3

I sat bolt upright, walking over to the periscope-style observation window made of multi-layered, blast-proof, heat-resistant glass.

Through the thick lens, I looked at the outside world.

The once crystal-blue sky was being swallowed at a visible rate by a suffocating, blood-red hue. The sun was no longer a life-giving star; it had morphed into a massive, blindingly white incandescent bulb that looked ready to crush the horizon.

In just the few minutes since the screen went dark, moisture in the surface air was instantly vaporized.

The intense convection caused by the heat made the air around the farmhouse physically warp and distort, as if space itself was boiling.

A sparrow caught mid-flight didn't even have time to struggle before dropping like a tiny flaming fireball onto the cracking asphalt below.

The outdoor data from the temperature sensors was horrifying: 100°F… 115°F… 130°F…

Finally, the glowing red numbers spiked wildly before dead-locking at 140°F (60°C)!

The Extreme Heat Hell had arrived.

Leaning against my armored door in a stable 70°F, feeling the gentle cool breeze from the AC, a cruel smile crept onto my lips.

"Queen of the Wasteland, are you ready to enjoy your fleece-lined leather jacket and a rotting, foul-smelling raw meat banquet in 60-degree heat?"

With a sharp crack, the entire town’s power grid completely collapsed under the electromagnetic shockwave of the super solar storm.

Transformers in the distance blew up in cascades of blue electrical sparks, like the desperate fireworks of doomsday.

But that was just the prelude.

Stripped of the protection of electricity, the fragile city facing a 140°F hellscape was essentially tossed directly into a red-hot iron frying pan.

Within a few hours, the asphalt around the farmhouse began to melt, bubbling with viscous blisters. In the corner of my monitor, the outdoor thermometer practically glowed a blistering red, nailed at 140.

Highly amused, I switched the camera feed to the second-floor master bedroom.

On screen, my "Wasteland Queen" Chloe—who just days ago was broadcasting about "nuclear winters" on Twitter—was currently starring in a pitch-black reality survival comedy.

The central AC was dead, and Chloe, a firm believer in her “anti-bite guide,” was tightly wrapped head-to-toe in her heavy-duty, rivet-studded leather jacket and Kevlar liner.

Unable to evaporate, her sweat trapped her in what was essentially a single-person mobile steamer.

Her face was a swollen, purplish-red. The skin around her neck, marinated in extreme heat and sweat, had rapidly erupted in clusters of dense, horrifying blisters.

"Water... I need to drink water..."

Her voice, cracking like dry wood, came through the microphone. Trembling, she activated her spatial ability to pull out a bottle of influencer zero-sugar sparkling water.

Then, the absurdity happened—her uninsulated space had perfectly synced with the blistering outdoor temperature for days.

Not only was the plastic bottle scalding to the touch, but the violently expanding carbon dioxide inside had stretched the bottle until it looked like a bomb ready to detonate.

Delirious with thirst, she didn't care. She twisted the cap.

Bang!

High-pressure gas, hurling scalding, viscous 120°F (50°C) syrup, blasted directly into her face like pepper spray!

"Ahhh—!" Chloe screamed in agony as she clutched her face. The sugar rapidly evaporated in the heat, doing nothing to quench her thirst but instead viciously stinging her cracked throat and eyes.

Driven by primal survival instincts, she scrambled out of the room, stumbling blindly toward the large agricultural warehouse at the back of the property—which was also the heavily guarded outpost leading to my underground thermal bunker.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Weak pounding echoed inside.

Chloe collapsed like a puddle of mud outside the one-ton, insulated armored warehouse door, slapping it desperately.

Through the four-inch bulletproof glass of the observation window, she saw a scene straight out of heaven.

Inside, I was casually sunk into a leather sofa, surrounded by pouring cold air.

The inner warehouse temperature was perfectly maintained at a pleasant 70°F. I casually reached into my "Micro-Tactical Black Box," retrieved an ice cube flawlessly chilled at absolute zero, crushed it, and tossed it into a glass of Cola.

Sizzle—

The sound of carbonation fizzing over ice poured clearly through the two-way intercom into Chloe’s ears.

"Victor... Open the door!" Chloe stretched her mouth open, tearing sounds of blood in her throat. "I’m burning to death... Give me ice water!"

Holding the condensation-covered glass, I slowly walked up to the bulletproof window, gazing down at her.

I raised the glass, tilted my head back in front of her, and gulped down the freezing liquid in one breath.

Burp—

I let out a satisfying, fizzy belch, then spoke into the mic with extreme leisure. "Well, if it isn't our Queen of the Wasteland? That genuine leather riot suit looks badass. Doing some high-temperature endurance training, I see?"

"Are you crazy?! Twitter lied! It's extreme heat!" Chloe slapped desperately at the heavy metal door. "Open the door and let me get in the AC!"

I smiled, shaking my head, throwing her words from days ago back in her face. "Open the door? Can't do that, Your Majesty. Since you've awakened such a massive space and hoarded 1,000 pounds of premium Wagyu and seafood, who in the apocalypse needs my cheap sugar water?"

"You—!" Chloe's eyes were bloodshot, completely looking like a deranged ghost.

"To help you fill your space, I spent every penny of my military pension," I stated coldly. "A superior being like you shouldn't dirty yourself in my warehouse."

"Victor! You selfish, heartless animal! God will strike you down!" she screamed hoarsely. Acute heatstroke left her unable to even stand, but her venomous will to live pushed her to the brink of insanity.

"Don't think you’ve won just by hiding in this turtle shell! I have an entire supermarket’s worth of ice-cold drinks and premium meat in my space! I don't need to beg a broke loser like you!"

Pointing a shaking finger at the glass, she gnashed her teeth and swore. "I’m going to the block to find Dexter! I’ll tell the whole biker gang you have a freezing bunker here! When Dexter blows this door open with C4, I’ll personally shatter your bones!"

Leaving behind this vicious threat and barking like an impotent hyena, Chloe dragged her boiling, heavy leather suit, stumbling into the 140°F surface heat to flee toward the gang’s camp.

Watching her back through the glass, a ruthless arc formed on my lips.

Go on, my dear sister.

Go promise those heat-crazed rioters the massive ocean of 'premium iced supplies' in your space.

I literally cannot wait to see the beautiful moment you open that space in front of all of them, only to be showered head to toe in dozens of tons of boiling, rotten meat and fermenting corpse juice.