Thomas woke up to a sharp ache in his back. The cold, hard floor of the manager's office was far from an ideal bed, and every muscle in his body felt stiff and protested. However, as full consciousness returned, he noticed something else: the silence. Not the tense, threatening silence, but a peaceful, solid quiet.
He slowly got up, stretching his aching body. He walked out of the office and gazed at the scene before him. The dark, silent aisles of the supermarket stretched out like his private kingdom. The heavy barricade he had built last night remained sturdy at the front door, blocking out the terrifying world outside.
For the first time since being thrown into this hell, he felt truly safe.
He took a bottle of water and some crackers from a shelf, his first peaceful breakfast. Sitting on a stack of rice sacks, he assessed his condition. Bruises adorned his arms, and a deep fatigue still resided in his bones. But one thing bothered him the most.
His attention was drawn to a cut on his hand, a wound he had gotten opening a can of food a few days ago. The cut was no longer just a scratch. The skin around it was fiery red and slightly swollen. A throbbing, burning pain emanated from it, a constant reminder that in a world without doctors and antibiotics, even the smallest wound could be a death sentence.
He stared at his inflamed wound, the throbbing pain seemingly mocking his fragility. Then, a new, reckless thought emerged, born from his success with the paint can. Simple and specific. What if the target wasn't a static object out there? What if the target... was himself?
This was uncharted territory for him. Affecting the outside world felt like imposing his will on the universe. But affecting his own body... that felt different. Theoretically, it should be easier.
Staring at the redness on the back of his hand, he decided to try. He closed his eyes, focusing all his attention on the hot, throbbing sensation in his wound. His request was very small, very focused.
"I want the pain in this wound to disappear."
Instantly.
There was no delay. No agonizing energy drain. The throbbing pain simply vanished, as if it had never been there. He opened his eyes in shock, staring at his hand. The redness was still there, but the pain was completely gone. And most surprisingly, he barely felt any stamina drain.
A wave of revelation hit him. Of course. It made perfect sense. His power originated from within him. When used on himself, there was no resistance, no interference. Source and target were in perfect resonance. He had just discovered the Principle of Internal Resonance.
Buoyed by this exhilarating discovery, he immediately tested it again on his other problem: the bone-deep exhaustion.
"I want my energy to recover a little," he whispered.
He felt a gentle warmth spread from his chest throughout his limbs. It wasn't a full recovery, but some of his most severe, deep fatigue lifted, as if a heavy burden had been removed from his shoulders.
He stared at his hands, no longer as sources of weakness, but as tools. He was finally beginning to understand the rules of his own game.
The understanding of the "Principle of Internal Resonance" made him rethink his success with the paint can. Why had it worked while the hydrant failed? The answer now seemed so clear. The hydrant was connected to a complex underground piping system; it was part of a vast network. But the paint can... the paint can was just a single object. A clearly defined target.
He mentally named this second rule: the Principle of Object Focus.
Now, he had to test it. This supermarket was his laboratory. With a newfound confidence, he walked to a small cafeteria area in the corner of the store. He found a bent spoon on the floor. He picked it up, held it in his palm, and concentrated.
"I want this spoon to be straight."
He felt a slight draw of energy, stronger than when affecting himself, but still very much under control. Before his eyes, the metal of the spoon slowly straightened itself until it returned to its original shape.
A wide smile stretched across Thomas's face. He tried again. He found an employee locker locked with a small padlock. He placed his finger on the padlock, closed his eyes, and imagined the mechanism inside.
"I want the mechanism inside this padlock to open."
Click.
That soft sound was the most beautiful music to his ears. The padlock opened. He now had a clear understanding of what he could and could not do. He couldn't change the world, but he could give small "nudges" to the objects within it. He finally had a manual for his chaotic power.
The bubbling exhilaration slowly subsided, replaced by a calm, solid certainty. Thomas leaned against the locker he had just opened, his breathing steady. He stared at the straightened spoon in one hand and the open padlock in the other. This was no longer magic or coincidence. This was science. His own science.
His mind began to work at high speed, categorizing and organizing his new arsenal with a clarity he had never possessed before.
First, The Principle of Internal Resonance. This was the foundation of his survival. The ability to remove pain, partially restore stamina. He glanced at the wound on his hand again. Although the redness hadn't completely disappeared, the threatening hot throb was gone. This gave him an incredible advantage: the ability to keep moving, to keep fighting, even when his body should have given up.
Second, The Principle of Object Focus. This was his utility device, his master key to this broken world. Opening locked doors, straightening bent tools, knocking over objects for distractions. He recognized its limitations; he couldn't fix a complicated car engine because he didn't understand how it worked, nor could he conjure weapons out of thin air. His requests had to be specific and target a single, clear object. It wasn't omnipotent magic, but a very precise "nudge" on reality. A subtle touch that could change everything.
He no longer felt like a stranded victim. For the first time, he felt like a player who finally understood the rules of his game. This supermarket was no longer just a hiding place; it had become his laboratory and training ground.
With a new burning purpose, Thomas left the cafeteria area. He no longer moved with the wariness of a fugitive, but with the steady stride of an explorer. He returned to the messy manager's office, where his most valuable treasure awaited him.
He cleared the scattered papers from the table, wiping the surface with his sleeve, then carefully spread the large map of the state of Georgia over it. Under the supermarket's dim light, the lines of roads and names of cities looked like promises from a lost world.
Previously, this map was just a vague illustration of despair, an endless labyrinth filled with monsters. Now, this map was his game board.
His finger traced the location of Atlanta, then moved south, stopping at the thick blue line labeled "Interstate 85." That was his way out. A clear route.
The hope that had been merely a spark from the lost radio broadcast had now become a stable, strong fire within his chest. It was no longer a vague dream of an evacuation center; it was a series of achievable goals. Get out of this supermarket. Reach the highway. Move south. Survive.
He stood tall, staring at the map with a keen gaze. The sense of security he had felt this morning had transformed into something stronger: confidence. He knew his journey would be incredibly dangerous, but now he was no longer helpless.
Thomas began to move around the supermarket with newfound efficiency. He gathered supplies not out of panic, but based on a plan. Lightweight canned food. More water. A sturdier backpack. Darker clothes for nighttime. Every item he chose had a purpose.
This fortress had served him well. But his time for hiding was over. His time to move had come.