Chapter Four

 Miami had been completely transformed into a massive, excruciatingly hot mass grave.

The outdoor temperature remained a despairing 145 degrees Fahrenheit (approximately 63°C). Without the protection of the ozone layer, deadly solar radiation, like microwave oven rays, indiscriminately baked this city of sin.

Standing before the bulletproof glass, I looked down at the once-glittering South Beach. The high-grade asphalt had melted into a viscous black swamp; several cars attempting to escape had their tires stuck, then spontaneously combusted and exploded in the heat. Countless civilians, without water or electricity, were suffocating alive in the concrete jungle, the air thick with the nauseating smell of burning flesh.

Meanwhile, in my penthouse, the temperature remained a constant -5 degrees Celsius.

I wore a grey tactical fleece jacket, held a glass of Scotch whisky topped with three large blocks of ice, and comfortably watched the 4K holographic surveillance screen on the wall.

I had physically cut off the backup power on the ground floor of the building long ago. In the entire thirty-story building, only my unit was continuously powered by my [Thunderstorm Ability].

On the screen, Catherine, that extremely vain bitch, was still alive.

But she wasn't far from death.

No internet, no air conditioning, not even a drop of filtered water. Her proud "slow life" had become a complete joke. Under the infrared surveillance camera, her skin was covered in a terrifying red rash due to severe dehydration and high temperatures. Her once-careful hair clung to her scalp like dry straw; she looked like a walking, desiccated corpse. Her

extreme will to survive and her craving for cool air completely shattered her facade of "spiritual practice and letting go of materialism."

With no other way out, she made a decision consistent with her nature—to invite trouble.

That afternoon, a heavily armed group appeared on the surveillance footage.

It was drug lord Hector and the remnants of his "Hound Riders" gang.

This Latin American mafia boss, whose left knee I shattered with a shotgun, has clung to life until today. With their supplies of cold-weather gear and clean water completely exhausted on the lower floors, these desperate thugs' eyes gleam with cannibalistic madness.

And the woman huddled beside Hector, clinging to his cane like a bitch, is none other than Catherine!

To survive, she shamelessly used her broken body to cling to this crippled drug lord, betraying me without reservation! She revealed to these thugs my secrets: unlimited electricity, heavy-duty blast doors, and a cold storage crammed with Kobe beef and ice-cold beer!

Because the elevator was out of service, this group of about fifteen heavily armed thugs braved the stairwell's 130-degree Celsius heat, climbing floor by floor. By the time they reached the 30th floor, where I was, half of them were nearly fainting from the heat, their gangster tattoos soaked and stinking with sweat.

“Right…right here!”

Catherine’s heavy, dry breathing came through the surveillance audio. She was hiding behind several armed drug dealers, her trembling, greedy finger pointing at my heavy, solid steel hydraulic security door. A sickly, vengeful smirk curled her cracked lips.

“Sir, it’s inside…that bastard Chris has hidden hundreds of bottles of ice water, and the air conditioning is on full blast like winter! If we just blow this door open, all the supplies are yours…”

Hector, leaning on his cane, his sweat-soaked face twitching. The excruciating pain from his broken leg, combined with his instinctive craving for the extreme cold, made his eyes gleam with a bloodthirsty red light.

“Fuck! I’m going to skin that yellow bastard who shot me, pull his tendons out, and hang him on the fan to dry!” Hector roared like a beast, roughly slapping Catherine away. “Do it! Blow it up!”

I sat coldly in front of the monitor screen, downing the last sip of chilled whiskey in my glass.

These foolish insects had no idea what they were facing.

If in my past life I was the prey trapped in the scorching ruins with nowhere to go, then in this life, behind this electrified tungsten steel door, I am the master of life and death.

Outside the door, two burly gangsters immediately stepped forward. One set up an M249 squad machine gun aimed at the security door, while the other slowly pulled an RPG-7 rocket launcher, reeking of gunpowder, from a specially made canvas bag behind him!

The high-explosive armor-piercing warhead was already loaded.

Catherine, hiding at the back, poked half her head out. Although she was almost dehydrated and going into shock from the heat, her eyes shone with extreme excitement. She was fantasizing about the moment the door was blown apart, how I, the "parasite" she once trampled underfoot, would kneel on the scorching floor, begging for mercy, and handing over control of those chilled juices and the air conditioning.

"Clear backblast!"

the thug carrying the RPG roared, gripping the rocket launcher tightly to his right shoulder, his sights locked onto my tungsten steel front door.

"Bastard, go to hell!" Hector raised his hand, beginning a hysterical countdown, "Three—! Two—!"

I tossed aside my empty glass and slowly rose from the leather sofa.

"Zzz...zzzz..."

I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath of the -5 degree Celsius air. My heart, like a miniature nuclear reactor, pounded wildly inside.

When I opened my eyes again, they were completely replaced by a raging, azure electric light.

I strode to the entryway's electrical control center, connected by high-density conductors, and pressed my hands against the metal wall.

[High-voltage thunderstorm mutation]—Maximum power output!

"One!"

The instant Hector's roar fell outside the door, a chain of 30,000 volts of blue lightning, powerful enough to vaporize rock instantly, erupted between my hands like a raging swarm of snakes, following a special path straight to the door!

Death was knocking at the door at that moment.