Chapter2

The mouse wheel spun rapidly, the map's scale zooming in until the cursor locked dead onto its target: Warehouse 9 at the Old Docks of San Lodo.

Ivy.

The name churned in my mind. Right now, on the surface, she was just a dispatcher managing port logistics. But in the shadows, she held the old city's most secretive black-market network in an iron grip. However, after the endless deep freeze and the mutations, she would rise as the underground titan of this ruined city, monopolizing firearms and antibiotics.

I needed her connections. More importantly, I needed the heavy firepower she kept hidden from the light of day.

The second I shut down the computer, I snatched my car keys off the desk and bolted from the apartment. I had less than seventy-two hours left. Every ticking second was a countdown to hell.

My engine roared through the streets. First stop: the bank. The penalty for liquidating all my wealth-management products, mutual funds, and fixed deposits was absurdly high. The teller repeatedly questioned my mental state. I didn't waste my breath; I just ordered her to type faster.

Armed with two maxed-out debit cards, I dove straight into the West District wholesale market.

"Boss, these MREs—I’ll clear out whatever you have in the warehouse. Yeah, including the ones about to expire."

"Polar thermal suits, rated for minus sixty degrees. I don't care about the sizes, pack them all."

"High-calorie canned meat, antibiotics, water purification tablets, portable generators..."

Cash flowed out like water, buying me a rented box truck packed so tight the shock absorbers were practically scraping the asphalt.

By dusk, I kicked the final box of compressed biscuits into my rented underground mini-storage. The ten-square-meter space was crammed to the ceiling with survival supplies, the cardboard radiating a harsh, industrial scent. This was my primal capital for surviving the early stages of the apocalypse.

I pulled down the rolling shutter and snapped the lock. In my pocket, my phone suddenly vibrated in rapid succession.

Max’s voice message popped up, backed by deafening club music: "Ian! You won't believe how wicked this system is! I just won an arm-wrestling match at the bar and cracked the bartender's counter! Chloe says we're popping champagne to celebrate, get your ass over here and pay the tab!"

Staring at the text, I didn't type a single word in reply. My fingertip tapped the screen: long-press, delete. I routinely wiped my entire contacts list, erasing every face from the past. Then, I popped out the SIM card, snapped it in half, and tossed it down a storm drain.

My ties to the old world ended here.

Slipping in an unregistered prepaid card, I sat down in a cheap corner café and ordered the strongest black coffee they had. Now, I had the supplies. All I lacked was a ticket into Ivy’s inner circle of power.

Relying on memories from my past life to talk business empty-handed with a paranoid black-market boss would definitely end with me in a concrete barrel at the bottom of the ocean. I needed leverage. I needed evidence that would instantly obliterate her psychological defenses.

I flipped open my waterproof notebook, the pen tip flying across the paper as I jotted down three pieces of intel:

[21:15 - East District Oil Tank No. 6 catches fire.]

[21:20 - Massive sudden blackout at Downtown Police Precinct.]

[21:30 - Official Weather Bureau falsifies deep freeze warning, broadcasting the "cliff-drop plunge" as a "standard cold front."]

This wasn't some mystical prophecy. It was the most absurd chain of events from the eve of the apocalypse in my previous life. The oil tank fire was someone trying to cook the books on smuggled fuel; the police blackout was a cascading failure triggered by overloaded internal wiring; and the falsified weather warning was to keep the public docile while the port elites evacuated.

These three events seemed isolated, but tonight, they interlocked like gears. As long as they played out perfectly in front of Ivy, I would no longer be a raving stranger. I would be a prophet who could see the future.

I ripped the page out and shoved it into a kraft paper envelope, right alongside my self-compiled apocalypse dossier. I checked my watch: 8:40 PM.

Pushing open the café doors, the night wind already carried an imperceptible, bone-piercing chill.

I hailed a cab and gave the address of the Old Docks. The driver eyed me through the rearview mirror, then stepped on the gas. Outside the window, neon lights flickered. Young people stood by the curb, raising beer glasses and laughing loudly, utterly oblivious that in three days, this place would become a giant ice coffin.

"Buddy, you gotta get out at the next intersection." The cab pulled over two streets away from the docks. The driver stared warily at the dimly lit container yard ahead. "That's private turf. Outsider cars can't go in."

I paid and stepped out. The sea breeze slammed into my face, reeking of motor oil, rust, and salt.

Popping the collar of my trench coat, I strode through the puddles, heading straight for the glaring searchlights at the main gates of Warehouse 9.

The moment I neared the perimeter, two tactical flashlight beams hit my face, blinding me instantly. Right on cue came the crisp, metallic clack of assault rifles racking rounds into the chamber.

"Take one more step, and say goodbye to your kneecaps." A gravelly warning rasped from the shadows. Two guards in tactical vests blocked my path, their barrels aimed steadily at my lower body.

I didn't raise my hands, nor did I step back. Facing the blinding light head-on, I simply raised the kraft envelope to my chest.

"I'm looking for Ivy," I said, staring at the silhouettes behind the glare. My pace was steady, every word razor-sharp. "Tell her that in ten minutes, East District Oil Tank No. 6 is going to explode. If she doesn't want her smuggled shipment caught in the crossfire and seized, she's going to let me in. Right now."