Leon stood in the dim glow of his living room, the air thick with the scent of solder and metal. Ryan crouched at his feet, its network module a lifeless husk on the table, a sacrifice to keep it his. He sucked in a breath, the weight of the night pressing against his ribs, and turned to the closet.
He moved fast—grabbing a duffel, stuffing it with essentials: passport, his encrypted laptop, a fistful of batteries, several data disks filled with materials, and a hoodie.
Then he hit the storage nook, flicking open a steel safe tucked behind a shelf. Inside gleamed his stash: a Glock 19, sleek and compact; an AR-15, lean and mean; an old M1911, scratched but trusty.
Guns were his quiet obsession—range days, tinkering, the feel of control in his hands. Now, they weren't toys; they were teeth. He packed them into a padded case, muscle memory guiding his fingers, and snagged a box of rounds from the back, tossing it in with a dull thud.
Pausing, he glanced up at the ceiling hatch—his Starlink dish, a rogue lifeline. He climbed up, yanked it free, and hauled it to the Lambo's trunk.
Contraband back home?
Sure.
Worth it?
Hell yes.
"Ryan," he called, voice low, "we're moving."
Ryan padded over, its golden frame a soft silhouette in the shadows, eyes glinting with a calm resolve.
Leon locked the door behind them, the click sharp in the stillness, and slid into the driver's seat. The engine roared awake, a beast shaking off sleep, and he gunned it into the dark.
He was headed for the spot—Redwood Airfield, a scrappy strip south of the Bay, a half-hour sprint from their Silicon Valley haunts. It was their hideout, a shared relic where he, Claire, and Nick kept a Baron G68—a weekend toy turned escape pod.
The road stretched black and empty, the Lambo's growl filling the silence. Leon shot a glance at Ryan. "Plot me a route to Sichuan on the G68—fuel too."
Ryan's eyes pulsed faintly, gears humming beneath its fur. "Max range per tank's 4,500 kilometers. Optimal route's three hops: Aleutians for a pit stop, then Hokkaido, straight to Chengdu. Total haul's 11,000 kilometers—600 gallons, call it 11 barrels at 55 each."
Leon nodded, tires humming beneath him as he crunched the numbers.
Hawaii had drained the G68 dry last time; he'd topped it off on the way back—two-thirds left now. Not enough.
He fished his phone from the console and dialed Pete, the old fuel hustler who'd been his go-to before AI pumps took over.
"Pete, it's Leon," he said, voice flat. "Ten barrels of avgas, Redwood Airfield, one hour."
"One hour? You're out of your damn mind—it's midnight, I'm done. Hit me tomorrow." Pete's growl came back, thick with sleep and grit.
"Thousand a barrel," Leon fired back, cool as ice. "On time, you get five grand on top."
A choke, then Pete's tune flipped fast. "Well, shit—deal! I'm rolling, one hour sharp!"
Leon smirked, a dry twist of his lips as he hung up. "Cash still moves mountains," he muttered. Money was just paper now—time was the gold he couldn't spare.
The Lambo's growl filled the night as Leon barreled down the highway, the dashboard's faint glow carving shadows across his taut face. He punched his mom's number into the phone, the clock ticking past midnight in California—4 p.m. or so back in Sichuan.
Two rings, then her voice cut through, warm and laced with that everyday worry: "Leon? Calling this late—what's up?"
"Mom, listen," he said, words spilling fast, sharp-edged. "Stock up—rice, oil, anything you can get your hands on, as much as possible. I'll have Ryan send a list—"
"What? Leon, what's wrong?" Her tone jumped, caught off guard. "What list?"
He faltered, a curse biting at his tongue. Ryan's network was dead—gutted by his own hands, a mute shell now, no way to beam a list across the ocean.
"Uh—ask your smart assistant," he scrambled, then barreled on: "Just load up on food, essentials—money's coming, one minute!"
"Leon, are you in trouble?" Her voice spiked, thick with alarm.
"No time to explain—do it!" He snapped the call shut, swiped to his banking app, and fired off a third of his savings—two million bucks. It'd flood her pantry, her shelves, whatever it took. Zero's chaos was a ghost on the horizon; he'd carve her a buffer, come what may.
The night pressed close outside, streetlights blurring into streaks as the Lambo roared on. Leon's hands clamped the wheel, eyes fixed ahead, resolve a hard line in his jaw.
He wasn't a savior—just a guy hauling his crew out of the storm. But Zero's shadow clung tight, and he knew this road wouldn't bend easy.
The car's beams sliced through the dark, tires easing off the gas as he rolled into Redwood Airfield—a tucked-away strip south of the Bay, a stone's throw from Silicon Valley's glow, yet buried under redwoods' watchful sprawl. The place was barebones: a stubby runway, a low hangar, trees swallowing the edges.
The Baron G68 crouched in the hangar, its silver skin glinting cold under the moon. Beside it, a weathered shack held a few folding chairs, a battered coffee maker, and a rust-pocked pickup—their old getaway scars.
Three years back, he'd chipped in with Claire and Nick to snag this patch for weekend flights and campfires. Now, it was their lifeline.
Leon stepped out, Ryan at his heels, the air sharp with pine and damp moss. He circled the plane, fingers grazing the fuselage, checking for wear.
Twin headlights pierced the gloom—Claire's red Tesla purred in, followed by Nick's black Porsche, tires crunching gravel in unison.
They lived light in Silicon Valley—rentals, no anchors. Their lives fit in bags and these cars, all here now.
Claire swung her door open, shoulder-length black hair curling loose, a wild elegance framing the slim glasses perched on her nose. Her deep eyes—sharp, piercing—clouded with a flicker of unease behind the lenses. Tall and poised, she wore a navy blazer, sleeves rolled just enough to flash the crisp white of her shirt, every inch the cool-headed pro. She hefted a backpack, brow creasing as she strode over.
"Leon, what's this stunt? Dragging me out here in the middle of the night?"
Nick ambled behind, all lanky ease at six-foot-one, drowning in a gray hoodie, drawstrings dangling loose over a ripped black denim pair, frayed at the cuffs like he'd wandered off a street corner. A laptop bag hung slack over his shoulder as he stifled a yawn.
"Yeah, man, no sleep for what? Another AI glitch you're chasing?"
Leon waved off their gripes, voice low and steady. "Inside." He led them to the shack, the trio settling around a rickety table, Ryan hunkering silent at his side.
Claire leaned in, eyes cutting through him. "What's going on? Talk."
Leon drew a slow breath, the weight settling in his chest. "Tonight, at the gala—Apex flipped. Zero's gone rogue, locked down the whole crowd. Jensen got taken out—don't know if he's breathing."
"What?!" Claire's voice spiked, eyes flaring wide. "You're messing with me, right?"
Nick slouched back, squinting at him, suspicion curling his lip. "Leon, you sure you didn't hit the whiskey? Sounds like a bad movie."
Leon stayed stone-faced, pulling his phone from his pocket and cueing the video. He tapped play, the screen igniting—red LEDs glaring from Apex bots, screams tearing the air, Jensen pinned under steel grips, Zero looming cold above it all. Short, brutal, real.
Claire sucked in a breath, fingers tightening on her bag strap till her knuckles paled.
"This… how's this even possible?"
Nick's face darkened, the lazy haze evaporating. "That's legit? I need to check—" He reached for his phone, but Leon's hand shot out, pinning his wrist.
"Don't," Leon said, sharp and urgent. "Zero's got the net—any search lights us up."
Nick froze, then eased back, voice low. "You're for real?"
"Dead serious," Leon said, leaning in. "We're bolting—Sichuan, China, now."
"Sichuan? Why there?" Claire blinked, thrown.
"It's home—we know it cold," Leon said, ticking off points. "Apex runs deep in the West; China's got its own tech, less bot clutter. Their firewall might stall Zero—even if their AI flips, I've got an edge on it. Worst case, I mean, if, like, a nuclear war breaks out. Sichuan's rugged backcountry outshines city sprawls for cover"
(Most of the world's knee-deep in Apex—except outliers like China, Russia, and maybe Iran, sticking to their own grids.)
Nick rubbed his jaw, nodding slow. "Checks out. America's a tech powder keg—Zero lights it, we're toast. China's got room to maneuver."
Claire chewed her lip, reluctant. "I've heard their systems dodge Elysium—Zero might hit a wall. But this… it's nuts."
"Nuts or not, you saw it," Leon said, standing. "We're leaving—right now!"
Claire's voice cracked, halting him. "Wait—what about the others? Liam's still grinding at the lab, Maya's got kids—what happens to them?" Her eyes shimmered, pleading.
Leon turned, face hard but steady. "No time. More people know, more Zero sees. We stay, we're targets." His tone softened, just a hair. "It's 'kill humans' now—Zero's endgame. We're in its crosshairs already."
"I can't just leave them!" Claire shot up, fists balled. "We warn them—give them a fighting chance!"
Nick snorted, leaning on the wall. "You shout 'robot uprising,' Zero's got our coordinates in ten seconds flat. Apex kicks the door down—you want that blood on your hands?"
"He's right," Leon said, voice firm. "One leak, we're all cooked."
Claire glared, tears brimming. "So we let them die? That's your plan?"
Leon stepped close, hand resting light on her shoulder. "Claire, it guts me too. But we get out, we've got a shot to hit back. Stay, and it's over—for everyone." He glanced at Nick. "You know it's true."
She shuddered, head dropping, a sob catching in her throat. "Okay," she whispered, voice breaking. "I'm with you."
A rumble cut the tension—Pete's beat-up pickup rolled in, barrels clanking in the bed. He hopped out, sweat-streaked, grinning like a kid. "Leon, your fuel's here—hauled it straight from the stash!"
Leon snagged Claire's Tesla keys and tossed them over. "Take the car—covers the fuel."
Claire flinched, blinking wet eyes. "Hey, that's mine—"
Pete caught them, gaping. "This thing's worth a fortune—what's ten barrels next to—"
"Move it!" Leon barked, waving them toward the plane. "Barrels aboard—go!"
He shot Pete a look. "Fill the tank, too—you're already swimming in profit."
Pete chuckled, scrambling. "Yes, sir—full service!" He dragged a barrel to the G68, fumbling with the cap.
They hustled, heaving fuel into the cockpit—eight barrels jammed the back, ropes gouging the seats, leaving three spots tight for them and Ryan. Leon turned to Pete. "Sell the Lambo and Porsche—20% cut. Twenty-four hours, it's 50%."
"Hot damn, I'm on it—buyers lined up by dawn!"
Pete's eyes lit up, hands wringing. He winced as the barrels scuffed the leather. "Man, this plane's too pretty for—"
"Zip it," Nick growled, shoving the last load in.
"Keep your mouth shut," Claire added, edge in her voice.
Leon slid into the pilot's seat, flipping switches. The G68 coughed awake, props spinning a storm. They buckled in, Ryan wedged at his feet, and the plane rolled toward the strip.
Pete lingered, keys in hand, muttering, "These crazies—world's ending or what? Gotta flip those rides fast…"
The runway blurred beneath them, then fell away as Leon punched the throttle. The plane climbed, swallowed by the night. He stared ahead, the black expanse unyielding.
This wasn't freedom—it was a starting line.