Cannibalized at the Start, I Forge a Deep-Well Fortress

That taste is a rust-colored stain on my soul that will never fade.

To this day, I can still recall the coarse sensation—like straw being forcefully torn apart—when a dull metal blade sliced through my flesh. Connor’s rough, calloused hands pressed firmly against my thigh, the grit of his palms scraping my skin like low-grade sandpaper. Drake stood by my feet, his expression as indifferent as if he were processing livestock; he didn't even give me a second glance as he repeatedly sharpened that notched dagger. That sense of being "recycled as a resource" felt far deeper and colder than the bone-chilling frost of the long polar winter.

I listened to them debate whether the meat on my back was still fresh, arguing about the non-existent compressed biscuits I had supposedly stashed away. That despair wasn't the fear of death; it was the utter nihilism of being reduced to a container, a tool, a spare part—anything but a human being.

"Kane, your heart rate has hit 140 bpm. It is recommended to perform deep breathing; otherwise, your adrenaline levels will peak in the next second."

A cold, mechanical voice sliced through my thoughts like a scalpel.

I snapped my eyes open, the scorching heat remaining on my retinas fading the moment I touched the company’s cool-toned lights. In front of me was a workstation piled with files, a faint film of skin forming over my coffee. Monday, 9:00 AM. North American Logistics Dispatch Center. Everything was exactly as it had been seven days ago.

"Chekhov?" My throat was parched; the taste of blood lingered in my memory.

"I am your logical insurance, Kane," the voice with the heavy, metallic Soviet accent echoed in my skull. "The cortisol concentration in your blood is extremely high. By cross-referencing the data, I have fully locked the closed loop of the timeline. They are back. That scum who devoured you, carrying the agony of your near-death, has also returned to this moment."

I looked up, my gaze sweeping across the rows of cubicles.

By the conference table, Drake was slamming two credit cards onto the table, his face twisted in ecstasy. Connor was waving a metal baseball bat nearby, while Ella was hunched over, writing a shopping list. They felt no remorse for their gift of a second life; they sucked greedily at the air, the hunger in their eyes even more intense than it would be seven days later.

It was the obsession of a predator toward its prey.

As Connor passed my desk, he kicked the leg of my chair with a heavy thud, as if he were booting a trash can. He lowered his voice: "Kane, you’d better pray you’ve hidden it well this time. If we go hungry again, this time, we won't just be eating meat."

I felt the dull ache where my spine had been bruised by the kick, but I didn't lower my head in submission as I had in my previous life. I slowly swiveled my chair around, staring into Connor’s bloodshot eyes. In the final moments of my previous life, this was exactly how I gazed at him as he slit my throat.

"Listen, Kane," Chekhov’s cold stream of data flowed in my mind. "You don't need to argue with these half-evolved organisms. You hold the core authority of the logistics center in your hands, and they are busy mailing themselves to the dinner table of hell via this very system."

I slowly slid my fingers into the gaps of the metal keyboard, as if it were no longer a simple input device, but the trigger controlling their fate.

"Demonstrate the upper limit of my authority," I whispered.

"As you wish."

On the screen, complex logistics routes began to pulse. Drake’s squad had just swept the inventory of the entire Central State via the company’s procurement channel—cold-weather gear, climate-controlled sleeping bags, diesel heaters, even the most expensive cold-resistant fuel packs on the market were on their list. They naively believed these supplies were their golden ticket into the极寒 (extreme cold) doomsday.

I swiped the mouse, gently clicking a button on the management backend labeled 'Inventory Pre-Allocation.'

"Chemical additives detected in this batch," I reported emotionlessly, inputting a string of complex administrative codes and changing the status of several tons of supplies to 'High-Risk Hazardous Waste.' "Force-routing this shipment to the 'Deep Sea Waste Processing Plant,' and scheduled for destruction in two hours."

"Excellent," Chekhov emitted a cold, approving electronic sound. "And what about your 'maintenance list'? The liquid nitrogen cooling units, vacuum-insulated alloys, and directional geothermal exchangers—how shall we handle those?"

"Label: 'Top Secret Internal Scientific Experiment, Destination: Arizona Base'."

"Modifying authority... Modification complete. This shipment is now protected by 'Highest Priority' scheduling orders; no automated warehouse systems may intercept them, and they will be air-lifted to your coordinates at triple speed."

The rush of power spread through my limbs like an electric current.

Drake and his crew laughed in the shopping mall, watching the automated printer outputting a shopping list dozens of meters long, thinking it was the key to their survival. Little did they know, every time they swiped their card, my deep-well fortress gained another layer of impenetrable protection.

I sat at my desk, watching them frantically transport their "cold-weather junk"—which hadn't even left the warehouse yet—to their so-called sanctuary. It was absurd; they hadn't even realized that the fracturing of the earth’s crust couldn't be repaired with down jackets.

"Kane, you look like you’re playing with an exquisitely crafted trap," Chekhov remarked.

"No," I looked out the window. The sky seemed grayer than usual—the prelude to purgatory. "I’m just packing up the 'helplessness' they intended for me and shipping it back to them, unchanged."