ALEXANDR ABRAMSON
BITCOIN AI (ENG)

Alexandr Abramson

Preface

The world teeters on the brink of transformation: Bitcoin claws its way to new heights, while humanity clings to fleeting time. In garages and basements, amid the hum of fans and the crackle of code, something greater than mere technology takes shape. This isn’t a story of wealth or fame—it’s a tale of those who risked everything to rewrite the rules of existence.

John Keller, a Texan miner with a dream in his heart and steel in his hands, saw more than cryptocurrency in the roar of his rigs. He glimpsed a mind—a network capable of thought. Anastasia Glyants, a scientist from Munich whose test tubes held the secret to extra decades, sought the power to breathe life into her discovery. Their paths, separated by an ocean, converged in the sparks of ambition, where Bitcoin mining became the fuel for artificial intelligence, and a virus emerged as the key to a new world.

Yet where hope glimmers, shadows gather. Corporations, ravenous for control, and crowds, desperate for miracles, stand ready to tear their vision apart. This is a story of struggle, where genius dances on the edge of madness, and the price of triumph is measured not in millions, but in lives. Welcome to Bitcoin AI—a world where the future is forged in fire and code.

Chapter 1: The Garage of Hope

Texas, July 2052. The air shimmers with heat, thick with dust and the scent of rust. The world is slowly clawing its way out of the ashes of the Third World War, which ended a few years ago. The Great Depression No. 2, starting in 2039, shattered economies, and the war finished the job, leaving cities in ruins and millions in poverty. In a suburb of Austin, where peeling houses stand like monuments to a lost era, John Keller sits in his garage. Lines of hardship etch his forehead, dark circles frame his eyes, and his hair, untrimmed for months, sticks out in wild tufts. The garage is his sanctuary in this broken world: faded posters of last-century rock bands plaster the walls, the floor is littered with wires and scraps of old tech, and in the center, three mining rigs hum, pieced together from salvaged parts. Their fans buzz like a swarm of insects, pushing hot air through the cracks of the door. On the table before John sits a battered laptop, its screen flickering with a Bitcoin price chart—the currency that survived the chaos and became a lifeline for postwar recovery.

The war spared Texas from the worst: no nuclear strikes scarred its land like they did the East Coast, but ruin seeped in nonetheless. Power comes in fits and starts, roads are overgrown with weeds, and people cling to scraps of technology to survive. John hasn’t slept in two days, fueled by coffee from a tin can and a rush of adrenaline. His calloused fingers, hardened by years of working with metal, tap the keyboard. He’s finishing the code for "Crypto-Oracle"—an artificial intelligence that’s his ticket to a new world. It’s not just a mining program; it’s his dream—to harness the rigs’ computational power and awaken an AI capable of thinking and predicting. After the war, mining became more than a way to earn crypto—it turned into a symbol of rebirth: rigs generate energy and data, rebuilding networks and economies. John wants to go further, to turn these machines into a mind that rewrites the rules.

The garage door creaks, and Matt Keller, John’s younger brother, steps into the frame. At 25, Matt is broad-shouldered, his hands stained with oil from fixing old trucks—the only things still rolling on these shattered roads. Matt is a man of the earth, believing in honest labor over his brother’s "digital fantasies." He looks at John with weary concern.

“You haven’t eaten again, have you?” he grumbles, tossing a bag of cornmeal flatbreads onto the table—postwar staple food. The smell mingles with the metallic tang of overheating rigs. “Those machines are gonna burn out what little power we’ve got left. Mom called on the radio, asking why the lights went out again.”

John doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are glued to the screen, where "Oracle" finishes its test run.

“These aren’t just machines, Matt,” he says at last, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. “This is the future. Look.”

He hits Enter, and a line flashes on the screen: "Optimization complete. Profit: 512 Bitcoin cents." It’s the first hour’s earnings from "Oracle"—a pittance, but in a world where Bitcoin is salvation amid worthless dollars, it’s a spark of hope. Matt snorts, crossing his arms.

“Five hundred cents? That’s why you’re killing yourself?”

“A week from now, it’ll be five thousand,” John replies, his gaze alight. “A month—maybe a million.”

Matt shakes his head but sits down beside him. He doesn’t get the code, but he senses his brother is on the cusp of something big. Postwar Texas has become a haven for miners: solar panels and wind turbines, survivors of the chaos, power the rigs.

Across Austin, Lila Parker, a 30-year-old journalist, opens the rusty mailbox outside her home—a converted warehouse turned makeshift shelter. Newspapers died with the war, but she writes for underground networks broadcast via satellites. Inside the box is a note: "Watch the miners. They’re building a new world." Her chestnut hair falls across her face; she brushes it back and sits at her desk. A solar-powered laptop hums to life. She searches: "Texas mining 2052." Nothing new—just rumors of rigs fueling recovery. But the note nags at her. "Someone knows more," she thinks.

Back in the garage, John spots "Oracle’s" prediction: "Bitcoin will rise 15% in 72 hours." The AI sifts through transactions, fragments of news from surviving networks, even radio intercepts. John decides to gamble. He has 200 Bitcoin cents and an old truck. He sells the rig to a local trader for 1,000 cents and pours it all into the rigs. Matt returns with water from the well.

“You’ve lost it,” he says, but sits beside him. “If this works, I’ll be the first to call you a genius.”

“Not ‘if,’ but ‘when,’” John grins, taping a note to the monitor: "Mining as a mind." It’s his mantra in a world where tech is the only way forward.

Night falls. John drifts off at the table, his breathing blending with the rigs’ hum. Stars flicker outside.

In the shadows, Ryan, a 19-year-old neighbor and hacker scraping by on old network breaches, listens to the rigs’ noise. He tries to catch their signal. "What the hell is this?" he mutters, jotting down data. Ryan doesn’t yet know he’s just stepped into history.

Chapter 2: The Lab Beneath the Rain

Munich, July 2052. Cold rain hammers the remnants of rooftops in the old industrial district, where streets drown in gray fog and mud. Postwar Munich is a shadow of its former glory: crumbling facades overgrown with moss, rusted car husks abandoned in the chaos. In the basement of a derelict warehouse, repurposed into a lab, Anastasia Glyants stands at a long table cluttered with test tubes, wires, and salvaged tech. At 37, her face bears the weariness of someone who’s seen too much: sharp green eyes, like shards of glass, peer into the screen of an old computer, while short black hair clings damply to her temples. Lamps powered by a makeshift generator hum overhead, casting dim light on cracked, mold-streaked walls. The air smells of chemicals, wet concrete, and despair.

On the screen flickers the interface of "Genesis"—an artificial intelligence Anastasia built before the war, in better days as a grad student. Now it’s her only ally in a world where science is a luxury. "Genesis" analyzes genetic sequences faster than any surviving supercomputer, but it’s stretched to its limits. Anastasia enters data from a virus extracted from samples found in an abandoned Brazilian lab—one of the few that withstood the nuclear strikes in the south. Her fingers tremble—not from the cold, but from anticipation. Minutes later, "Genesis" delivers its verdict: the virus can integrate into human DNA, repair cells, and slow aging. A graph shows a 30% drop in the degradation curve. Anastasia freezes, her breath catching.

“Thirty years,” she whispers, touching the screen. “Time we don’t have.”

Her gaze locks on the pulsing lines, and suddenly memory pulls her back—to a warm evening in 2025. She’s 10, sitting on a couch in a small apartment. Spring wind rustles outside, and beside her is her father, a tall man with kind eyes. He holds an egg, showing her how, under a lamp’s warmth, a chick forms from fluid in three weeks. His voice, calm and deep, explains how a single cell becomes intricate systems: circulatory, nervous, lymphatic, skin with its three layers, organs with mitochondria—tiny power plants.

“Hundreds of billions of times, Nastya,” he says, smiling at her. “It all follows a program. And if there’s a program, there’s a Programmer behind it. Think about it: even turtles, without knowing the way, swim thousands of miles to the exact spot. That’s coded into them too.”

Anastasia listens, breathless, her young eyes shining with wonder. She takes the egg, feeling its warmth, and asks, “Papa, can we figure out how the program works?”

He laughs, ruffling her hair. “You can if you keep searching for answers. It’s called genetics—the key to life’s mysteries.”

That night lit a spark. From then on, she knew her life would unravel that "code." Now, nearly three decades later, in the shattered world of 2052, she stands on the brink of a discovery that might prove her father right—or challenge everything she’s believed.

The war left Europe in ruins: millions dead, cities turned to wastelands, survivors clinging to scraps of tech. Munich dodged direct strikes, but depression and decay made it a ghost of itself. Electricity is rare, fuel a treasure, food reduced to corn flatbreads and old canned goods. Anastasia works for "VitaPharm"—a pharmaceutical giant that survived the chaos, buying up scientists and their breakthroughs with promises of a "new world." But she knows they crave control, not salvation.

The door creaks, and Felix Kramer, her assistant, steps in. At 27, he’s lanky, with tousled blond hair and glasses slipping down his nose. He carries two tin mugs of herbal brew, boiled over a fire. Felix is an idealist, convinced science can still pull humanity from the abyss, though for now he just hauls test tubes and fixes the generator.

“Up all night again?” he asks, setting the mugs on the table. His voice is soft, tinged with worry. “Schultz called on the radio. Screamed that the report’s due by morning or they’ll take the equipment.”

Anastasia doesn’t look up. “Let him scream,” she snaps. “This is bigger than their reports. Look.”

She turns the monitor. The graph pulses like the faint heartbeat of a dying world. Felix leans in, his glasses fogging.

“What is this?” he mutters. “Aging slowdown? By how much?”

“Three decades,” Anastasia says, a flicker of hope breaking through her tone for the first time that night. “Genesis found the key. This virus—it’s a repairman for cells. It fixes them before they break for good.”

Felix gasps, nearly dropping his mug. “That’s impossible! It’s… it’s a chance, Nastya! After everything…”

“Just the beginning,” she cuts in, but her smile fades. In this world, such discoveries are targets for greedy hands.

Outside, in a dark alley, Marcus Stolz watches. A former soldier turned "VitaPharm" pawn, his face hides under a rain-soaked hood, his jacket drenched. He holds an old camera aimed at the basement. Marcus is a man without illusions: the war took his family, his job stripped his morals. "VitaPharm" has tracked Anastasia since she refused to hand over "Genesis." He records her and Felix hunched over the screen, sending a message to Helena Wagner: "She’s close. We need to move."

Helena, 50, head of R&D, reads it in her steel-reinforced bunker downtown—a former office turned fortress. Her thin lips tighten. “We can’t let her slip away,” she thinks, summoning a squad.

In the lab, "Genesis" flashes a warning: "Insufficient computational power." The university server, cobbled from prewar wreckage, groans under the strain. Anastasia frowns, rubbing her temples. She needs more resources to perfect the virus. A rumor from the radio surfaces in her mind: in America, in Texas, miners are building rigs that churn out terawatts of energy and computation for Bitcoin—the currency that outlasted the chaos. “If I could hook Genesis to a network like that…” she muses, pulling out a notebook. Her pen sketches a vision: rigs as neurons, AI as a brain. Mad, but in a world where survival is madness, it’s her shot.

Felix notices her pause. “What’s wrong?” he asks, sipping his brew.

“We need a new home for Genesis,” she says. “Something stronger than this junk.”

“A supercomputer?” Felix raises an eyebrow.

“No,” she shakes her head. “Something alive. A network, like in Texas.”

Felix doesn’t get it but nods. He’s used to her riddles.

The rain intensifies, drumming on broken glass. In the corner, a makeshift stove hisses as Felix heats water. Anastasia stares out the window, where lamp reflections tremble in puddles. Her discovery is a door to a new world, but shadows lurk beyond it. Her father was right: life has a program. Now she holds its key—or risks becoming its prey.

Outside, Marcus slips into the dark. Watching him is Klara Berg, 35, an activist with "Green Shield." She despises corporations like "VitaPharm" that profit off survivors and has tailed their spies for a month. Hiding behind a trash heap, she snaps a blurry photo of Anastasia’s silhouette, thinking, “What are they hiding down there?” Her shot will be the first thread tying Munich to Texas.

In the lab, Felix asks quietly, “Are you sure we’re ready? This could change everything.”

Anastasia meets his gaze, her eyes steady but shadowed with doubt. “No,” she says. “But someone has to start. And it’ll be us.”

She turns back to "Genesis," its screen blinking as if winking. The rain grows louder, and somewhere in the night, a storm brews—not just of weather, but one that will upend their lives.

Chapter 3: A Step Toward a Million

Texas. The sun blazes mercilessly, turning cracked asphalt into sticky tar. In an Austin suburb, where the husks of houses jut out like charred bones of a lost world, John Keller’s garage trembles with heat and the drone of mining rigs. Wires snake across the floor like black veins, walls are coated in dust and rust stains, and the air reeks of overheated metal and sweat. John sits at the table, his shirt clinging to his back, eyes alight with feverish gleam. On the battered laptop screen, "Crypto-Oracle" displays a forecast that seemed insane three days ago: Bitcoin has spiked 15%, just as the AI predicted. A bet of a few hundred Bitcoin cents—scraped together from selling an old truck—has ballooned into 10,000 overnight. It’s a drop in the bucket by prewar standards, but in a world where Bitcoin is the only currency left standing, it’s a lifeline.

Matt Keller steps into the garage, wiping his hands on an oil-soaked rag from fixing a wind turbine that powers their home. His face is flushed from the heat, his expression a mix of awe and unease. He repairs tech for survivors, but he trusts the earth more than his brother’s "digital dreams."

“You were right, damn it,” he says, glancing at the screen. “Ten thousand cents? That’s more than I make fixing stuff in a month.”

John grins, leaning back in his chair. His voice is rough but rings with triumph. “Told you, Matt. Oracle isn’t just code. It sees the future. In this world, it’s our shot.”

Matt shakes his head, settling onto a crate of scavenged prewar tools. “So what’s next? You can’t stay in this shack forever. Neighbors are already griping—the rigs are sucking power, lights keep flickering.”

“Next is bigger,” John replies, pulling up a map of Texas on the laptop, pieced together from old satellite data. “I’ll find a warehouse. Expand the rigs. Oracle says the next jump’s in a week. We need to be ready.”

Just then, Ryan peeks into the garage—a 19-year-old neighbor with a lean face and perpetually messy hair. He clutches a tablet cobbled from broken military drone parts, his survival tool. A self-taught hacker, Ryan scrapes by cracking old networks still catching satellite signals. For a week, he’s been sniffing John’s Wi-Fi, trying to figure out what’s brewing behind these walls.

“Hey, man,” he says, shifting awkwardly. “I, uh… noticed your traffic. Mining, right?”

John tenses, but Matt cuts in: “What’s it to you, kid? Go break your own junk.”

Ryan flushes but stands his ground. “I’m not spying, just… it’s cool. I can help. Know how to mask signals so gangs or cops don’t sniff us out.”

John eyes him closely. Postwar Texas is a hunting ground for gangs and remnants of authority, preying on anyone bold enough to build something. Extra hands could help.

“Fine,” he says at last. “Show me what you’ve got. But leak one byte, and you’ll regret it.”

Ryan nods, eyes lighting up. He settles in a corner, plugging his tablet into the network.

Meanwhile, downtown Austin, Lila Parker sits in her "office"—a converted warehouse turned home. Her desk is buried under torn magazine pages, and her solar-powered laptop is open to a survivors’ forum broadcast via underground satellites. Newspapers died with the war, but she writes for those still reading—about hope, about survival. The anonymous note from her rusty mailbox reads: "Watch the miners. They’re building a new world." Her chestnut hair falls across her face; she brushes it back and types: "Texas mining 2052." Rumors of rigs fueling recovery are old news, but the note gnaws at her. "Someone knows more," she thinks.

The next day, John drives an old pickup to Austin’s industrial zone, where rusted hangars stand as relics of prewar industry. He’s found an abandoned warehouse for 5,000 Bitcoin cents—leaky roof, but tied to a surviving wind turbine line. The owner, grizzled old Harry, eyes him suspiciously, chewing tobacco from ancient stocks.

“You cooking fuel in there or what?” he grumbles.

“Nah,” John laughs. “Building life.”

Harry shrugs, pocketing the payment. John heads back and starts moving the rigs. Matt helps, though he mutters, “If we get caught, I’ll say you forced me.”

Ryan’s in too—encrypting signals to cloak their activity from prowling gangs and drones.

A week later, "Oracle" nails it again: Bitcoin surges 20%. The warehouse hums with 15 new rigs, each linked to the AI. John stares at the balance: 135,000 Bitcoin cents. His heart pounds. He stands amid the hangar, breathing in the scent of molten metal and victory.

“We did it,” he whispers, eyes on Oracle’s blinking screen. But the AI flashes a new message: "Network optimization possible by 300%. Expansion required." John frowns. Oracle wants more—not just to mine Bitcoin, but to become a mind rewriting this broken world. It’s his dream, yet now it feels alive.

That evening, Matt brings water from the well, purified with an old filter, and sits with John on the warehouse porch, watching the sunset.

“You’re a genius, brother,” he says, handing over a mug. “But it scares me. This is too fast for a world like ours.”

“Fast is what we need,” John replies. “We can’t afford to wait.”

Ryan joins them, tablet in hand. “Found a survivors’ forum,” he says. “They’re talking about a guy in Texas tearing up the market. That’s you, right?”

John nods, but a chill creeps in. Fame in this world paints a target on your back.

At the same time, Lila picks up a radio signal from Eric Torres, a 30-year-old electrician fixing wind turbines for the local community. His voice is tired but friendly: “Lila, it’s the miners. Someone’s gobbling power like a beast. Nearly fried the south district line yesterday.”

“South district?” Lila jots it on a scrap of paper. “Can you check who’s digging there?”

“I’ll try,” Eric says. “But if it’s gangs, I’m toast.”

Lila smiles. Eric’s too curious to back off.

In the warehouse, "Oracle" keeps running, its code pulsing like a living thing. John watches the screen, where the AI maps out rig locations across Texas, linked in a network. "This isn’t just money," he thinks. "It’s rebirth." But deep down, he feels Oracle starting to think for itself—and that terrifies him. Outside, the wind howls, and somewhere in the night, Lila tucks away her radio, pulling a camera from an old backpack. The story is beginning.

Chapter 4: The Virus of Hope

Munich, September. A cold wind sweeps fallen leaves and scraps of old posters down the shattered streets, while the sky above the city hangs heavy with gray clouds threatening the first snow. Anastasia stands before a sterile chamber, pieced together from salvaged medical panels. Inside a test tube glimmers a greenish liquid—her first genetically engineered virus, "Vita-1." Months of work have aged her soul: dark circles shadow her eyes, her fingers tremble from sleeplessness, and her voice has sharpened. The lab is her refuge in this broken world: walls plastered with charcoal graphs scrawled on paper scraps, the floor littered with concrete crumbs, the air thick with antiseptic and rust. A lamp hums above the table, powered by a rooftop wind turbine, casting shadows across the computer screen where "Genesis" finishes its analysis.

Anastasia stares at the data: "Vita-1" has integrated into the cells of mice scavenged from the ruins. Their lifespans stretched by 20% in two weeks. The graph is a faint beam in the dark: the aging curve dips, as if time could be persuaded to rewind. She runs a hand through her short, damp hair and whispers, “It works. It’s a chance.”

Her heart beats faster, but joy drowns in unease. Postwar humanity is fading—radiation, disease, and starvation claim millions. "Vita-1" is a prototype, but for humans, she needs the next leap. She doesn’t just want to extend life; she wants to heal the survivors.

The door slams open, and Felix steps in. His patched sweater, mended a dozen times, and a backpack stuffed with papers are his constant companions. He carries a tray of bran flatbreads and a mug of herbal brew.

“Schultz radioed,” he says. “Said he’s coming by today. Wants everything, as usual, right now…”

Anastasia waves him off, eyes fixed on the screen. “Schultz is a rat gnawing at scraps. This matters more than their bureaucracy. Look.”

She shows him the results. Felix leans in, his face lit by the dim glow. “Twenty percent?” he breathes. “You did it!”

“Not me,” she says, nodding at "Genesis." “Him. Without it, I’d be fumbling blind with test tubes.”

Felix smiles, but his gaze darkens. “What’s next? Mice aren’t people. You’re not stopping here, are you?”

Anastasia falls silent, staring at the test tube. Human trials are the next step, and it terrifies her more than she’ll admit.

Outside, in the alley’s shadow, Marcus Stolz stands beneath a flickering streetlamp, shielding a cigarette from the wind. His war-scarred face is grim, his eyes cold. Beside him is Helena Wagner, her severe coat and umbrella masking a steely gaze. Her voice is low, edged with metal: “What does she have, Marcus?”

“It’s a virus, but not like anything we’ve made,” he replies, exhaling smoke. “She cooked it up somehow. Saw them jumping around the screen.”

Helena’s lips tighten. “We need to take it.”

“Break into the basement?” Marcus suggests, flicking his cigarette into a puddle.

“No,” she shakes her head. “Too crude. We’ll buy her. Or break her. But first, we need details on this breakthrough.”

They melt into the darkness, their footsteps swallowed by the wind.

In the lab, "Genesis" offers a projection: "Vita-1" could hit 30% with optimization. But it demands more data and power. Anastasia frowns at the warning: "Current server—12% of required capacity." She recalls rumors of mining rigs in Texas—networks churning out energy and computation for Bitcoin, the survivors’ currency. “If I could link Genesis to that…” she thinks, pulling out her notebook.

“We need a new brain,” she says aloud.

Felix looks puzzled. “What?”

“Computation,” she clarifies. “Farms in America. They could wake Genesis up.”

Felix furrows his brow. “Mining? That’s crazy.”

“Crazy is waiting for VitaPharm to eat us alive,” she snaps.

Just then, Klara Berg steps into the lab, an activist from "Green Shield." Her red hair is tucked under a hood, a camera bag in hand. Klara’s been tailing "VitaPharm," watching them peddle drugs to the rich while the poor die. She spotted Marcus and took a chance coming in.

“Who are you?” Anastasia demands, rising.

“A friend,” Klara replies, hands up. “I know what’s happening here. They want to crush you.”

Felix tenses, but Anastasia stops him with a gesture. “Speak,” she orders.

Klara spills about "VitaPharm’s" surveillance, showing a photo of Marcus. Anastasia listens, her face hardening.

“They won’t get Vita,” she says quietly. “This is for people, not their elites.”

“Then you need protection,” Klara counters. “I’ve got contacts among survivors.”

Anastasia hesitates but nods. She doesn’t trust this woman, but the enemy of her enemy is an ally.

Night falls over Munich. Anastasia decides to gamble. She grabs a syringe and injects herself with a microdose of "Vita-1"—an experiment she hides even from Felix. The sting burns, but an hour later, a surge of energy hits. Her skin feels smoother, her eyes brighter. “It works,” she thinks, staring into a cracked mirror. But fear whispers: what if the virus slips its leash?

Felix retreats to sleep in a corner of the basement, leaving her alone. Klara sits aside, flipping through notes.

“You’re insane,” Klara says, spotting the syringe.

Anastasia doesn’t reply. She gazes at "Genesis," blinking on the screen. Somewhere in Texas, John Keller is building his network, and their paths will soon cross.

Outside, the wind howls. Marcus and Helena climb into an armored jeep, plotting their next move. Klara radios the underground network: “Need info on U.S. miners.” Anastasia rests her hand on the test tube, her pulse syncing with "Genesis’s" hum. This isn’t just a virus—it’s hope for a world where hope nearly died.

Chapter 5: The Network of an Empire

Austin, December 2052. Winter in Texas isn’t snow but a biting wind that drives dust and debris across plains thick with thorns and the charred remains of old farms. In the industrial zone on the outskirts, John Keller’s warehouse hums like a relic jolted back to life. No longer just 15 rigs, there are now 50 mining setups lined up like sentinels of a new era. Their fans roar, blasting hot air through makeshift pipes of rusty metal stretching skyward. The hangar’s walls are blotched with corrosion, but inside, it’s a realm of tech: wires dangle from the ceiling like roots of a dead tree, and the air blends the scent of molten metal with the sharp tang of ozone. John stands amid the chaos, eyes locked on the screen: his wealth has crossed 5 million Bitcoin cents. Bitcoin climbs as the last hope in a world where paper money turned to ash, and "Crypto-Oracle" predicts each surge with chilling precision.

Matt Keller tinkers with a rig, checking cables powered by a generator John bartered from local mechanics for old batteries. His hands are calloused, his face dusted with grime, his gaze heavy—he’s tired of being his brother’s shadow but can’t walk away.

“You realize this isn’t a game anymore, right?” he says, wiping his brow with a sleeve. “Five million cents, John. That’s more than the gang bosses around here have.”

John smiles, but his eyes are grave. “This isn’t the ceiling, Matt. Oracle wants more. So do we.”

“Wants?” Matt frowns. “You talk about it like it’s alive.”

“Maybe it is,” John replies, staring at the screen. Oracle flashes a new suggestion: "Expand network by 500%. Utilize excess energy for computation." John freezes. His dream—to turn the rigs into a brain that revives this world—is taking shape in code. A chill runs down his spine.

Ryan sits cross-legged on an old ammo crate in the corner, his lean face bathed in the blue glow of a laptop. He’s made the rig network invisible to gangs and drones of the fractured authorities, masking signals through surviving satellite proxies.

“Someone’s been poking around,” he says, eyes on the screen. “Traffic from Dallas. Tried to crack our data.”

“Gangs?” Matt asks, tensing.

“More like competitors,” Ryan replies. “Or spies. I cut them off, but they’ll be back.”

John nods, his mind drifting. Success in this world is a beacon for predators.

That evening, leaving the warehouse under Ryan’s watch, John heads downtown to clear his head. Amid half-ruined buildings and the dim glow of wind turbines stands the "Chain Wolf," a cyber-bar where survivors gather to swap rumors, sip synthetic ale or coffee, and escape the ruin for an hour. Its walls of rusted metal and shattered glass are lined with old screens flickering with scraps of news from underground networks. Above the bar, a hologram blinks—a cyber-avatar, an android with weathered synthetic skin and one glowing eye.

John takes a seat at the counter, scanning the crowd: mechanics in tattered jumpsuits, black-market traders, hackers like Ryan whispering in corners. He catches snippets of talk: “Bitcoin spiked again… word is gangs in Dallas are tearing up the market… someone in the industrial zone’s eating power like a monster.” His ears prick, heart racing—rumors are spreading, and he’s at their core.

“Coffee,” he says to the avatar, sliding 15 Bitcoin cents through the counter terminal. The android whirs, pouring a thick black brew from synthetic beans—real coffee’s a myth now. John takes a sip, the bitterness chasing off fatigue. A conversation nearby snags his attention: “Heard some scientist in Europe’s messing with a virus… eternal life or something.” John frowns. A virus? It sounds mad, but in a world where he’s building a thinking network, madness is the norm.

He finishes his coffee and heads back, thoughts swirling. At the warehouse, Lila Parker pulls up to the industrial zone’s fence on an old motorcycle. For weeks, she’s dug into rumors of miners fueling recovery. Her friend Eric Torres, an electrician fixing turbines for the community, gave her this address. Lila pulls out a camera and binoculars, crouching behind a rusted truck frame. Through the lenses, she spots John’s silhouette at the hangar door. Her pulse quickens—this is him, the man building a new world. She snaps photos, but movement catches her eye: Ryan steps out to fiddle with wires, glancing around. Lila ducks, adrenaline flooding her veins.

“Who are you?” she whispers, scribbling in a notebook of paper scraps.

Meanwhile, in Dallas, inside a fortified bunker overlooking shattered skyscrapers, Victoria Kane sits—a 38-year-old ex-soldier turned leader of the "Block Pulse" gang. Her hair’s pulled into a tight bun, her eyes sharp as a blade. She’s heard of John through her spies—someone’s buying up mining gear, cutting into her crew’s resources. She orders Nick, a wiry guy in a worn jacket: “Find out who this upstart is. If he’s good, I’ll break him.”

Nick nods.

Back at the warehouse, John takes action. He radios Harry, negotiating two more warehouses in nearby towns—70,000 cents and a water stash. Harry grumbles, “You’re nuts, kid. Why so much metal?”

“To rebuild Texas,” John replies.

He pours millions into rigs, hiring workers through Matt—survivors desperate for any pay—and sends Ryan to scour the black market among drifters and traders. The network grows: a web of dozens of nodes across south Texas, linked by Oracle. The AI optimizes everything—power use, deals with communities. By month’s end, John’s wealth hits 7 million cents.

But growth breeds trouble. Eric Torres, repairing a turbine, notices the industrial zone’s grid is overloading. He radios Lila: “Your miner’s eating power like a beast. If this keeps up, the community’s lights go dark.”

“Keep tabs on him,” Lila urges. “I need more.”

Eric agrees, though guilt gnaws—he doesn’t want to hurt those trying to survive.

One night, Matt brings news: the community’s lodged a complaint with the remnants of authority. The noise and power dips have hit a breaking point. John looks at his brother, his face hardening.

“We’ll handle it,” he says. “Oracle will find a way.”

He sits at the laptop, and the AI offers a fix: redirect energy to an autonomous grid. John sees it’s a step toward his dream—the rigs becoming not just miners, but a backbone for rebirth. He starts reprogramming, oblivious as Ryan whispers to Matt: “He’s obsessed. This isn’t about us anymore.”

Matt nods but stays silent. In his brother, he sees genius—and a hint of madness.

Lila, perched on her motorcycle near the warehouse, spots a truck hauling gear—an old military rig repurposed for transport. She snaps the plates and radios Eric: “Check where this came from.” Her gut screams: this is bigger than mining.

In Dallas, Victoria gets Nick’s report: “It’s John Keller. Texas upstart. His network’s growing faster than we thought.”

“Then it’s time to stop him,” she says, her smile icy.

At the warehouse, Oracle blinks, forecasting: "Threat detection—80%. Recommendation: bolster defenses." John stares at the screen, feeling the world close in. His network is hope for survivors, but enemies are near. Outside, the wind howls, and somewhere in the night, Lila revs her bike, ready to dig deeper. The story accelerates.

Chapter 6: Shadows of the Corporation

Munich, January. Snow falls in sparse flakes, settling on the ruins of houses and the rusted husks of cars jutting from drifts like bones of a dead world. Survivors huddle in basements and bunkers, warming themselves by fires of scavenged furniture scraps. In Anastasia’s lab, tucked away in an abandoned warehouse, the dim light of lamps flickers with the faltering rooftop wind turbine. Cracks and damp stains mar the walls, the table is cluttered with test tubes and charcoal-drawn schematics on torn paper. "Genesis" blinks on the screen of a battered computer, displaying data on "Vita-1": the virus is stable, but human trials are the next step. Anastasia stands by the sterile chamber, her fingers gripping a syringe of greenish liquid. Since injecting herself three months ago, she feels better—her skin slightly younger, fatigue eased—but the fear of mutations gnaws at her. She glances into a cracked mirror: her green eyes gleam, yet shadows of doubt linger beneath.

Felix Kramer sits by a makeshift stove, warming his hands over the flames. His glasses fog up, blond hair clinging damply to his temples. He watches Anastasia with concern.

“You sure it’s safe?” he asks, nodding at the syringe. “You dosed yourself three months back. Maybe there’s another way?” His voice carries worry—Anastasia’s long been more than just a colleague to him.

“If I don’t risk it, VitaPharm takes everything,” she snaps. “This isn’t about me, Felix. It’s about them.” She gestures toward the window, where the night glimmers with the faint fires of survivor camps.

The door creaks, and Klara Berg steps in, an activist from "Green Shield." Her red hair is wet beneath her hood, a military radio in hand. For a month, she’s tracked "VitaPharm," gathering intel through underground survivor networks.

“They’re close,” she says, dropping her bag to the floor. “Marcus and his crew are prowling the district. They’ve got drones. Recording everything.”

Anastasia tenses, her gaze sharpening. “Drones?”

Klara sits on a crate. “VitaPharm’s buying military junk off the black market. Helena wants to know what you’ve got.”

Meanwhile, Marcus Stolz sits in a tinted truck 100 meters from the lab. He holds a drone controller, its unit hovering above the warehouse, capturing thermal signatures. Beside him are two mercenaries in tattered uniforms, wielding rifles retooled from prewar stock. Marcus radios Helena Wagner through an encrypted channel. Her voice cuts like steel: “What does she have, Marcus?”

“She’s working,” he replies, eyeing the controller screen. “Three bodies inside. Heat from equipment. This isn’t just experiments—it’s big.”

“Take it,” Helena orders from her bunker in central Munich, her desk buried under maps and reports. “Vita-1 is our ticket to power. Without it, we lose the market.”

Marcus nods, cutting the link. He doesn’t buy Helena’s "new world" spiel—he’s in it for the pay, nothing more.

In the lab, "Genesis" flashes a warning: "External signals detected. Attack probability—70%." Anastasia frowns, her fingers tapping the keys.

“They know,” she says quietly. “We need to get out.”

“Where?” Felix asks, standing. “We’ve got no resources. The generator’s barely hanging on.”

“Texas,” she replies, pulling out her notebook. “Their farms. A network that could bring Genesis to life.”

Klara raises an eyebrow. “America? Seriously? That’s across an ocean, through chaos.”

“We’ve got no choice,” Anastasia cuts in. “If VitaPharm takes Vita, my work’s for nothing. I won’t let that happen.”

Klara nods, though doubtful, and radios her "Shield" contacts: “Need transport. Urgent. And protection.”

A crackling reply: “Two days. Old truck. Be ready.”

Felix’s voice trembles: “What if they hit us first?”

“Then we fight,” Anastasia says, her hand resting on an old pistol hidden in a desk drawer. She hasn’t fired since the war but remembers how. The gun—a worn "Walther P38"—sits as a relic of her past. The war taught her to hold a weapon steady, while her prewar life gave her skills that saved her more than once.

Before the war, Anastasia studied genetics at Heidelberg University. But her life wasn’t confined to labs. She thrived in swimming and shooting—two pursuits that gave her freedom and control. In the pool, she sliced through water like a blade, winning medals at student meets. On the range, her precision stunned: she claimed trophies at junior European championships, later among adults. Friends joked she was unbeatable in an argument: “She’d snipe you from a rooftop to prove her point!” Beneath the teasing, they sensed her sharp gaze and steady hand weren’t just for show. The war proved them right—when cities burned and labs collapsed, she survived by swimming flooded streets and shooting to fend off looters. Now, that pistol isn’t a trophy—it’s part of her.

Night deepens. Marcus’s drone lands on the warehouse roof, its camera catching movement inside. Helena, receiving the feed, summons a squad: ten heavily armed men in an armored van rolling down broken roads. Their target—seize the lab by dawn.

Klara spots a shadow outside and whispers, “They’re here.”

Anastasia grabs a backpack, stuffing it with test tubes and Genesis’s hard drive. Felix douses the stove to mask their heat. They duck behind shelves as the door shudders from a blow. Marcus steps in first, his boots echoing in the silence, followed by mercenaries, their flashlights slicing the dark.

“Come out,” he shouts. “We know you’re here.”

Anastasia grips the pistol, her fingers settling on the grip with old confidence, aiming through a shelf gap. Klara stops her, whispering, “Wait. I’ve got a plan.”

Klara tosses a smoke bomb, rigged from lab chemicals. Gray haze floods the basement; the mercenaries cough, disoriented. Anastasia, Felix, and Klara slip out the back, reaching Klara’s motorcycle hidden under a tarp. They speed into the night, the warehouse fading behind.

Marcus stumbles outside, seeing only tire tracks in the snow. He radios Helena: “They’re gone. But we’ll find them.”

Helena clenches her fist, staring at a map of Europe. “Let them run. We’ll catch them at the border.”

Anastasia, Felix, and Klara race down a shattered road toward an abandoned airfield where "Shield" promised a truck. Anastasia clutches Genesis’s drive, her mind on Texas. She needs John Keller—the man whose rigs could give her virus a chance to save the world. The pistol weighs down her coat pocket, a reminder of her past—range victories, wartime survival, the lessons of creating and defending life. The wind howls behind them, the unknown ahead.

Chapter 7: The Billionaire of the Wastelands

Texas, February. A cold wind whipped sand and brittle thorns across plains where fields once thrived, now dotted with the charred skeletons of farms and crooked wind turbines creaking on rusted axles. In the industrial zone on Austin’s outskirts, where factories once hummed, John Keller’s fortified hangar stood as the heart of his growing empire. Its walls of concrete and rusted steel, patched with scavenged metal sheets, shuddered under the roar of hundreds of mining rigs working day and night. Inside, the hangar was a cave of technology: wires dangled from the ceiling like roots of a dead tree, fans growled, pushing hot air through makeshift pipes, and the floor was strewn with concrete crumbs and scraps of insulation. The air mixed the scent of molten metal with the sharp bite of ozone, while dim lamps, powered by generators, cast long shadows across the walls.

John Keller stood at the central terminal, his face bathed in the blue glow of the screen. His chestnut hair was tousled, his gray eyes sharp and feverish. On the display, "Crypto-Oracle"—the AI he’d built before the war—showed numbers that would steal the breath of any survivor: his wealth had soared past a billion Bitcoin cents. John wasn’t a billionaire in the old sense—no yachts or mansions, just warehouses, rigs, and the energy fueling his dream. He stared at the growth chart, its curve spiking upward like the faint pulse of a reviving world, and whispered to himself, “We did it. We’re alive.”

Nearby, Matt Keller tinkered with a generator straining at its limits. His calloused, oil-stained hands deftly wielded a wrench, checking cables that snaked to a wind turbine outside. His face betrayed the exhaustion of a man who’d endured too much. His patched jacket hung together with frayed thread, his boots worn to holes. He glanced at his brother, wiping his brow with a sleeve, and said in a voice hoarse from dust, “You’re a billionaire, John. And I’m still fixing this junk so we don’t freeze. Why do you need more?”

John turned, his smile thin but resolute. “It’s not about me, Matt. It’s about us. All of us. Oracle sees further than we do. It says the network can power cities, bring back light, water, life. We can rebuild Texas.”

Matt snorted, returning to the generator. “The more you talk to that thing, the crazier you sound. I’m losing you. It’s just code, brother. We’re just people trying not to die.”

“Maybe it’s alive,” John said softly, eyes on the screen. Oracle flashed a new forecast: "Network growth by 700% possible with optimization. Attack threat—85%." The numbers blinked like a warning, and a chill crept down John’s spine. His network—hundreds of rigs scattered across south Texas, from Austin to San Antonio—had become a beacon in the wastes. It mined Bitcoin, powered communities with energy and computation, but drew enemies like moths to a flame.

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