The sky above the Yellow Zone shimmered unnaturally, like the air itself was holding its breath. Hana adjusted her respirator, the seals hissing as she tightened them. The Geiger counter strapped to her chest chirped in steady, ominous intervals.

“This was a park,” the guide said, his voice crackling through her helmet’s comms system. “You can still see the swings if you squint.”

Hana peered through the visor at the skeletal remains of a playground, half-buried in dust. The swings swayed faintly in the poisoned wind, their chains rusted, their seats cracked.

“How long until it’s habitable again?” she asked.

The guide chuckled bitterly. “You’re optimistic. With current levels? Maybe two thousand years. Unless your company has a miracle up its sleeve.”

Her company—ArkTech Solutions—had built its name on technological interventions, claiming to fix what humanity had broken. Smart domes, hydroponic skyscrapers, and now, personal radiation shields. But no amount of innovation could erase the fact that vast swaths of the Earth were becoming unlivable.

Hana wasn’t here to fix the Zone. She was here to learn how to survive it.

Her team had been selected for the Migration Project, a last-ditch effort to train humans to adapt to the hostile environments left in the wake of climate disasters, nuclear accidents, and failed geoengineering experiments. If they succeeded, they wouldn’t need domes or shields—they would be the first wave of humanity’s new, radiation-resistant settlers.

But the program wasn’t perfect.

“Radiation levels spiking,” the guide said abruptly, his tone sharper now. “We need to move.”

The group of five trudged forward, their suits crunching against the ash-coated ground. The air smelled faintly metallic, even through the filters. Hana’s muscles ached from days of moving through the Zone’s uneven terrain, her body adjusting to the weight of the lead-lined suit.

They reached a derelict building—once a school, judging by the faded murals on the walls. Inside, the radiation was lower, though not by much. They set up camp, unpacking portable shelters lined with polymer shields.

As Hana prepared her evening rations, she caught sight of Mikhail, another trainee, staring at a photo he kept in his chest pocket. She didn’t need to ask—it was of his family, left behind in the Green Zones.

“You think they’ll ever follow us here?” he asked, noticing her gaze.

“Not in our lifetime,” she replied. “Maybe in theirs.”

Mikhail nodded, tucking the photo away. “Do you ever wonder if we’re the lucky ones or the cursed ones?”

Hana didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The steady chirping of the Geiger counter filled the silence.

That night, as she lay in her shelter, the world outside glowed faintly with radioactive decay. She thought about the generations to come, the children who might play on reconstructed swings, the people who would call this place home.

Adapt or die, the Migration Project’s slogan echoed in her mind.

Hana closed her eyes, willing herself to believe that adaptation was enough.