CHAPTER 4 — heaven
The building did not draw attention.
That was the intention.
From the outside, it looked like just another government facility: gray walls without large windows, a small sign filled with acronyms no one understood, ordinary guards at the entrance, and discreet cameras mounted on every corner. Pedestrians walked past it every day, unaware that beneath that dull concrete lay one of the country's best-kept secrets.
Dr. Nash arrived in an unmarked, dark vehicle.
Her demeanor was the same as always—rigid, firm, military. The civilian uniform barely concealed the stiffness of her posture. A thin but visible scar rested above her left eyebrow, a souvenir from a combat encounter no one on the base dared to ask about. Her hair was pulled tightly back, her expression severe. Everything about her announced that she was not there to waste time.
As she stepped out, she presented her identification to the guard.
She did not smile. She never did.
The guard scanned the card.
A green beep followed.
Authorization A10.
Nash passed without stopping.
She crossed the silent lobby and approached the metal door that required dual authentication. She placed her hand on the panel, then tilted her face forward for the retinal scan. A blue beam swept across her eye.
The door opened.
She entered the special elevator—a reinforced capsule of white steel. It felt like stepping into a vertical operating room. There were no buttons, only automated recognition. The moment she stepped inside, the system registered her clearance.
An internal, mechanical voice announced:
"Authorization A10 confirmed. Descending to level 50."
The capsule sealed shut.
The descent began.
It was not a normal descent.
There was no vibration.
No sound.
Only the pressure building in her ears confirmed that she was falling deeper and deeper, toward a place most of humanity would never imagine existed.
After nearly a minute, the doors opened.
And there it was.
The real city.
An entire world hidden beneath kilometers of earth.
A colossal dome, vast enough to contain fifty football stadiums joined into one. The ceiling rose to a height equivalent to thirty stories, and above it, an immense surface of panels replicated the sky.
It was artificial noon.
Light poured down softly, like a real sun. It was not a single massive lamp, but a flawless reconstruction of open daylight. The system projected slow-moving clouds drifting across the artificial sky.
Along the edges, panoramic panels displayed mountains, forests, and distant horizons, creating the illusion of being outdoors—not buried, not trapped, not enclosed.
That was the purpose: to ensure that everyone living there could survive psychologically.
Nash walked along the metal bridge connecting the elevator to the main platform. The air was remarkably clean, completely free of pollution. A massive purification system recycled every molecule to maintain ideal conditions.
Below her, the city functioned seamlessly.
Internal streets stretched across immaculate pavement. Traffic lights regulated movement. Small vehicles hovered a few centimeters above the ground, guided by magnetic rails hidden beneath the surface. They made no noise—only a faint hum when accelerating.
Above, a suspended train glided through the upper zone, held by a reinforced rail running from one end of the dome to the other. Three compact cars—sleek, fast, reminiscent of modern bullet trains—traveled smoothly through the air, hanging rather than resting on tracks.
To the west lay the mini-citadel.
A compact urban district built within the dome: grocery stores, fast-food counters, coffee stands, clothing shops, a barbershop, a pharmacy, and recreational areas furnished with metal benches. An internal plaza featured artificial trees that looked convincingly real, and children played in a small park beneath them.
Authorized civilians lived there: technicians, analysts, select engineers, and support staff.
No one from the underground city had returned to the surface in years.
Everything they needed existed below.
Housing consisted of massive cargo containers, the same type used on freight ships, converted into complete living units: a small bedroom, a minimal living area, a functional kitchenette, and a compact bathroom. They were stacked vertically, forming genuine apartment buildings. Each container had a reinforced metal door and a digital tag identifying its resident.
Beyond the citadel began the military sector.
Nash passed a patrol of soldiers trained exclusively for this project. They were not standard recruits. They had no families. No pasts. No civilian records. They were soldiers engineered to obey, to live, and to die within Project God.
Disposable soldiers.
Their armor immediately distinguished them.
It was not bulky; instead, it molded to the body like a second skin. An advanced exoskeleton enveloped arms, legs, and torso. Rigid, angular plates were fused with sections of dark, flexible mesh. Each joint emitted a faint internal glow, as if the armor itself were breathing.
Their helmets were fully sealed, sharp and geometric in design.
No visor.
No visible eyes.
Only a continuous metallic surface illuminated from within by muted colors:
Red for officers.
Blue for sergeants.
Yellow for technicians.
Green for paramedics.
White for scientific personnel.
Black for base infantry.
Chest plates further indicated rank:
Red for command.
Blue for squad leaders.
Yellow for technical operators.
Green for medical staff.
White for scientists requiring protection.
Black for standard soldiers.
Every weapon was directly linked to the exoskeleton through a retinal interface.
When a soldier aimed, the armor aimed with them.
Internal systems regulated temperature, hydration, communications, and vital signs. Central monitors—housed in a fortified control tower—tracked every movement. The armor enhanced strength, speed, and endurance, allowing soldiers to lift three times what a normal human could bear.
Near the military zone stood quadrupedal machines—tactical units resembling tanks with metallic legs. They were used for heavy transport and operations where wheels or hover systems were impractical.
Nash passed through another checkpoint.
Two soldiers with red chest plates recognized her instantly. No identification was required. Everyone knew who she was.
She was the lead scientist of Project God.
The mind behind the dimensional experiment.
The only individual with unrestricted access to the deepest level.
They respected her.
They feared her.
They knew she was not a conventional academic. She had a combat history. She had served in war zones. She had killed. Her approach was military rather than scholarly—direct, precise, stripped of unnecessary emotion.
Unlike civilian personnel, her presence commanded authority.
She did not walk.
She advanced.
She passed through a sealed door and another biometric scan.
Level 10 access.
The heart of the project.
An isolated, silent, immaculate laboratory encased in multiple layers of reinforced metal. Scientists worked inside among holographic screens, consoles, and advanced structures. Armed guards lined every corridor.
And there it stood.
The portal.
The dimensional ring.
Massive.
Imposing.
Cold.
Still inert.
A towering metal semicircle, standing vertically, connected to thousands of cables.
Still closed.
Still inactive.
Still sleeping.
Nash crossed the final threshold without ceremony—no speeches, no commentary.
She simply entered.
As she did every day.
And far above her, the world continued to turn.
Still unaware that the real danger was not outside, where people lived their ordinary lives…
but down there,
where humanity was about to open something
it should never have touched.