Chapter 2

I slid the change to the edge of the counter.

The customer swept the coins into his palm, casually said, “You don’t look so good,” and walked out.

The bell chimed as the glass door swung shut. The store fell quiet except for the steady hum of the freezer. I stared at the doormat for two seconds, just to confirm the street outside was a normal afternoon—cars passing, people walking, a line still forming at the coffee shop down the block.

I looked up at the calendar on the wall, then at the date on the register screen.

One week before the apocalypse. Down to the hour.

I touched my abdomen. Clean fabric. No blood. No bandage. No pain tugging at a wound. One second I’d been waiting to die, the next I was back behind the counter, like the world had played a cruel joke.

I didn’t have time to get stuck on “why.”

In my previous life, I defended this convenience store until it felt like an island under siege.

It wasn’t looted just once. The first time was during a blackout. The second was when I went out for batteries. The third time, someone set a fire and tried to smoke me out.

I paid too high a price to keep it.

This time, I wasn’t going to treat the storefront like a castle.

The store could be robbed. It could be smashed. It could burn. In fact, it should look like an easy target. There was only one place worth defending: the underground temperature- and humidity-controlled storage room. As long as that door didn’t break, I could last one month.

Wait out the rain. Let order return.

I stood up and flipped the sign to CLOSED. Then I walked past the shelves to the plain, unremarkable door in the back.

A stairwell led down behind it, and the air turned cold immediately.

I went down step by step, my footsteps echoing in the narrow space.

The storage room door was a thick slab of metal with an old rubber seal running around its edges.

I pushed it open. The light snapped on, and the familiarity crushed every trace of disbelief.

This place had started as an old-style cold room and wine cellar. Years ago, when nearby restaurants and liquor suppliers were still thriving, this basement had been used to store perishables and bottles long-term.

Then the neighborhood changed, the property changed hands, and it became part of my store—just “the back storage.”

The walls were thick. The vents were small. A drainage channel ran along the floor. Most important, the moisture barrier still held up, and the temperature stayed far steadier than upstairs. In my last life, I didn’t understand what that meant until I’d lost too much. This time, I wouldn’t make the same mistake.

I started with an inspection.

With a flashlight, I checked the doorframe and saw several spots where the seal had hardened and cracked. In one corner, an old patch of mildew showed where moisture had seeped in before. The drain was partly clogged with debris; if water backed up, it would bring damp air with it.

I dragged out my toolbox, peeled off the old sealing strip piece by piece, replaced it with new weatherstripping, then ran sealant around the frame. I pressed the bead smooth with my fingertips, making sure there were no obvious gaps.

Next I added a simple crossbar on the inside. The bar slid into metal brackets embedded in the wall—so it could be locked from below. From the outside, even if someone picked the lock, they still wouldn’t be able to push the door in.

It wasn’t pretty, but it worked. I tested it three times and made sure the bar wouldn’t slip under force.

Humidity was a simpler problem. When I went out to buy supplies, I’d pick up a basic dehumidifier and enough tubing to drain straight into the floor channel. With the sealing done, the basement would stay far drier than the store above.

Only after that did I let myself stand still and listen to the room.

In my last life, I ate here, slept here, and counted the days here. This time would be the same—except I wasn’t going to wait until the final moment to hide.

Next came supplies.

I didn’t park a truck in front of my store and haul boxes inside all at once. I did it the normal way—restocking in batches, like a convenience store owner always does. Shelf-stable food. Bottled water. Purification tablets. Basic medicine. Flashlights and batteries. Fuel for a small camping stove. Trash bags and sealable storage bags.

I started by selecting what I already had, carrying the longest-lasting items—canned food, vacuum-sealed packs, dry goods—down into the basement.

Upstairs, I deliberately left enough on the shelves to look “fine,” keeping the store’s appearance normal, and leaving room for what might happen later.

If people wanted to search, let them search. If they wanted to steal, let them steal.

I also put together a simple plan for cooking and waste.

A compact portable stove and a few cans of fuel—enough to boil water and heat cans. For waste, I set a sealed bucket and disinfectants in the corner, making sure I could keep basic hygiene without stepping outside for a month.

Finally, I installed a few small cameras around the store, especially near the route down to the basement, so I could monitor what happened upstairs while I stayed below.

Before the apocalypse, I placed another order with my supplier.

That day the warehouse was packed—forklifts weaving through aisles, people shouting item numbers, staff complaining about shortages.

I had just confirmed my order when I heard the supplier muttering to someone nearby, “What’s with everyone this week? You’d think you’re all stocking up for winter.”

“Everyone?”

I followed his line of sight and immediately saw Claire Voss.

She wore a clean coat and held a clipboard, giving instructions with practiced confidence, like she was running a budget and a schedule.

Derek Hale stood beside her, signing papers, pushing the loaders to move faster.

The stacks were tall—case after case of boxed goods and bottled water disappearing into a truck. The scene looked less like shopping and more like moving house.

I stayed behind a concrete column and didn’t step out. Running into her served no purpose, and I didn’t want her to know I’d seen any of it.

The supplier leaned closer. “That woman’s been here every day. Buying harder than a supermarket.”

I didn’t respond. I asked the only question that mattered. “Where is she shipping it?”

He jerked his chin west. “There’s a warehouse out that way. Old logistics site. She rented a unit. No idea what she’s doing with it. We just deliver, unload, and leave.”

That hadn’t happened in my last life. She was acting like she already knew disaster was coming, racing the clock.

A thought formed, sharp and immediate: she had come back too.

But she didn’t necessarily know everything.

If she knew the acid rain would last only thirty days, she wouldn’t be stuffing an entire warehouse like this.

Her behavior meant only two things: first, she believed the apocalypse would go on for a long time; second, she believed supplies were everything.

But the lesson I’d paid for with blood was simple—supplies aren’t everything. Storage conditions are.

The acid rain wasn’t just what you saw falling from the sky. It was the moisture in the air.

That moisture ruined food. The more you hoarded, the more you lost.

And doing it this loudly only made you a beacon. She had no idea what it had cost me to keep this store in my last life. This time, she was going to learn what it felt like to be robbed.

Most important of all, the apocalypse lasted only thirty days.

When the month ended, everything she’d hoarded without proper storage would turn into trash.

The supplier kept talking. “Where do you think she gets that kind of money? Cash, transfers—fast, big amounts. It’s crazy.”

The moment he said it, her job clicked in my mind: corporate finance.

I’d been with Claire long enough to know her situation. She wasn’t a saver.

And money on that scale didn’t come from “normal savings.” The most likely options were simple: embezzlement, or loans from people you don’t borrow from unless you’re desperate.

She must have thought that once society collapsed, laws and consequences would disappear with it.

Whether it was stolen company money or loan sharks, she was pushing herself into a worse and worse position—but I didn’t say a word. And I wasn’t about to warn her.

I folded my order receipt and slipped it into my pocket. On my way out, I detoured around the loading bay.

Claire’s voice carried over the forklift noise—crisp, sharp, like she was issuing orders to Derek.

I didn’t look back.

I still remembered how they killed me.

This time, I only needed to do one thing—stay underground for a full month.