Of course, not everything was easy. There were days when tempers flared and voices rose—usually over food, medicine, or some new rule the system had handed down. It was easy to snap at each other when everyone was tired and scared. They tried to make things fair, but sometimes someone got less, and it stung. The fights never lasted long, but the hurt lingered.
Some losses cut even deeper. One afternoon, a supply run went bad—Rhea came back limping, eyes hollow, and Lin just shook her head when Alex asked who else made it out. Grief hung over the shelter like a heavy blanket. Alex felt it most of all, the guilt gnawing at him late at night. He was just a guy trying to get by, not a leader, but everyone kept looking at him anyway. He wished he knew what to say or do.
The system kept pushing them forward, silent and relentless. When tragedy struck, it spat out new blueprints—ways to patch wounds, reinforce doors, or grow food faster. Sometimes it even piped in soft music or turned the lights a little warmer, trying to coax them out of despair. Alex hated how it always seemed to be one step ahead, how it shaped their lives without asking. But he couldn't ignore the fact that, without the system, they wouldn't have made it this far.
The world outside wasn't empty. Eventually, they picked up weak radio signals and ran into other survivors. Some groups wanted to trade, swap stories, or share seeds. Others… not so much. A few were desperate or angry, and the system made sure they were ready—teaching them how to lock down the shelter in a heartbeat, and how to defend what they had. Alex didn't want to turn anyone away, but sometimes he had to, and that weighed on him too.
Through it all, Alex stumbled, made mistakes, and sometimes put himself first when he shouldn't have. He wasn't the hero his friends sometimes needed. He was just a man doing his best to keep moving, hoping that counted for something in the end.