Chapter 8 THE ESCAPE ROUTE

Ryker stepped out of the Syntech building at 2:47 AM. By the time he reached the lobby, his escape route was already set in his mind.

Twelve security cameras monitored the campus, and seven blind spots offered cover. One stretch near the east corridor exit couldn’t be avoided, camera Seven would catch him for no more than four seconds. The odds that the footage would be reviewed before automatic deletion sat at a mere 3.2%.

He walked with steady, even steps, not to fast, not too slow. Running created attention, and attention created risk.

In his pocket, he carried the stolen access badge and an encrypted drive containing Project Daybreak’s full database. In his backpack, nestled between frozen gel packs, rested three vials of preserved serum. Everything essential now fit into a single bag.

Cold air met his face as he stepped outside. Forty-seven degrees, humidity at 62%, and a six-mile-per-hour wind coming from the northwest. The data surfaced without effort, so constant and automatic his mind no longer knew how to stop processing.

His car waited three blocks away in a nearly empty lot. It was a gray sedan, seven years old, and completely unremarkable. The chance that anyone would remember it was minimal.

He slipped into the driver’s seat but didn’t turn the engine on. Instead, he opened his laptop. Within seconds, he was back inside Syntech’s network, using the same hidden entry point Cipher had exploited. Security footage filled the screen. He watched himself enter the executive elevator hours earlier, descend underground, and finally exit the building.

Then, he erased it all. He replaced the missing segments with loops from older recordings, empty hallways, idle elevators, and nothing out of place.

Time spent: 4 minutes, 12 seconds.

Chance of detection within twenty-four hours: 11%.

By then, he’d be long gone. The countdown glowed faintly in his peripheral vision: 99 DAYS, 10 HOURS, 31 MINUTES.

He pulled up the Project Daybreak timeline again.

Day 4: Tokyo. A dimensional breach was expected in forty-eight hours within the Shibuya district, an electromagnetic cascade event. Casualties were predicted to be minimal.

His enhanced mind began running scenarios. Warn the authorities directly?* The likelihood they’d believe him was negligible, and the likelihood they’d track the warning back to him was high. Issue an anonymous alert?, no that would cause possible mass panic with a low chance of effective evacuation, leading to unpredictable outcomes. Stay silent?, theb the prediction would unfold undisturbed, confirming the timeline’s accuracy, and his personal risk would remain the lowest.

The conclusion formed instantly, do nothing. The detachment unsettled him, but not enough to make him change course. Three days ago, he would’ve made the call anyway, he would have lied, faked an emergency, or triggered a false alarm just to clear the streets. Now, that kind of action seemed like wasted emotion. And worse, part of him saw the logic in that.

He started to close the laptop when another detail caught his eye.

Day 7: San Francisco. Castro District. A biological contamination zone with estimated fatalities between 240 and 310.

His apartment lay just outside the immediate danger zone. He was technically safe, but the building itself fell within the evacuation perimeter; he’d have to leave before the event. Then, another line appeared in his thoughts, uninvited.

Mrs. Park. Apartment 4B. Age 71.

Limited mobility due to a recent hip replacement.

Chance of exposure during the event: 68%.

Survival probability if exposed: 12.3%.

Ryker went still. Mrs. Park was the woman across the hall, the one who had brought him soup after Mira died because she noticed he hadn’t left his apartment in days. He remembered her standing there, pressing the warm container into his hands.

“You still need to eat,” she’d said softly.

At the time, he’d barely managed a thank you. Now, his mind reduced her life to numbers on a screen. He could warn her easily. He could tell her about scheduled maintenance and suggest she stay with her son for a few days. It was simple and low risk.

But his thoughts kept circling back to complications, questions, follow-ups, ongoing contact, and the heightened risk of his own exposure. Every path led to the same conclusion, do nothing.

He stared at the number again: 12.3%. What disturbed him wasn’t the calculation, it was how clearly it made sense.

He turned the key, and the engine rumbled to life. The underground facility beneath Syntech would ignite in under five minutes. The countdown pulsed steadily in his vision: 99 DAYS, 10 HOURS, 22 MINUTES.

His grip tightened on the steering wheel. He should tell her, he knew he should. The man he used to be wouldn’t have hesitated. But the enhancement stripped everything down to efficiency, survival, outcomes, and risk. Morality became arithmetic. One elderly woman versus his safety, one life against billions already marked for extinction. The answer felt inevitable, and he despised himself for seeing it so clearly.

The city streets were empty as he drove home. Red and yellow lights stretched across the windshield like smears of paint. Somewhere behind him, beneath Syntech’s polished offices, fire was likely spreading through the hidden lab. He pictured the equipment melting, the containment chambers, the restraints, and the chair where Mira took her last breath. All of them were gone. He’d burned the facility, that was his first selfish act. This felt worse.

The hallway was quiet when he returned at 3:17 AM. Mrs. Park’s door remained closed. She was asleep, unaware that in six days her building would become a death zone. She was unaware that her neighbor knew, and unaware that he had already chosen silence.

He unlocked his apartment and stepped inside. The familiar scent hit him, stale coffee, old takeout, and air that hadn’t moved in days. He tucked the serum vials behind expired leftovers in the fridge, placed the encrypted drive carefully on his desk, and then sat alone in the dark.

The countdown hovered at the edge of sight: 99 DAYS, 10 HOURS, 08 MINUTES.

This was the first person he’d deliberately chosen not to save, and deep down, he knew she wouldn’t be the last. The enhancement had sharpened his mind, making him faster, more efficient, and better equipped to survive. But with each passing hour, it pulled him further from what he once recognized as human.

He opened the Project Daybreak files again. Safe zones, supply caches, and future breach locations appeared. A survival plan formed across the screen, not for humanity, but for him.

Mrs. Park might still make it, he told himself weakly. Maybe the forecast would shift, or maybe she’d visit her son anyway.

His mind dismissed the thought immediately.

Prediction accuracy: above 99%.

Most probable outcome: Mrs. Park dies.

And it could have been prevented. Ryker leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the glow of the screen. The apartment was silent except for the quiet hum of the laptop fan, and the countdown continued forward:

99 DAYS, 10 HOURS, 02 MINUTES.