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As darkness fell over Pine Ridge Valley, a bloodied woman in torn hiking gear collapsed on Daniel Reeves' doorstep begging for help. By morning, his struggling homestead would be transformed into the epicenter of a corporate revolution, with helicopters circling overhead and villagers gathering in disbelief—all because one farmer chose compassion over suspicion on a stormy night. The last light of day faded behind the jagged mountain peaks, painting the weathered barn in shades of burnt amber. Daniel Reeves stood at the edge of his property, calloused hands wrapped around a steaming mug of herbal tea, watching the gathering storm clouds with a practiced eye. Mountain weather was fickle this time of year—gentle one moment, merciless the next. He could smell the coming rain, feel the electricity in the air that promised thunder. "Another dry season ending too late," he muttered to himself, taking a long sip from his chipped ceramic mug. The tea was bitter—wild herbs gathered from the mountainside, a poor substitute for the store-bought kind he could no longer afford. Like everything else in Pine Ridge Valley, luxuries had become distant memories. Behind him, the two-story farmhouse that had sheltered four generations of Reeves farmers stood resolute against the darkening sky. Its cedar siding, once rich and golden, had faded to a weathered gray that matched the mood of the valley. Solar panels—installed in more optimistic times—clung to the southern roof slope, their capacity diminished by years of harsh mountain winters and no money for maintenance. The distant rumble of thunder prompted Daniel to turn back toward the house. At forty-two, his tall frame carried the toughness of a man who'd spent his life working the land, but recent years had etched new lines around his eyes and threaded silver through his dark brown hair. The mounting challenges facing Pine Ridge Valley weighed on him more heavily than any physical labor ever could.