One night, when the world outside seemed quieter than usual, the system chimed with a message Alex had never seen before: [Flight Module Activated]. At first, he thought it was another glitch. Then the whole shelter began to shake—not violently, but enough to send everyone running into the halls, clutching their children and each other, wide-eyed and afraid.
The walls sealed themselves with a hiss. Somewhere deep below, engines rumbled awake for the first time. Alex's heart hammered as he grabbed Mia's hand. They all crowded by the biggest window, watching as their home—the same battered shelter that had saved them so many times—rose up off the ground. The city, or what was left of it, fell away until even the fires looked small and distant. For a moment, nobody spoke. The only sound was the hum of the engines and the soft, awed gasps of people who never thought they'd leave the earth behind.
Above the clouds, darkness stretched on forever. The stars felt impossibly close. The system's voice was calm, almost gentle, as it charted a new course. Alex didn't know if they were heading toward hope or just another mess, but for the first time in a long time, he felt something like wonder.
Space was quiet and strange. With the world behind them, the system kept feeding them tasks: [Find other survivors]. [Expand the family]. [Build a future]. The days and nights blurred together as they drifted through the unknown, their home now a ship, their small family the last fragile thread of humanity.
Alex still didn't think of himself as a hero. Most days, he barely felt like he was surviving. But he couldn't give up—not with all those eyes watching him, not with so much at stake. So he kept going, fumbling through the darkness, hoping that somewhere out there, they'd find a place to start again. The system, ever-present, kept its secrets. And Alex, for better or worse, trusted it—if only because he had no other choice.