chapter3

The hum of the backup heating system still echoed in the cabin when a new alarm shrieked to life. Red lights flashing on the control panel showed the oxygen concentration was dropping rapidly. My lungs suddenly felt constricted, as if an invisible hand had seized my windpipe.

"Derek," I said, bracing myself against the control panel to stay upright, my voice hoarse from oxygen deprivation. "The oxygen system... has been cut off."

Chloe's feigned surprise came through immediately: "Oh my God, how did the backup oxygen system malfunction too? Nora, maybe you should just admit you were wrong? Then Derek can help you."

I felt my temples throbbing, and the edges of my vision began to darken. I knew this was Chloe's deliberate doing. Right now she was probably sitting at the control panel with that false expression of concern, personally cutting off my lifeline.

The comments on the livestream screen began scrolling frantically:

[Her breathing is getting labored!] [Her vital signs are deteriorating!] [I'm betting she won't survive the oxygen deprivation!]

Derek's icy voice came through: "Admit your mistake, Nora. Acknowledge Chloe's design talent, and I'll restore the oxygen."

I remembered three months ago at the board meeting, when Chloe was presenting my plagiarized design, Derek had said: "Borrowing is a necessary path to innovation. Nora, you're too stubborn."

"This isn't borrowing," I had said then, pointing at the identical structural diagrams. "This is plagiarism."

Chloe had hidden behind him, saying timidly, "I just wanted to learn from Nora's design approach..."

Now, each breath was becoming difficult. I had to consciously take deep breaths to get enough oxygen.

I struggled to open the maintenance panel, trying once again to manually restart the backup system. But my fingers were unresponsive from the oxygen deprivation, and even pressing a button required all my willpower.

"Looks like our chief engineer is in trouble," Derek's voice carried satisfaction. "Is admitting defeat really so hard?"

In the livestream, my vital signs data continued to worsen. The audience's betting amounts kept climbing, with the vast majority wagering I would give in. I felt dizzy and had to grip the edge of the control panel to maintain my balance.

I remembered last month's press conference. Chloe had taken my plagiarized proposal and eloquently presented it on stage. When I tried to point out the technical issues, Derek directly cut off my microphone.

"Don't disrupt the press conference," he whispered in my ear. "Remember who the decision-maker is."

"Oxygen concentration has dropped to dangerous levels." The system issued a warning.

My chest felt tight, each breath like having a boulder pressing on my ribcage. My thinking was becoming sluggish, and even simple operational steps required repeated consideration.

What was shocking was that Derek actually issued an even crueler command: "Continue lowering the oxygen concentration."

My vision began showing mottled spots of light, and a buzzing sound filled my ears. I knew these were signs of severe oxygen deprivation—I had to take action quickly.

But my body was growing heavier and heavier, even lifting my arms becoming difficult.

Just then, a prominent betting notification suddenly popped up on the livestream: [Anonymous user L.W. bets fifty million that Nora Winters will survive]