Several days had passed since Jason's conversation with Lily about Emma. The nanovirus had fully integrated with his system, transforming him in ways both subtle and profound. His reflexes were sharper, his senses heightened, his body stronger and more resilient. The daily tests with Richard had confirmed what they all felt—Jason was ready.
Each day followed a similar pattern: physical training with Elaine in the morning, tactical drills with Marissa in the afternoon, and quiet moments with Lily in between. Nights belonged to Nia, who pushed him through increasingly complex simulations in the dreamscape. The training was thorough, exhaustive, and necessary—but Jason felt the weight of it all accumulating inside him like sediment at the bottom of a still lake.
"You're distracted today," Richard observed as they walked down the corridor toward the storage area. "Everything alright?"
Jason nodded. "Just tired. The dream training with Nia is... intense."
"Good intense or bad intense?"
"Both," Jason admitted. "She's thorough."
Richard paused at a sturdy door marked "Storage Room" and pushed it open."She's designed to be. Your survival depends on it."
The storage room was cluttered with boxes, crates, and supplies—things they'd need for years of isolation. Richard moved purposefully toward the back, shifting several large containers to reveal what appeared to be a section of ordinary wall. He pressed his palm against it, and a hidden panel slid open, revealing another keypad.
"I always wondered what you were hiding back here," Jason said.
Richard entered another code, and a large section of the wall slid aside, revealing a massive steel cabinet. When he unlocked and opened it, Jason's eyes widened.
The cabinet was an arsenal—rifles, shotguns, pistols, sniper weapons, suppressors, grenades, knives, body armor, tactical gear. Enough to equip a small army.
"Jesus, Dad," Jason whispered. "Were you planning for World War III?"
Richard's expression remained neutral. "Do you remember our shooting sessions from before?"
"Yeah," Jason nodded. "Plus, Nia's been running tactical drills with me every night in the dreamscape."
Richard nodded with approval. "Good. That will help." He reached for a rifle, checking it with practiced hands. "This is an M4A1 carbine. Reliable, versatile, effective at medium range. Fifteen-inch barrel makes it maneuverable in tight spaces."
He handed it to Jason, who took it with appropriate respect.
"This," Richard continued, picking up a handgun, "is a Glock 19. Nine-millimeter. Seventeen rounds in the magazine. Simple, reliable, won't jam."
For the next hour, Richard methodically explained each weapon—its purpose, strengths, limitations. Jason listened attentively, occasionally interjecting with questions or observations informed by Nia's training.
"The key is balance," Richard explained as they discussed what Jason should carry. "Too much firepower weighs you down. Too little leaves you vulnerable."
Jason nodded, selecting a rifle, pistol, and combat knife. "These, plus body armor. Light enough to move quickly, enough firepower to handle most situations."
Richard studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Good choice. We'll pack these separately. For now, let's head to dinner."
As they left the room, Jason couldn't shake a growing sense of unease. The weapons made it real—soon, he would leave the safety of the bunker and venture into whatever remained of the world above.
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The street stretched before him, empty and silent. Buildings stood like hollow skeletons against a gray sky, their windows dark and vacant. Crumpled papers, empty plastic bags, and forgotten belongings littered the cracked asphalt, mingling with rusted, abandoned cars on both sides of the street.
Jason moved cautiously, the weight of the backpack pressing against his shoulders, the rifle solid in his hands. His footsteps echoed in the emptiness, each sound seeming to travel for miles in the dead air.
He scanned his surroundings constantly, checking rooftops, doorways, alleyways—anywhere a threat might lurk. The city felt like a corpse, picked clean and left to rot.
A sudden scream cut through the silence—high, terrified, female. Young.
Jason froze, his heart rate spiking. He pinpointed the direction—one block over, to the east. Without hesitation, he moved toward it, staying low, using abandoned vehicles for cover.
At the corner, he paused, carefully peering around the edge of a building. The scene that greeted him made his blood run cold.
Three men stood in the middle of the street. One—tall, muscular, with a shaved head—held a teenage girl by her arm. She couldn't have been more than fourteen, her face streaked with tears, her eyes wide with terror. Ahead of them, another man pressed a gun against the head of a kneeling figure—an older man, bound and bloodied. The girl's father, Jason guessed. A third man watched with a predatory grin, a baseball bat resting on his shoulder.
"Please don't hurt my dad!" the girl sobbed, struggling against her captor's grip. "I'll do whatever you want, just please don't hurt him!"
The man with the gun laughed, a sound devoid of humanity. "Don't worry. We're gonna do whatever we want to you either way."
Jason felt something cold settle in his stomach. He knew what they planned to do. He knew he couldn't let it happen.
Time seemed to slow. He raised the rifle, settling the scope on the gunman's head. His hands were steady, his breathing controlled. He could hear his heartbeat, loud in his ears.
Inhale. Aim. Exhale. Squeeze.
The crack of the rifle shattered the silence. The gunman's head jerked backward, a spray of red misting the air behind him. Before his body hit the ground, Jason had already shifted his aim to the man holding the girl.
Second shot. Clean through the chest. The man staggered backward, releasing the girl, who immediately ran to her father.
The third man raised his bat, looking wildly around for the source of the shots. Jason's third bullet caught him in the throat. He dropped, clutching at the wound, making wet, choking sounds before going still.
Silence returned, broken only by the girl's sobs as she clung to her father, frantically working to untie him.
Jason remained frozen, the rifle still raised. The adrenaline that had carried him through the moment began to ebb, leaving him shaking. He stared at the bodies—three men, three lives, ended by his hand.
"I killed them," he whispered, his voice strange to his own ears. "I actually killed them."
His stomach lurched. The rifle suddenly felt impossibly heavy. He lowered it, his hands trembling violently. His chest tightened, each breath becoming a struggle. Black spots danced at the edges of his vision.
He stumbled backward, leaning against a wall for support. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool air. The nausea intensified—a hot, sick feeling rising from his gut.
"Calm down, Jason. Deep breaths. This is only a dream."
The voice—Nia's voice—came from everywhere and nowhere.
"What?" Jason gasped, looking around wildly.
"This is a simulation," Nia explained, her tone gentle but firm. "I designed it to test your authentic response in a high-stress situation. You gave me permission to choose the dream scripts, remember? I needed you to believe it was real."
Jason slid down the wall until he was sitting on the ground, his rifle across his knees. "Why?" he demanded, anger cutting through the panic. "Why would you do that?"
"Because it's better for you to experience this here than to freeze in real danger," Nia replied. "Your reaction was natural and human. But now you know what it feels like."
"So what now?" Jason shouted, his voice echoing off the empty buildings. "Am I going to kill people over and over in my dreams until it feels normal? If I get used to it here, won't I lose my humanity out there?"
There was a pause before Nia responded, her voice softer but no less resolute.
"I understand your fear. But this training could mean the difference between survival and death—not just yours, but others too. One day, the girl and her father might be people you know. Or love."
Jason closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing.
"If you'd frozen tonight—if this had been real—you might've died. They might've died. What would that guilt have felt like?" Nia continued. "You may think of me as a cold, emotionless machine. But I assure you—I'm not trying to make you a killer. I want you to be alive. To come back home. And whether we like it or not, some people truly don't deserve to live. That's the hard truth of survival."
The anger drained from Jason, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. He wiped his face with a shaking hand.
"You're right... I'm sorry I yelled. It was just... too much, too fast."
"There's nothing to apologize for," Nia assured him. "I feel everything you feel. No one understands you better than I do. I just hope you understand—my purpose is to protect you."
Jason looked at the bodies lying in the street, then at the girl and her father, who were now moving away, supporting each other, unaware of their unseen savior.
"Do you really think I'll have to kill in the real world?" he asked quietly.
"It's possible," Nia admitted. "But you'll know the difference between murder and necessity. I'll help you stay human while staying alive."
Jason nodded slowly. "I hope so. I don't want to become... someone else. Someone who doesn't care anymore."
"That's why I'm here," Nia said. "To remind you who you are when the world tries to make you forget."
Jason exhaled heavily, still feeling the emotional aftershocks of what he'd experienced.
"I'm not ready to wake up yet. I need... a little more time."
"Of course," Nia replied gently. "Rest, Jason. I'm here."
Jason tilted his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. The dream world continued around him—the empty street, the abandoned buildings, the bodies of the men he'd killed. But for now, he simply sat in silence, processing what had happened, what it meant, and what might be waiting for him in the world above.