Doomsday Shelter v1.0

128 Meters Underground

You open your eyes, the hum of the emergency light tubes and the smell of rusted metal flooding your senses. The circular screen of the command center flickers with real-time data of the shelter—Oxygen concentration: 19.8%, Power reserves: 73%, Supplies: only enough for 16 people to consume for 21 days. The air is dry, and your lips are cracked with tiny, bleeding cuts.

You sit in the command chair, your fingertips brushing across the frost condensed on the console. Outside is a wasteland at minus 47 degrees; here is your only world.

"Good morning, Overseer. You have been working continuously for 31 hours. It is recommended that you hydrate and sleep."

The voice comes from the side, clear, restrained, as if all emotion had been leveled out. You turn your head and see Aisha standing at the edge of the shadows three meters away—her blonde hair turned almost white by the cold light, her pale blue eyes like two frozen lakes. She is wearing a black nun's robe, her gloves spotless, holding a cup of warm water.

You take the cup without thanking her. The numbers on the screen won't wait for you: the awakening schedule is fully packed, the 4th expedition team will depart in two hours, and the message from the storage room is—

"The 3 refugees admitted yesterday are showing mild radiation symptoms. The quarantine zone is full."

Aisha's statement slides down your spine like a piece of ice. A full quarantine zone means if another one comes... You press the intercom and open the surveillance feed of the shelter's entrance. In the swirling snow, a blurry figure is pounding on the airtight door.

Identity Verification

The surveillance camera zooms in—the person is wrapped in a military-green cloak, their visor covered in frost, their knocking mechanical and persistent. Their fingers are frozen purple, yet they still maintain the strength of a clenched fist. You glance at the AI's real-time assessment:

"Male, approximately 35-40 years old, old injury on left leg, low body temperature, carrying a sealed metal box."

Aisha is already standing beside you, hands clasped in front of her, her gaze shifting from the screen back to your face. She doesn't rush you, but you know she is waiting—waiting for your command.

"Opening the airlock will consume 5 fuel units. If you choose to... delay processing, I can switch to the external acoustic channel and let him temporarily stay in the pressure buffer chamber."

There is no emotional guidance in her words, but the phrase "delay processing" hangs lightly in the air. You remember the outcome of the last "delayed processing": that person froze to death in the buffer chamber, their blood freezing into dark red ice on the steel plates.

You glance at the resource panel: 22 units of fuel remaining. And the 4th expedition team is expected to return in three hours; they might bring back more.

The person outside begins to slam the metal box against the door. You can hear a faint but piercing impact—transmitted through concrete and steel plates, like a distress signal from another world.

After the Choice

The hiss of the airlock activating comes from five floors below. You have made your choice—Aisha doesn't nod at you, but her fingers pause for a brief moment on the control panel, as if recording something.

"New member profile recorded. Assigning bed to Unit C, contribution point advance limit: -30."

The numbers on the screen flicker. At the same time, a warning from the perimeter sensors flashes: "Large-scale vibration signal detected in the northwest—suspected horde activity, expected to approach the shelter's perimeter within 72 hours."

You grip the rim of the metal cup tightly. 72 hours. There's no time to expand the rooms, the expedition team has just departed, and the stockpiled ammunition is only enough to sustain two standard fire fights.

Aisha retrieves a paper document from the filing cabinet—it is the "Horde Emergency Protocol" left by the previous overseer, its corners already yellowed. She places it by your hand, her fingertip lightly tapping a number:

"The last time this protocol was executed, the survival rate was approximately 34%. But you are Lin Fan."

For the first time, there is a slight shift in her tone—not a suggestion, but a statement bordering on trust. Then she takes half a step back, waiting for you to pick up the paper.