Apocalypse Days: I Rule with Foresight and a Powerful Son
Chapter 199

Chapter 199: 199

ZARA

The floor was cold.

Her cheek stuck to it—damp, tacky with blood or sweat or both. The metallic tang in her mouth wasn’t just taste, it was memory. It filled her nose, seeped into her teeth, made her stomach twist.

Something beeped. Far off. Or was it inside her skull? A mechanical pulse that didn’t match her heartbeat.

She blinked. Once. Twice. Blurred ceiling. Fluorescent light.

The world felt tilted—like her body had been reassembled wrong. Limbs heavier, slower.

She turned her head. Her hair snagged against the floor. Dried blood matted the strands.

Why couldn’t she move?

Where was—

She.

That was the first thing Zara registered through the buzzing ache in her skull and the dry iron taste flooding her mouth. Her body refused to obey at first, muscles sluggish and twitching beneath her skin. The chill of the cot bolted to the wall seeped through the paper-thin sheet beneath her, numbing her spine. Lights above hummed a low, sterile tone that cut through her skull like a migraine. The walls were clinical. Grey. Seamless.

A faint red light blinked in the corners of the ceiling. Cameras.

Her arms jerked when she tried to sit up—resistance. She looked down.

Cuffs.

Sleek, smooth, elegant in design—almost beautiful, if they weren’t wrapped like shackles around her wrists. They weren’t just for show. She could feel it—the subtle suppression field humming through her nervous system, turning her enhanced reflexes to mud. These were built for people like her. Not just prison. Containment.

Her breath hitched.

The memories hit like a bomb.

The mimic. The scream. The climb. The open air.

The rifle—Leo. Adrian.

She bolted upright, heart slamming against her ribs. "Leo?!"

Her voice echoed off the walls, hollow and flat.

No reply.

Zara stumbled from the cot, half-dragging her feet. She rushed to the door—seamless steel, no visible lock. Her palm slapped against it, then clawed at it, smacking with both fists. "Let me out! Where’s my son?! Where is he?!"

Her panic clawed up her throat, raw and animal. The door didn’t budge.

In desperation, she screamed at the red light blinking in the corner. "You bastard! I know you’re watching—give him back! Where’s Leo?! Where’s my baby?!"

Silence.

Her eyes scanned the room—no vents, no buttons, nothing but the tray bolted to the wall beside the cot. Her gaze landed on it. She staggered forward, yanked the metal tray loose, and hurled it at the camera. It bounced with a sharp clang, crashing to the floor in a defeated clatter.

Still nothing. Just the endless hum of machinery.

Her breath tore from her lungs as she collapsed to the floor, spine sliding down the cold wall. Her fists trembled. Her lips parted.

"Leo..." she whispered. Over and over.

"Leo. Leo. Leo."

Time warped in the silence. Minutes. Hours. She didn’t know.

The hiss of hydraulics snapped her upright like a triggered wire.

The door slid open with deceptive softness.

Adrian walked in.

His coat was pristine. Black tactical fabric, crisp against the clinical walls. His face was calm. Composed. Not a hair out of place. He walked like he was strolling through a botanical garden, not a prison cell—like he had all the time in the world.

Behind him came a woman—blonde, mid-thirties, with pale eyes and a belt of tranquillizers at her hip. A datapad flickered in her hand.

Zara rose shakily, bracing herself on the wall.

Adrian gestured politely to the cot. "You should sit. You’ve been unconscious for over fourteen hours. You’ve suffered cranial trauma, moderate blood loss, and severe exhaustion."

Zara didn’t move.

Adrian sighed.

He reached into his coat and pulled out a slim bottle of water. "Drink something. Hydration is important when regulating neural damage."

She batted the bottle from his hand. It skidded across the floor.

He glanced at the medic and nodded once.

The woman tapped her datapad. A holographic screen flickered into the air between them. Footage played.

Zara’s breath caught.

Leo.

In a small white room. Walls padded with foam. He sat on a rug, barefoot, hugging a worn plush rabbit that wasn’t his. A tray of untouched food sat beside him. There were guards—two outside a glass door. Leo didn’t cry. But his little hand reached up now and then, expectant.

Waiting for someone to pick him up.

No one did.

Zara’s knees wobbled. Her fingers twitched involuntarily. Relief and horror warred inside her chest. Her baby was alive. But...

"See?" Adrian said softly. "He’s safe. Healthy. Fed. No harm’s come to him."

Zara stared, throat tight. "Why are you showing me this?"

"Because I want to give you a choice." He crouched beside her like a schoolteacher. "Help us. Help him. Leo is unique—his potential is... unprecedented. We only want to understand what makes him special."

"He’s a child," she spat. "Not a specimen."

"You say that like the two are mutually exclusive."

She almost lunged. But the cuffs pulsed with warning heat, freezing her in place.

Adrian straightened, flicked his fingers.

The screen changed.

New footage.

Zara blinked.

A hallway. A screaming woman. Dragged by guards.

Then—an operating room.

Zara’s knees hit the ground.

Dr. Mirielle.

The holographic woman who had flickered into her holding cell, calm-voiced and kind-eyed. Who had whispered escape routes and said, "I don’t work for Adrian. Not anymore." Was that why she’d disappeared? Was she dead now, too?

Her body was limp on a gurney.

Machines sliced into her skull.

No anaesthesia.

Zara’s stomach lurched. She wanted to vomit. To scream.

But no sound came.

Was any of it even real? Had Mirielle ever meant to help her? Or had it all been part of the game—Adrian’s twisted theatre of control? Feed the rat a little hope. Let her think someone’s on her side. Then gut her with it.

No. Zara clenched her fists. She had to believe it was real. Otherwise, there was nothing left.

Adrian’s voice was calm. "Dr. Mirielle refused to share the data she’d collected. She died for it. But you, Zara, you can still make a different choice."

Zara stared at the footage. Mirielle’s face. Frozen mid-scream.

Her fists trembled.

Adrian misread her silence for fear.

"I’m giving you a way out. You’ll be treated. Fed. Leo will have a future. When you’re ready to help him reach his full potential, you can see him."

Zara’s voice cracked. "You... you answer to someone else, don’t you?"

Adrian blinked.

She stood shakily. "You said you’d forward the news. ’To the top.’ So, you’re not even in charge here. Just a middleman."

Adrian’s smile slipped for half a second.

Zara’s fury flared. "He’s not a weapon—he’s a little boy!"

Adrian sighed. "This is what happens when people refuse to cooperate. Leo doesn’t have to be next."

Her teeth clenched.

"You show me that... thinking it’ll scare me?" Her voice was ragged. Broken and furious. "I’ve already died once to keep him alive. Try me again."

Adrian stared.

Then stepped back.

The medic followed without a word.

The door hissed shut.

Darkness deepened slightly.

Zara collapsed to her knees.

This time the tears came—not from fear.

From rage.

From the helplessness of a mother chained from her child.

WINTER

The cell reeked of rust and oil.

Winter sat on a crate bolted to the floor, elbows on knees, jaw locked. He hadn’t moved for hours. Or maybe just minutes. Time was hard to track in places like this.

A single flickering light bulb buzzed on the ceiling. Shadows trembled across the metal walls. Pipes creaked above like groaning ribs in an iron giant.

He flexed his shoulders.

Pain pulsed down his spine—residual from the climb, the landing, the fall. But it wasn’t the physical ache that burned.

It was the memory.

You should’ve gone first. Should’ve scouted. Should’ve taken the damn shot.

Adrian’s smug face. The rifle.

Leo.

His fists clenched.

He hadn’t seen Zara since they were dragged apart. No word on Leo.

If Adrian had hurt either of them—

Winter’s nails dug into his palm. He focused on the rhythm of breath. The feel of restraints—not cuffs like Zara’s, but magnetic binds that locked his wrists behind him, digging into bone.

Too tight. On purpose.

He tested their give.

Not yet.

The door opened.

Two people entered.

Lab coats—but not just scientists. One wore tactical boots. The other had scars on her knuckles, a military-grade slate in hand.

The woman’s smile was cold. Calculated. "Mr. Winter."

He said nothing.

The man tapped on the slate. "Service record indicates ex-Sentinel unit. Discharged under classified conditions. Yet somehow ends up playing bodyguard to a Class-Epsilon anomaly and her child."

Winter raised a brow. "You got all that from a slate? Impressive."

The woman crouched across from him. "Why does Zara trust you?"

He stared.

She continued. "She doesn’t trust many. Not with the boy. But you? You carried him. Protected him. We want to know why."

"You’re wasting time."

"No," she said coolly, "We’re collecting data."

Winter’s jaw tightened.

He wouldn’t give them anything.

Because he wasn’t walking out of here alone.

He was walking out with Zara.

And Leo.

And if Adrian was still breathing when that happened—

Well.

He wouldn’t be for long.