Antarctica has always captured the human imagination. It has earned its place in novels, legends, and stories. Beneath its glaciers, there may be undiscovered organisms — viruses so small they could signal the beginning of humanity’s end — or colossal creatures like Godzilla.

And with global warming accelerating, glaciers melting, and research stations being established by various nations, the continent has only grown more mythic. Yet no rational officer would ever want to be here — especially not in the season when blizzards multiply. Just ask Donald and his team.

What they believed would be a brief mission to this white continent had turned into an ordeal. Not only were the secrets of the giant eggs unresolved — matters had become worse.

The snowstorm outside, once a novelty and a picturesque postcard, had become something else entirely. In the howling white void, they sometimes perceived a massive pale phantom, and the wind’s roar became a warning:

“Leave this place before I drown you all.”

These men were accustomed to living in the shadow of weapons and death. A terrorist with a rifle on his shoulder and a rocket launcher at his hip could never intimidate them — neither in their minds, nor in reality.

But that was true only of threats they could see.

They could not claim fearlessness toward what they could not see — the force that infiltrated their minds, that had begun to invade their dreams. And worse: they now understood that pathogenic viruses — in some unholy alliance — were moving with a supernatural intelligence.

After the deaths of their colleagues, the nightmares, the strange sounds, and the silhouettes of dead loved ones had been unsettling — but survivable. What broke them was the disappearance of several more men, vanishing into thin air, as if evaporated.

Their fear had reached its peak.

Their only option left was to escape the facility using snowmobiles. Donald anticipated this and guarded the vehicles obsessively, allowing only his closest security personnel near them.

Yet the number of snowmobiles hadn’t decreased. So what had the missing men relied on? How did they expect to survive? In such a storm, one couldn’t travel even a kilometer.

Within hours, hypothermia would set in: first frostbite, then sluggish blood flow, then cardiac arrest. They didn’t need medical degrees to know this — their training included survival courses, or rather, courses on how long one could resist death in such conditions.

Every tyrant believes that the oppressive order he builds will function flawlessly. For a time, it does. But when things begin to unravel, triumph and bravado are replaced by anxiety, dread, and the constant perception of an unseen enemy closing in.

Donald was living that transformation.

The Donald who leaned on state power — who wielded its baton — was gone. In his place stood a paranoid man, haunted. The days of coercing scientists with threats, blackmail, and money into the white wilderness had given way to fear of the future — and a road with no predictable end.

Unlike most tyrants, Donald’s fear was not entirely irrational.
He had reason to dread being killed by an unseen, untraceable force.

In truth, every tyrant who oppresses, lies, persecutes, or murders the innocent eventually faces an enemy that cannot be defeated:

“God and His agents.”

One morning, Donald opened his eyes and found himself in the frigid waters of the white continent. His first instinct, as always, was to assume he was experiencing another vivid dream — one that felt real.

But he could not explain the violent shaking of his body. His bed wasn’t moving; nothing external was shaking him.

The tremors were coming from within.

He lifted his gaze and saw how close the shore was — close enough to swim.

But he had no strength left to try.

There were two things he was certain of. First, this was not a dream. And second, in a very short time, he would die of hypothermia.

They say that before death, a person enters a tunnel—dark, yet ending in light. But surrounded entirely by the white reflection of snow, Donald felt as though he had entered countless such tunnels already.

At the moment he told himself, I’m dead, he sensed a hand pulling him upward. His first thought was of Azrael, the angel of death he barely believed in—imagining the scythe piercing him, severing his soul.

If that were true, he should see his body sinking into the sea. And the droplets dripping from him suggested not only his spirit, but his body was being lifted as well.

He felt himself placed somewhere—gently, as though set down with care. When he looked around, he realized he was aboard a ship. With great effort, he lifted his head and saw two figures watching him: a dark-skinned man with a mustache, and beside him, a woman in a black cloak.

“You must be Donald,” someone said.

Those were the last words he heard before he lost consciousness to hypothermic shock.

He remained out for a long time—until the warmth from the ship’s cabin had seeped into his cells. When he opened his eyes, he found himself back in his room at the container facility.

When the door opened and Teresa entered, he exhaled deeply.

“Thank God—it was just a dream,” he muttered.

Teresa stepped aside, revealing the man and woman standing behind her.

“If it weren’t for your heroes, you’d already be dead. Malik doesn’t want to see you right now,” she said, motioning for him to get up.

“This isn’t a hospital. You don’t get to act pitiful. Go home and reunite with your wife.”

“Don’t tell me it wasn’t a dream—that I actually lived all of it,” he snapped, and glanced at his bodyguard with a look that demanded confirmation.

The man began:

“Sir, you personally called me to your room this morning. You ordered me to have your snowmobile ready. You insisted you had to go alone.”

“I don’t remember any of that. And how could you leave me alone in this white death?”

The man tilted his head slightly, lips pushed outward as he replied:

“You’ve requested to conduct private meetings alone many times before. Since this wasn’t the first occasion, I didn’t insist on accompanying you.”

Then, as if something clicked, he narrowed his eyes and added:

“You kept murmuring that you had to ‘reach the ship.’ I assumed you were planning a covert meeting with someone from the CIA or the Navy.”

Teresa thought, The water jug breaks on its way to the river.

Donald, who schemed behind closed doors and orchestrated secret operations for others, never imagined he would become the victim of his own methods.

A normal bodyguard would never leave his principal alone in a place like this. But the abnormality of Donald’s choices had been repaid by the abnormal negligence of his guard.

Donald pointed his index finger at Süleyman and the cloaked woman.

“I remember you. You pulled me from the water. I would’ve died shaking in that sea if it weren’t for you. But I don’t know how I got on the snowmobile, or how I ended up in the ice.”

Süleyman spoke:

“Our ship was approaching the island. We couldn’t see anything because of the thick fog, but we could hear a snowmobile engine. The sound grew louder, breaking the silence.

“When the fog cleared, we saw a snowmobile plunging straight into the water. We rushed toward you, leaned over the side of the boat, pulled you out, and took you to a cabin to recover from hypothermic shock. Then we brought you here.”

He continued, introducing himself and his companion.

Donald frowned, distrust sharpening his tone:

“How can I trust you? You say you’re Teresa’s friend — how did you know she was here? And how did you find her in all of Antarctica? What proof do I have that this isn’t an elaborate trap orchestrated by you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Teresa interjected sharply.

“We’re not you — plotting schemes and fabricating accusations. You’re no longer in charge. Now you’re someone who has to work with us. If you still don’t understand that, let your guard explain it to you.”

The bodyguard lifted his head and spoke:

“Sir, most of our men abandoned us. They said this place was cursed and fled. They seized the ship Süleyman arrived on and escaped with it. Aside from me, a few loyal men, and the lab staff, no one remains.”

Donald stared around the room like a sulking child, then said:

“You still haven’t answered my question. How did Süleyman and this sorceress beside him get here? I ask because no one knows where we are — they only know we went on a classified mission to some hidden location. And you just said the satellite phone was broken. So who could possibly rescue us?”

At that moment, the spare satellite phone flashed through his mind, but he didn’t mention it.

Teresa could not tell Donald that they had tracked him through the GPS implant in his tooth. To dodge the question, she exhaled sharply and said:

“For the last time — getting out of here isn’t the priority. We can solve that somehow. The real issue is the rapidly spreading coronavirus, and whatever those unexplained eggs were that caused it. We need to stop fighting each other and find a solution.”

Donald raised an eyebrow. “Fine, whatever. Do you have a suggestion?”

“Yes,” Teresa said. “We can speak with Professor John Nash, his assistant Kathy, and maybe one more of them. But for now, I need to talk to Nash alone.”

She explained:

“When we were watching the quarantined scientists on the screens, there was a moment — brief, barely visible — where Professor Nash appeared holding a sheet of paper. On it was written: ‘I can help you.’

But the moment he came into view, he vanished. He lifted the paper so quickly, it was like watching a student trying to cheat without getting caught by the teacher. Or, in other words…”

“What are you saying?” Donald interjected.

“It sounds like a horror film, but he looked like a captive trying not to be seen by his captor. We need to speak to him.”

The elderly scientist suited up in protective gear, crossed the wall and the trench, and approached the quarantined researchers. She explained the chaos consuming the world — the global coronavirus outbreak — and told them its origin traced back to this very place.

Then she asked:

“Do you have any suggestions? There is no vaccine yet — and even if one were discovered, the approval process would take far too long. I know you’re thinking, ‘What can we do?’ But I thought — just maybe — there might be something. Some hope. So I wanted to ask you.”

Teresa glanced sideways at John Nash and saw that he was deliberately keeping his distance. The subtle shake of his head suggested a silent warning: “Don’t come near me.”
His behavior reminded her of a captive trying to avoid the eyes of a predator. If he spoke to her openly, it would become obvious he was leaking information from inside.

Teresa almost laughed at herself, thinking, “I’m inventing absurd theories again.”
But after everything she had witnessed, every strange, irrational event, she decided her instincts should not be dismissed so easily. If the same unseen force that had thrown Donald into the water and warped the minds of his men was also exerting pressure on the quarantined scientists, then keeping her distance was the wisest choice. She quietly withdrew.

A thought crept into her mind: “How odd. Everyone seems content, as if nothing is wrong. No one has demanded release, or asked to speak with their families.”

The next day, while Teresa, Donald, and the others were in a meeting, a knock interrupted them. A man stepped inside and said, “Sorry to interrupt, but this is important.”

“I went to collect the trash from the quarantine area. John Nash was on duty today. He dropped the bag and purposely pointed out a folded paper. I disinfected it. The note was inside a transparent plastic sleeve. The date beneath the writing is today — whatever this is, it’s new.”

“There’s no need to remove the cover,” Teresa said.
With some effort, she managed to read the faint writing:

“Are you sure you collected blood and saliva samples from everyone? I don’t think you did. I believe Kathy’s sample is missing. Something is preventing her blood and saliva from being detected. I’m not entirely certain, but something connected to her is affecting all of us. We are all experiencing similar memory lapses — short intervals we can’t recall. Sometimes we think what happened was a dream, a hallucination. It feels as if, for ten minutes, or an hour, or even an entire night, one of us is shifted into another state. We all carry different viral strains with different symptoms, but this effect is identical for everyone.

Also, Professor Nielsen, who carries HIV, is deteriorating quickly. Whatever you’re going to do, do it soon. I don’t think we have much time.”

Teresa looked up at Donald and the others.

“Short-term memory loss isn’t limited to them — we’ve experienced it too. That doesn’t necessarily confirm we’re infected. Calling it a curse and ignoring it is also foolish. But what really caught my attention is the claim that Kathy never provided blood samples.”

The woman in the black cloak continued:

“It sounds as if Kathy possesses something none of the others do.”

Donald’s first thought was: “How did I end up sharing a table with this sorceress?”
But another part of his mind responded immediately:
“Don’t be ridiculous. What could possibly be ‘normal’ anymore? Without Süleyman and this woman, you would’ve frozen to death by now. Get a grip. Bury your pride and prejudice — at least for a while.”

What actually left his lips, however, was far more sober:

“We have blood samples from everyone. We don’t have the means to run full DNA testing, but at the very least, we can determine the blood group, then compare it to the records. If there’s a mismatch, we’ll know something’s off.”

“A, B, O, AB, plus the Rh factor — that makes eight blood types,” he continued.
“That leaves a 12.5% margin of error. But the remaining 87.5% is still sufficient for basic identity confirmation. You’ve all seen it — they keep avoiding us as if one of them is a murderer or secretly collaborating with some enemy. Best not to startle them.”

Teresa added quietly, “I don’t know if you noticed, but Kathy was the first to attempt breaking the egg — and the first to become infected.”

They immediately began their work — adding drops of reagent to each sample, watching for protein precipitation, determining the type, and cross-checking it against each subject’s medical record. After a while, Teresa summarized their findings:

“The sample labeled as Kathy’s isn’t hers. The blood group doesn’t match the records. The others do.”

“I know her history,” Teresa continued.
“She’s rational, calm, harmless. She understands exactly how serious this situation is. She’s not the type to refuse giving a sample out of ignorance. She wouldn’t risk her own life — or anyone else’s. That leaves only one possibility: something we can’t identify influenced her into withholding her blood. And she most likely has no idea.”

“I agree,” Süleyman said, pointing at the computer screen.
“You said everyone gave their own sample. So I checked the surveillance footage from that hour.”

On the reset footage, Kathy wasn’t inserting a needle into her arm.
Instead, she discreetly emptied blood from a small vial in her pocket into the syringe.

“Another scandal,” Teresa muttered.
“How did your people watching the cameras miss this?”

Donald replied with weary indifference, “After everything we’ve seen, how can you still be surprised?”

Süleyman leaned forward, his voice growing more focused:

“There’s something I’ve been wondering since I arrived—”

“What exactly is inside that enormous egg you keep talking about? Why is it here? Aren’t you curious? Or are you afraid of whatever might come out of it? Fine, maybe you are — but millions of people are dying out there, and this thing is the reason.”

He glanced around with a meaningful look before continuing:

“We’re at rock bottom. Our water and food will run out soon. Everyone out there is too busy surviving to care what happens to us. No one is coming. We need to act. And I think we should start by cracking open that massive egg.”

Süleyman shrugged lightly.
“Who knows — maybe it really is just an egg. We’ll fry ourselves a huge omelet and live off it for days.”

“You just reminded me of Mark,” Teresa said, tossing the quarantine gear toward him.
“Why don’t you and your sorceress friend have the first taste? While you’re working on your omelet, Donald and I will cook for the esteemed scientists in quarantine.”

“You can’t be serious,” he replied.
“You’re not actually going to the kitchen, are you?”

Teresa raised a small bottle of sedatives.
“Yes, but it will be quick.”

“Two birds with one stone,” she explained.
“We’ll lace the food with this compound, put them to sleep, obtain Kathy’s real blood sample, and — hopefully — prevent whatever is in that thing from waking them up. Think of it as my attempt to keep you and your friend alive. The rest is up to you.”

The woman in the black cloak corrected her calmly:
“Let me clarify something — I’m not a sorceress. I simply possess knowledge of metaphysics and ancient sciences. Much of it traces back to the Maya and other civilizations in South America.”

Teresa nodded, attempting to soften the tension.

“I understand better than anyone what you feel. Years ago, I was also labeled a witch just because I studied metaphysical phenomena. I used that word intentionally — not to insult you, but to reflect the mindset of those who would say it.”

She paused, then added quietly:

“You came here to help us, that much is clear. But it seems to me that you’re sensing something about all this — something you haven’t shared with us yet.”