Teresa Taylor wasn't sure how she truly felt about James Lone. This man had brutally and shamelessly taken her body. By all rights, she should hate him and want him dead.

But James Lone hadn't harmed her further or forced her into anything afterward. Before leaving, he'd even given her a precious ability fruit. That act alone softened much of her hostility.

As for James Lone's habit of taking women—well, truthfully, Teresa had seen worse in this apocalyptic world. In every survivor settlement she had visited, any male leader who held power would always do the same.

By comparison, James Lone treated his women far better than anyone else she'd seen. In fact, he was probably the best of them all.

If she was being honest, he wasn't really a bad person—just a little indulgent. And, well... he was quite handsome...

No! What was she even thinking?

Shaking the thoughts away, Teresa forced herself to focus. James Lone was in big trouble this time.

From what she'd learned, Martin Stewart's nose ability was nothing short of terrifying. He could smell faint traces of scents left behind over ten days ago, and even detect odors from several kilometers away. Once he was on James Lone's trail, escape was nearly impossible—unless James ran far enough.

But even if James evaded him for now, the military and government would eventually reclaim control of the world. With a record of killing their people, James might evade justice for a time but not forever.

As she wrestled with her thoughts, chaos erupted outside the confinement cell.

A piercing alarm sounded, followed by panicked shouts from the guards. "The gray-clad scum are rebelling!" "Grab the guns! Grab the guns!" "Help! They've broken through!" "Ahhh! My leg's broken!" "Watch out! There's an ability user among them!" ...

Meanwhile, Erics Peterson sat calmly in his office, reviewing documents and planning the next phase of the base's development.

The recent incident where the burrowing ability user abducted Professor Hector William had forced him to adjust his strategy. If Hector were to die, the progress on cultivating ability fruits artificially would be delayed significantly.

In that case, Peterson knew he would have to rely more heavily on external expeditions to gather ability fruits and recruit ability users.

If Martin Stewart's current mission succeeded, it would prove the base's capacity for large-scale operations, allowing them to expand the scope of resource collection.

Of course, this mission would undoubtedly result in heavy casualties among the survivors. But Peterson saw those losses as a necessary sacrifice.

As long as they replenished the survivor population afterward, the base would remain unaffected.

Based on prior estimates from the New York State Academy of Sciences, New York's population was expected to drop by 90% within a month of the violet mist's appearance.

By that calculation, there were still 2-3 million survivors left in the city.

Among them, at least 10,000 would likely be ability users. The city was also bound to hold countless undiscovered ability fruits.

If Peterson could absorb these resources into his fold, he wouldn't have to fear Isaac Murphy anymore. He could even seize Murphy's forces and further bolster his power.

Squinting in thought, Erics Peterson weighed his options.

The captain of his personal guard voiced his concerns. "Director, the workers up above seem increasingly restless. With so many soldiers and ability users deployed, they might seize this chance to cause trouble."

"I'm aware," Peterson replied calmly.

The deployment of 50 ability users and 200 elite soldiers under Martin Stewart had indeed strained the base's manpower. Peterson was also concerned about the possibility of the burrowing man infiltrating the base to assassinate him.

Though he was well-protected by dozens of armed guards and a handful of ability users, Peterson knew that even the slightest injury would damage his reputation significantly.

To safeguard against these risks, he had concentrated his most trustworthy forces around himself, intentionally relaxing oversight on the gray-clad workers.

After all, if anyone with ambition dared to take this chance, it would only make identifying troublemakers easier.

"If we don't give them a little leeway, how will the rabble expose themselves? This way, we'll know exactly who the agitators are," Peterson remarked indifferently.

With most of the ability users and soldiers still loyal to him, suppressing a rebellion would be a simple matter. As for how many of the workers would die—Peterson couldn't care less.

All his earlier rhetoric was purely for Teresa Taylor's benefit. That naive woman was easy to manipulate.

In truth, Peterson had long noticed the growing resentment among the gray-clad class. Their lives had worsened dramatically—they worked harder, ate worse, and lived far below their pre-apocalypse standards.

But Peterson's solution was simple: create a lower black-clad criminal class.

These "black-clads" would have even worse food, more dangerous work, and more degrading treatment. Once the gray-clads saw there was a group below them, they would find solace in comparison, and their grievances would naturally diminish.

It was basic human nature.

If anyone dared rebel, Peterson would take the opportunity to brand them as black-clads, easing internal tensions while also gaining expendable labor for future expeditions.

Peterson also knew that some officers and ability users disapproved of his treatment of the survivors. They weren't as extreme as Teresa Taylor, but he wanted to use this rebellion to show them the consequences of defying his orders.

A perfect three-pronged strategy.

As long as he controlled the weapons of violence, everything was within his grasp.

As Peterson schemed, a panicked officer burst into the office. "Director Peterson, the gray-clad scum are rebelling upstairs!"

Peterson immediately stood, a sinister smile spreading across his face. "Just as I expected! Notify everyone—secure the critical positions and let them cause a ruckus for now. We'll deal with them later."

The people around him shuddered, knowing Peterson was about to unleash a bloodbath.

The confinement area was far from a critical position. Aside from Teresa Taylor, it held only punished gray-clad survivors.

Listening to the chaos outside, Teresa's expression darkened. "What's going on? A rebellion?"

Suddenly, a deafening explosion shook the area, followed by bursts of gunfire. The gunfire gradually faded into the distance, then stopped altogether.

This was bad... Teresa thought anxiously.

A group of rioters wielding makeshift weapons stormed into the confinement area. The few guards present fled immediately.

The rioters began breaking open cell doors, freeing the prisoners and handing out weapons to recruit new rebels.

"There's a solitary confinement room here! Got the key? No? Break it down!"

Boom! Boom!

With tools and brute force, the rioters smashed open Teresa's cell door.

Standing slowly, Teresa addressed them sternly, "I suggest you surrender. You lack sufficient weapons, ammunition, and ability users—you can't win. I understand your anger, and I can help plead your case to Director Peterson..."

But the filthy rioters weren't listening. Seeing a female officer, their eyes lit up with depraved excitement.

"Well, well! A pretty lady officer!" "Why's she locked up in here?" "Who cares! Looks like we've hit the jackpot!" "This one's mine first! You guys can have the nurses later, hahaha!"

Grinning maliciously, they shut the door and approached Teresa, weapons in hand.

Teresa frowned, taking a step back. "I advise you to calm down."

One large man lunged at her with open arms, sneering. "Come on, sweetheart. Don't resist. It'll hurt less..."

Smack!

"Courting death!" Teresa's eyes turned icy as she surged forward, delivering a lightning-fast palm strike to the man's jaw.