Andrew woke up to a gentle but firm push on his shoulder.
"Wake up, sleepyhead. We're here."
John's voice sounded muffled, as if coming from underwater. Andrew blinked, his eyes taking a while to focus in the dim light of the cabin. The plane had stopped. The emergency lights emitted a faint amber glow, and the silence was absolute. There was no usual sound of suitcases being dragged, no anxious chatter, no tired children crying. Just the low hum of the engines shutting down and the contained breathing of forty-seven people.
"Let's go," insisted John, already standing, adjusting his backpack onto his back. His glasses were slightly crooked, and he looked more alert than ever, his eyes sweeping the aisle with surgical precision.
Andrew got up, his body stiff from uncomfortable sleep. He followed John off the aircraft, descending the icy metal stairs that creaked under their weight. The air of Antarctica wasn't just cold; it was aggressive. It pierced his lungs like fine needles, clearing any trace of drowsiness.
A matte white armored bus waited on the runway, camouflaged against the landscape. Andrew got in and sat near the window. That's when he noticed. It wasn't just them. Each seat held teenagers between sixteen and nineteen years old. Technical backpacks. Exposed cables. Glances varying between scientific curiosity and primal tension. And again, the silence. There should have been chaos. There should have been shouts of "where are we?", "it's cold!", "where's my bag?" But there was nothing. Only the sound of boots hitting the rubber floor and the bus engine roaring as it moved away from the improvised landing strip.
Andrew pressed his forehead against the cold glass. Outside, the landscape was an endless expanse of white, broken only by low metal structures partially buried in the snow to withstand katabatic winds. A metal sign, fixed at the entrance of the main complex, reflected the faint light of polar twilight:
WELCOME TO McMURDO STATION — INTEGRATED POLAR RESEARCH PROGRAM
Polar research. The word sounded hollow. This didn't look like a university laboratory. It looked like a fortress. As they disembarked into the internal courtyard, covered by a transparent geodesic dome that filtered the wind but not the cold, a harsh, authoritarian female voice echoed through the speakers.
"Form lines. Alphabetical order. Absolute silence."
The crowd began to organize, but confusion was inevitable. A short girl with colorful braids tripped over her own suitcase, dropping it in Andrew's path. He tried to help, but was gently pushed aside by a gray-uniformed monitor.
"You, to the left. You, to the right. Separate the groups."
Andrew was pushed to the left line. John went to the right. They exchanged a quick glance, a silent code of *"stay calm"* before the distance between the lines increased. Andrew felt uneasy. His mind, usually as organized as his closet, began to falter in its connections. Who was that woman running the operation? Why such rigid separation?
That's when she appeared.
A tall, thin woman with graying hair tied into a painfully tight military bun. She wore an impeccable white lab coat over a dark tactical uniform. Her eyes were pale, cold, and unblinking when they should have been. She walked between the lines like a predator assessing prey, holding a digital clipboard.
She stopped in front of Andrew.
"Andrew Park?" Her voice was flat, without inflection.
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, straightening his posture.
She extended her hand. In her palm lay a pair of high-density black thermal gloves.
"Your mother sent an urgent message. She said you forgot your thermal gloves. We can't have frozen fingers here."
Andrew furrowed his brow. Confused. He *had* the gloves. In fact, he had specifically bought those gloves — with graphene lining and capacitive fingertips — for John. He himself was wearing an older common pair he had brought from home. And more importantly: in no application form, in no interview, had he mentioned his mother's name. Or the fact that she was a baker. Or that they had this specific dynamic of gift-giving.
He looked at the gloves. They were exactly the ones he had bought for John. Same model.
Same fabric.
"Thank you," he said, his voice coming out raspier than intended.
He accepted the gloves. Smiled, an automatic smile trained to please authoritative adults. The woman did not return it. She merely nodded once, her eyes fixed on his for a second longer than comfortable, and moved on to the next student. Andrew put the gloves on. The fit was perfect. Too perfect. As he closed his left hand, he felt something rigid sewn into the palm beneath the outer fabric. With his thumb, he pressed discreetly. Paper. His heart racing, he slid his hand into the glove, pretending to adjust the cuff, and pulled out the small folded piece of paper. He unfolded it minimally, hidden by the shadow of his own body. The handwriting was tiny, nearly illegible, written in haste:
"Do not trust those who know what you did not say."
The world seemed to tilt. Who knew? The woman? The mother? Someone inside the base? And exactly what had he "not said"? That he had bought the gloves for his friend? That he was afraid of failing? That he felt this flight was a mistake?
"Andrew!"
John's voice brought him back. The group had been released to enter the main building. John was there, beside him, pulling off his hoodie hood.
"Dude, you look pale. Did the cold get to you?"
Andrew slipped the note into his pants pocket, his heart pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"I'm fine. Just... thinking."
John observed him, his eyes narrow behind his lenses. He knew Andrew better than anyone. He could tell the difference between a casual "thinking" and a dangerous one.
"Everything okay, man?" John asked, his voice low. "You seem off."
Andrew was about to respond. He was going to tell John about the gloves, about the message, about the growing fear in his stomach. But a deep voice, amplified, cut through the air like thunder.
"ATTENTION."
A man entered the lobby. Tall, broad-shouldered, military uniform full of medals that gleamed under artificial light. General Julius. His name was embroidered on his chest. He didn't walk; he marched.
"Welcome to the Modified McMurdo Station. You were selected not by chance, but by potential. Here, the rules of the surface do not apply. Rule number one: Never leave designated areas without authorization. Rule number two: All equipment belongs to the Initiative. Rule number three: Curiosity didn't kill the cat here. It recruited it."
He stopped in the center of the lobby, looking at the thirty-one teenagers as if they were chess pieces.
"You're here because the world out there is ending. And we are the last hope. Follow your monitors. The tour starts now."
Andrew looked at John. John looked at Andrew. And for the first time since they had known each other, neither of them knew what to do next. The mystery hung in the air,
heavier and colder than the ice outside.