matt nods but stays silent. In his brother, he sees genius—and a hint of madness.
Lila, perched on her motorcycle near the warehouse, spots a truck hauling gear—an old military rig repurposed for transport. She snaps the plates and radios Eric: “Check where this came from.” Her gut screams: this is bigger than mining.
In Dallas, Victoria gets Nick’s report: “It’s John Keller. Texas upstart. His network’s growing faster than we thought.”
“Then it’s time to stop him,” she says, her smile icy.
At the warehouse, Oracle blinks, forecasting: "Threat detection—80%. Recommendation: bolster defenses." John stares at the screen, feeling the world close in. His network is hope for survivors, but enemies are near. Outside, the wind howls, and somewhere in the night, Lila revs her bike, ready to dig deeper. The story accelerates.
Chapter 6: Shadows of the Corporation
Munich, January. Snow falls in sparse flakes, settling on the ruins of houses and the rusted husks of cars jutting from drifts like bones of a dead world. Survivors huddle in basements and bunkers, warming themselves by fires of scavenged furniture scraps. In Anastasia’s lab, tucked away in an abandoned warehouse, the dim light of lamps flickers with the faltering rooftop wind turbine. Cracks and damp stains mar the walls, the table is cluttered with test tubes and charcoal-drawn schematics on torn paper. "Genesis" blinks on the screen of a battered computer, displaying data on "Vita-1": the virus is stable, but human trials are the next step. Anastasia stands by the sterile chamber, her fingers gripping a syringe of greenish liquid. Since injecting herself three months ago, she feels better—her skin slightly younger, fatigue eased—but the fear of mutations gnaws at her. She glances into a cracked mirror: her green eyes gleam, yet shadows of doubt linger beneath.
Felix Kramer sits by a makeshift stove, warming his hands over the flames. His glasses fog up, blond hair clinging damply to his temples. He watches Anastasia with concern.
“You sure it’s safe?” he asks, nodding at the syringe. “You dosed yourself three months back. Maybe there’s another way?” His voice carries worry—Anastasia’s long been more than just a colleague to him.
“If I don’t risk it, VitaPharm takes everything,” she snaps. “This isn’t about me, Felix. It’s about them.” She gestures toward the window, where the night glimmers with the faint fires of survivor camps.
The door creaks, and Klara Berg steps in, an activist from "Green Shield." Her red hair is wet beneath her hood, a military radio in hand. For a month, she’s tracked "VitaPharm," gathering intel through underground survivor networks.
“They’re close,” she says, dropping her bag to the floor. “Marcus and his crew are prowling the district. They’ve got drones. Recording everything.”
Anastasia tenses, her gaze sharpening. “Drones?”
Klara sits on a crate. “VitaPharm’s buying military junk off the black market. Helena wants to know what you’ve got.”
Meanwhile, Marcus Stolz sits in a tinted truck 100 meters from the lab. He holds a drone controller, its unit hovering above the warehouse, capturing thermal signatures. Beside him are two mercenaries in tattered uniforms, wielding rifles retooled from prewar stock. Marcus radios Helena Wagner through an encrypted channel. Her voice cuts like steel: “What does she have, Marcus?”
“She’s working,” he replies, eyeing the controller screen. “Three bodies inside. Heat from equipment. This isn’t just experiments—it’s big.”
“Take it,” Helena orders from her bunker in central Munich, her desk buried under maps and reports. “Vita-1 is our ticket to power. Without it, we lose the market.”
Marcus nods, cutting the link. He doesn’t buy Helena’s "new world" spiel—he’s in it for the pay, nothing more.
In the lab, "Genesis" flashes a warning: "External signals detected. Attack probability—70%." Anastasia frowns, her fingers tapping the keys.
“They know,” she says quietly. “We need to get out.”
“Where?” Felix asks, standing. “We’ve got no resources. The generator’s barely hanging on.”
“Texas,” she replies, pulling out her notebook. “Their farms. A network that could bring Genesis to life.”
Klara raises an eyebrow. “America? Seriously? That’s across an ocean, through chaos.”
“We’ve got no choice,” Anastasia cuts in. “If VitaPharm takes Vita, my work’s for nothing. I won’t let that happen.”
Klara nods, though doubtful, and radios her "Shield" contacts: “Need transport. Urgent. And protection.”
A crackling reply: “Two days. Old truck. Be ready.”
Felix’s voice trembles: “What if they hit us first?”
“Then we fight,” Anastasia says, her hand resting on an old pistol hidden in a desk drawer. She hasn’t fired since the war but remembers how. The gun—a worn "Walther P38"—sits as a relic of her past. The war taught her to hold a weapon steady, while her prewar life gave her skills that saved her more than once.
Before the war, Anastasia studied genetics at Heidelberg University. But her life wasn’t confined to labs. She thrived in swimming and shooting—two pursuits that gave her freedom and control. In the pool, she sliced through water like a blade, winning medals at student meets. On the range, her precision stunned: she claimed trophies at junior European championships, later among adults. Friends joked she was unbeatable in an argument: “She’d snipe you from a rooftop to prove her point!” Beneath the teasing, they sensed her sharp gaze and steady hand weren’t just for show. The war proved them right—when cities burned and labs collapsed, she survived by swimming flooded streets and shooting to fend off looters. Now, that pistol isn’t a trophy—it’s part of her.
Night deepens. Marcus’s drone lands on the warehouse roof, its camera catching movement inside. Helena, receiving the feed, summons a squad: ten heavily armed men in an armored van rolling down broken roads. Their target—seize the lab by dawn.
Klara spots a shadow outside and whispers, “They’re here.”
Anastasia grabs a backpack, stuffing it with test tubes and Genesis’s hard drive. Felix douses the stove to mask their heat. They duck behind shelves as the door shudders from a blow. Marcus steps in first, his boots echoing in the silence, followed by mercenaries, their flashlights slicing the dark.
“Come out,” he shouts. “We know you’re here.”
Anastasia grips the pistol, her fingers settling on the grip with old confidence, aiming through a shelf gap. Klara stops her, whispering, “Wait. I’ve got a plan.”
Klara tosses a smoke bomb, rigged from lab chemicals. Gray haze floods the basement; the mercenaries cough, disoriented. Anastasia, Felix, and Klara slip out the back, reaching Klara’s motorcycle hidden under a tarp. They speed into the night, the warehouse fading behind.
Marcus stumbles outside, seeing only tire tracks in the snow. He radios Helena: “They’re gone. But we’ll find them.”
Helena clenches her fist, staring at a map of Europe. “Let them run. We’ll catch them at the border.”
Anastasia, Felix, and Klara race down a shattered road toward an abandoned airfield where "Shield" promised a truck. Anastasia clutches Genesis’s drive, her mind on Texas. She needs John Keller—the man whose rigs could give her virus a chance to save the world. The pistol weighs down her coat pocket, a reminder of her past—range victories, wartime survival, the lessons of creating and defending life. The wind howls behind them, the unknown ahead.
Chapter 7: The Billionaire of the Wastelands
Texas,