Chapter 3

The morning air held a biting, metallic chill. I sat in my office, an expanse of blue leather-bound manual spread before me. With my fountain pen, I meticulously inscribed the title across the cover: The Operational Manual for Fortress Core.

In this manual, I had rewritten every efficient, straightforward control logic into a dense, obstructive jargon filled with technical fluff and obfuscation. I wasn't worried they wouldn't understand it—greed always makes the fool believe he is a genius. As long as I dropped the slightest hint that this manual contained "unspoken secrets," they would study every word like scripture.

My office door swung open. Mark strode in, a cheap, eager grin plastered on his face. Elena followed, fiddling with the expensive scarf she’d swiped from me, though her eyes remained fixed on the "core files" inside my filing cabinet.

"Kyle, we’ve packed our bags. We’ve tallied up the minor supplies as well, and you were right—the inventory is staggering." Mark pulled up a chair and leaned in, his voice tight with suppressed excitement. "So, I think we should complete the handover, don’t you? The blizzard reports are becoming more frequent. The sooner we’re inside, the sooner we can rest easy."

I looked up, my gaze calm. To him, I was merely a cowardly failure, desperate to scramble away.

"A wise choice." I stood and retrieved a manila envelope from my drawer, pushing it across the desk alongside the blue manual. "In here, you’ll find the electronic keycards for every security gate, the master reset codes for the biometrics, and a summary of the survival protocols I’ve developed over the years."

Mark grabbed the envelope, his fingers fumbling greedily through the diagrams.

I stared at his Adam’s apple, my voice dropping into a low, mysterious register. "But don't say I didn't warn you. This manual only covers the standard living quarters. According to the original blueprints from when I helped build this place, there’s a 'Silent Reserve' deep in the bunker. It’s for maintenance of the core systems. It holds high-grade antibiotics, concentrated fuel packs, and even a few bottles of high-proof vintage whiskey."

Elena’s eyes narrowed when she heard "vintage whiskey." She was an alcoholic; I knew that twitch all too well.

"A hidden reserve?" Mark licked his lips, his desire nearly palpable. "Where?"

I pulled a laser pointer from my pocket and tapped a corner of the drawing—a corner that ended in a dead-end ventilation shaft. "Right there. But the vent has a pressure-sensitive seal. If you must open it, remember to disconnect the backup power first, or the seal will lock the entrance permanently."

A beautiful lie. There was no reserve. It was a ventilation duct designed for air bypass, leading straight to an exhaust port exposed to the brutal Colorado wilderness. Once Mark followed my instructions to "open" that entrance, he wouldn't just find a lack of supplies—he’d effectively expose the bunker’s entire climate control system to the sub-zero death-wind outside.

It was the final gift for them—when they grew weak and panicked during the winter that could crack granite, they would be the ones to open the window to their own demise.

"Remember," I said, slapping the bunker’s master card onto the desk with a sharp clack. "This string of codes is the heart of the control center. As long as you don't touch the main power distribution board, this place is heaven. The automation will keep you at a perfect temperature for at least two years."

Mark snatched the card, his greedy eyes glued to the flickering electronic frequency on the chip, as if he held not just a card, but the sovereign right to the end of the world.

"Kyle, are you really not considering staying?" Elena stepped forward, her eyes practiced in a faux tenderness that turned my stomach. "We are taking over, but it was your life’s work. If you change your mind, or if that 'refuge' of yours doesn't hold up, you can come back. Mark is a generous man—he’ll let you sleep on the comfy sofa."

I looked at her exquisite but hollow face, remembering how in my last life, she had knelt in the dirt, begging and weeping for a single packet of moldy oat cookies.

"Thank you for the offer, Elena." I offered a seamless, polite smile. "But I’m a wanderer at heart. This place is too small for me."

I shouldered my heavy tactical pack, not bothering to look back. I strode to the office door, my footsteps steady and rhythmic—a drumbeat for a death countdown I was playing. When I stepped outside, the blinding sun hit my face, and I felt a relief I hadn't known was possible.

There was no refuge protocol in that bunker. It was a steel tomb I had spent two years perfecting, built on the foundation of their greed. Everything was in place.

I started my truck and roared into the distance toward the Yukon. In the rearview mirror, the dark brown entrance of the bunker shrank to a black dot, until it was swallowed by the withered, golden scrub of the mountains.

Goodbye. But I will be watching. I will watch with my own eyes from five thousand kilometers away as you bury yourselves alive.