Chapter 2

The Arizona desert looked like the skull of a titan stripped of its flesh and skin.

When I drove my heavy-duty truck into this salt flat abandoned by the federal government, at the end of the horizon, a standing radar waveguide tower rose like a rusty bone spur, stabbing at the sky. This was my most expensive asset in both past and present lives—the decommissioned "Titan-5" missile silo. To outsiders, it was industrial waste riddled with radiation warning signs and eroded by desert storms, but in Chekhov’s eyes, it was the only "geopolitical sanctuary" for the doomsday.

"Kane, the structural integrity here is over 88%, fully meeting the survivalist aesthetics of the Cold War era," Chekhov’s voice jumped directly into my eardrum, spreading a 3D grid map over my corneal projection. "The cleanup work is massive, but considering the crustal energy burst in 48 hours, I suggest entering intensive care mode immediately."

I pushed open the heavy lead-lined steel door. The hinges shrieked like an ancient beast struggling in its death throes, and thirty years of dried gravel sputtered up as I stepped in.

This wasn't just a deep well; it was an underground city.

Over the next 48 hours, I turned myself into a high-precision operating machine. The process of cleaning up the debris was a ritual of asceticism; I wasn't clearing away dirt, but the toxic residues of a civilization on the brink of destruction. The abandoned wires hung like dried vines; I used industrial shears to cut them piece by piece, my every move kept within a range of surgical precision.

Chekhov projected resource allocation data onto every wall: "The temperature control system here is paralyzed. We need to connect the geothermal recovery tower to convert the kinetic heat of subterranean magma into electricity. Simultaneously, the oxygen system requires a filter membrane replacement. Kane, in the ventilation corridor on the left, behind that heap of waste, there are spare airtight thermal barriers. They are a lifeline more precious than gold."

I followed his guidance, passing through the gloomy tunnels. The walls were reinforced composite armor; even in the nuclear deterrent era decades ago, this place had been designed to withstand direct ICBM impacts.

My industrial OCD kicked in, or rather, every action I took now was driven by the pursuit of "efficiency." I placed the "scientific waste" I’d intercepted—those deep-cryogenic exchange pumps capable of operating in the Arctic Circle—on the pedestal in the central hall. As the massive bolts were tightened, the metallic vibration of mechanical interlocking gave me an unprecedented sense of security.

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, what were Drake and his crew doing?

Via a backdoor protocol, I accessed the surveillance footage Drake had left at the logistics terminal. They were huddled, disheveled, in a damp, dark, cheap basement.

It was a sickening sight: moldy plasterboard, woodlice crawling in the corners, and piles of compressed biscuit boxes stuffed in haphazardly. The squad members sat around, lacking even a decent folding table, staring with frantic eyes at their "cold-weather spoils"—a pile of extremely low-quality synthetic fiber down jackets, some with the tags still on.

Because the space was so cramped, Connor kicked over a water bucket in a fit of rage, splashing dirty water everywhere. They thought they were "taking refuge," but in reality, they had locked themselves into a "cellar" that would be baked dry by high temperatures at any moment. They celebrated in that cramped space, even opening champagne to toast the "trash" they had hoarded to survive the "harsh winter."

In contrast, my "Titan Deep Well" was visual violence.

I activated the geological cooling cycle. As the massive turbine blades spun, the geothermal pump buried ten meters underground began to work, rapidly converting surface heat into electricity and feeding it back to the bottom of the well. I typed a line of code on the main screen, and the lighting in the entire silo instantly shifted to a deep, cooling blue.

"Temperature parameters: 20°C. Humidity: 45%. Real-time oxygen circulation: Normal." Chekhov’s projection updated the status steadily. "Kane, the resource distribution map has been updated. With our current holdings, we have enough energy to maintain the operation of this ecosystem for at least five years."

I stood at the massive central console—this used to be a launch control room; now, I was its absolute master.

The walls were covered with sound-absorbing and heat-insulating materials salvaged from labs. I had installed a new air curtain system that could insulate against external airflow like an invisible wall. Not only was there automated monitoring, but also a sophisticated planting chamber. Among the "scientific waste" I’d extracted, I even found a crate of high-concentration hydroponic nutrient solution.

Was this a cellar? This was a palace at the end of the world.

"How are things over there?" I asked the void.

The screen switched. Drake was wearing an old-fashioned gas mask, trying to practice breathing in this moldy cellar, saying it was to adapt to the air quality during the cold wave. Ella was holding an electric drill, trying to drill holes into the wall to mount heaters, but caused a small fire due to overloaded wiring. In that cramped, chaotic, damp dumpster, they bickered over who got to grab a hot water bottle.

That pettiness and my solemnity formed a satirical contrast.

They thought the world was turning cold, so they desperately wrapped themselves in cotton; but I, knowing the true face of the doomsday, had buried myself in this eternal coolness.

"Kane, Chekhov reminds you: 36 hours remaining until the temperature countdown." The AI’s voice remained flat.

I took the last case of fresh coffee beans from an alcove in the bunker, intercepted from a lot of contraband at the logistics center. Accompanied by the humming of the grinding machine, the bitter aroma of coffee blanketed the earthly scent of steel.

In this abandoned missile silo, I drank my coffee and watched the ants on the screen across the monitor fighting over a moldy wall.

They had spent their whole lives chasing those cold-insulating shells, while my life, at this very moment, had only just begun to settle the score.

"Don't be impatient," I sipped my coffee, watching the twisted expression on Drake’s face because he couldn't grab a cotton jacket. "The first heat storm hasn't arrived yet. All your sweat now is nothing but fodder for the future."

I was ready. Not just with supplies, but with rage.