Scorching Doomsday: My Roommate’s Slow Life Show

The air in Miami now felt like a mushy sponge soaked in boiling engine oil, suffocating everyone in this sinful city.

It was late July, 2 PM. The outdoor temperature had already brazenly surpassed 120 degrees Fahrenheit (approximately 49°C).

Looking down through the dusty windows at the end of the stairwell, the once bustling streets of South Beach were now deathly silent, like a graveyard. Twisted, translucent waves of heat rose from the pavement, the black asphalt already showing signs of melting. Anyone who dared to step barefoot on it would instantly hear a sizzling sound like roasting meat. Only forty-eight hours

remained until the absolute apocalypse when the "Earth's core solar flare" completely burned away the global ozone layer, turning the world into a high-pressure microwave oven.

And I, Chris, had just awakened from that hellish experience where my organs were roasted alive by the extreme heat of 160 degrees Celsius, and my blood boiled and evaporated in my eyes.

The burning pain in my lungs seemed to linger in my nerve endings. I took a deep breath of the stale air in the hallway, a cold smile curving my chapped lips. I had truly been reborn—with all the memories of my tragic death in my previous life, back to two days before the apocalypse.

I turned and shoved open the rusty iron door of my rented apartment.

"Boom—"

The moment the door opened, a gust of mechanical wind, set to 16 degrees Celsius (about 60 degrees Fahrenheit), slammed into my face like a Siberian icicle. The huge temperature difference made me shiver, but I was quickly enraged by the absurd sight before me.

In the center of the living room, three high-powered ring lights were all on, blindingly bright.

My nominal roommate, Catherine, was lounging on an expensive Hermès yoga mat in an extremely seductive pose, wearing a Victoria's Secret lace tank top that was almost transparent.

Two brand-new iPhones were pointed directly at her, and the comments section below was flooded with vulgar messages from idiots who only thought with their lower bodies.

"Bros (brothers), stop getting bogged down in this concrete jungle. Listen to the Caribbean waves in my background, Vibe, slow down..." Catherine pouted her surgically enhanced lips at the camera, her tone laced with affected languor, "We should feel the energy of the universe, embrace pure, natural meditation. Remember, living is about pleasing yourself, don't fight, that will only corrupt your soul..."

This utterly disgusting leftist rhetoric licked my eardrums like a viper's tongue.

In my past life, this "spiritual influencer" who flaunted her charm on TikTok had locked me down with this disgusting "slow-life logic." When the extreme heat of the apocalypse destroyed the power grid, she stole the several cases of bottled water I had risked my life to hoard. Every day, she would spray an entire bottle of Evian mineral water on herself to "keep her skin moisturized," calling it "experiencing pristine asceticism" and "reconciling with nature."

I spent my days boxing in the underground black market, dodging thugs and robbing supplies, risking everything for this house. And what about her? Behind my back, she offered up our remaining survival rations and the coordinates of our safe house as a pledge of allegiance to her top patron—the Latino drug lord, Hector!

In the end, while I was out searching for coolant, I was intercepted by Hector's armed pickup truck, my powers exhausted, and I was ultimately roasted alive in the 160-degree heat on a cracked, dry riverbed. Even in death, I could hear Catherine pouting at Hector on the radio: "Oh, please, hurry up and deal with that rude bug, he always disturbs my meditation."

Memories flashed through my mind, and the temperature in my eyes was colder than this damn 16-degree air-conditioned room.

“Chris? What are you standing there like a ghost for?”

Catherine noticed me, casually turning off the microphone, pinching her nose with disgust, and fanning herself dramatically. “Jesus, you’re such a barbarian who doesn’t know how to enjoy life. How many times have I told you? Don’t bring that bloody, squalid smell you picked up in the SEALs back home. It’ll seriously damage my carefully crafted Aura!”

I completely ignored this parasite still daydreaming. I strode over the yoga straps on the floor and headed straight for the Safe tactical safe hidden behind the bookshelf in the corner of the bedroom.

The countdown was closing in. I had to get the “Titan Meteorite Tag” that the old man had left on the battlefield in Afghanistan immediately! It was the only key that allowed me to successfully awaken the [High-Voltage Thunderstorm Mutation], transform into a humanoid nuclear generator, and control unlimited electricity during the apocalyptic flare. In this second life, I would use it to build an absolute, frigid empire.

However, as I crouched down, my pupils suddenly contracted.

The heavy alloy safe door was ajar. The edge of the keypad bore the marks of a nail file, indicating it had been violently pried open.

I yanked open the cabinet door—it was empty. The dog tag, which had been in the black velvet box, was gone.

The air around us seemed to have been sucked out. A violent killing intent emanated from every pore of my body, awakening muscle memory honed from years of assassinations in Afghanistan.

“Where’s my dog tag?” I slowly stood up, turned, and stared intently at Catherine.

“What are you yelling about?” Catherine was startled by my gaze, but quickly regained her haughty, aristocratic demeanor. She casually admired her newly done French manicure, rolling her eyes dramatically.

“Oh, you mean those scraps of metal covered in the musty smell of dead bodies? I really don’t know why you treasure them like that.” She curled her lip, saying nonchalantly, “Hector came to me yesterday and said he really liked those vintage, war-scarred junk pieces. I just gave them to him as a gift to start our connection.”

She even shrugged innocently: “Chris, you need to let go of your obsession with material things and reconcile with the energy around you…”

“Bang!”

Before she could finish reciting that damned set of toxic leftist rhetoric, the hardwood floor beneath my feet cracked with a sharp crack. Like a bloodthirsty black panther on its hunt, I instantly sprinted within two meters!

“Ah—!”

Catherine only had time to let out a short scream. My right hand was already gripping her slender, white neck like a hydraulic clamp. Using the terrifying momentum of my forward charge, I lifted her off the floor with one hand and slammed her heavily against the load-bearing wall behind me!

The paintings on the wall shattered and fell to the ground.

“Cough cough… Let go! Let go! Are you crazy, Chris?!”

Catherine’s delicate and charming face instantly turned purplish-red, her eyes bulging outwards from extreme oxygen deprivation. She desperately clawed at my thick forearm with both hands, her two legs, clad only in lace panties, kicking wildly in mid-air like a dying frog.

“Relax, slow down,” I said to her in a chillingly calm tone. “Didn’t you like feeling the suffocating energy of the universe? Now feel it properly.”

“I…I’m going to call the police…call the police to arrest you, you lunatic…the court will revoke your gun license…” she managed to squeeze out broken gasps from her throat.

“Call the police?”

A mocking smile curled at the corner of my mouth as my left hand reached for the tactical quick-draw holster on my hip.

With a crisp, pleasant metallic scraping sound, a dark Glock 19 pistol was drawn. My thumb flicked the safety, and I roughly grabbed her chin, shoving the cold, gunpowder-smelling barrel into her mouth—the same mouth that had just been preaching—amidst her screams!

"Click!" The gun barrel shattered one of her front teeth, pressing against her upper palate.

Catherine's pupils dilated instantly, a terrified expression of seeing death in person. Tears, mixed with saliva, streamed from her expensively made-up eyes, dripping down the barrel of the gun.

"Drip."

A warm, foul-smelling yellow liquid trickled down her thighs, landing on the five-thousand-dollar Persian rug. She had lost control of her bladder.

"Listen up, you bitch." I tilted my head slightly, the gun barrel swirling in her mouth. "I'll give you five seconds. Hector, where is he?"

"Ugh... ugh..." She nodded frantically.

I yanked the pistol out and released her right hand. Catherine collapsed to the floor like a rotting, decaying mass. She clutched her throat, coughing and vomiting violently, her trembling fingers scratching at the rug.

“In…in the edge of Little Havana…an abandoned auto repair shop…Hector and his brothers are there…” She coughed as she rattled off the drug lord’s hideout.

“Good.”

I tucked my Glock 19 back into my belt, not even glancing at the pile of junk on the floor again.

I kicked aside the auxiliary light blocking my way and headed straight for the heavy weapons cabinet in the corner. I opened the cabinet door and took out the battle-scarred Remington 870 pump-action tactical shotgun.

Pulling back the forend, I viciously loaded the red 12-gauge buckshot, one round after another, with a rhythmic metallic clang, into the magazine.

The end was near, and death refused to grant me a pass.

Carrying this damn heavy weapon, I kicked open the apartment door without hesitation, braving the deadly 120-degree heat, and strode into the streets of Miami, soon to become inferno.

That dog tag was mine. Hector’s life was mine too.

A bloody battle to retake the city has begun.