Three Days to Leviathan

Chloe

The moment I opened my eyes, I thought I was still trapped at the bottom of an ice cave.

The suffocating sensation of cold water flooding my lungs lingered. I jolted upright, cold sweat soaking my silk nightgown, my fingers trembling so badly I could barely grip the covers. It took me several seconds to register my surroundings. No rushing water, no shouts, no hand that had shoved me down into the depths.

Outside the window stretched the skyline of Illysum City, intact and unharmed. Morning sunlight slammed against the glass curtain walls, blindingly bright.

Didn't I die?

I pinched my forearm, nails sinking into flesh. The pain churned my stomach.

Just then ,my phone lit up on the nightstand. I picked it up to check the time: 9:32 a.m., September 14, 2030.

I’d gone back three years！

Weariness crashed over me. Hurricanes, torrential rains, floods, extreme heat and cold, earthquakes… every trial was pure purgatory. Was anything worth living through that hell again? But now that I was here, would I just lie down and die like I had in my past life? No. Never.

The lock screen was flooded with more than a dozen red emergency alerts, all about Super Hurricane Leviathan — projected to make landfall on the East Coast in the early hours of September 17. It was a Category 6 storm, the highest tier on the Saffir-Simpson scale, bringing persistent torrential rain and storm surges.

Seventy-two hours left.

I practically crawled to the bathroom, splashing cold water over my face again and again until my skin went numb. The girl in the mirror was young and polished, not a single scar along her collarbone. None of the marks those three years had carved into me remained.

Only the pocket watch was still here. Its brass casing was dented and pockmarked, as if struck by meteorites. There were no hands on the dial, only a ring of dark blue markings. I'd been left on the steps of St. Mary's Hospital three days after I was born, with nothing but this watch.

In my past life, Derek offered to get it examined, only to give it away to Isabella instead. Isabella relied on this watch to stay safe and comfortable throughout those three terrible years. Last life, I watched her pull a bottle of chilled champagne straight out of it. I once heard her say: the watch only recognizes her blood; no one can take it away.

Thinking of that, I bit the tip of my finger and pressed a bead of blood onto the dial.

Blue-white light burst forth, and my consciousness was violently wrenched into darkness.

When I opened my eyes again, I stood inside an unfamiliar space. Roughly one hundred and fifty square meters, it resembled a Cold War-era underground bunker, with concrete walls reinforced by steel support beams. Cool white LED strips lined the ceiling, casting even light across the room. There were no windows, no exterior doors. The floor was smooth epoxy resin. Metal shelving ran along the walls, each compartment empty and waiting to be stocked with supplies. On the other side, transparent partition walls enclosed a hydroponic tank frame — lights, water pumps, nutrient tanks were all fully installed, yet still vacant. Hanging on the far wall was a string of glowing blue numbers: 01:58:22, ticking steadily downward.

Later, I stepped out of the space. It did not vanish. It remained in my mind; I could see everything inside simply by concentrating. Strangely, the countdown froze. I tested it with a hot cup of coffee. When I stored or retrieved items with my mind, the number stayed still. The moment I stepped physically inside, it began plummeting fast. I hurried back out, and the timer halted at 01:55:08.

That meant I could not stay inside for more than two hours. I also discovered time did not pass within this space. A hot cup of coffee would stay hot no matter how long I left it there.

I dared not test what would happen if the countdown hit zero.

9:52 a.m. I opened my laptop.

I died too early in my previous life. I watched the digital savings I'd built over more than a decade turn into meaningless numbers the moment the internet went down. Not this time. I exercised all my stock options, redeemed money market funds, even maxed out every credit card I owned. The numbers on the screen jumped for more than ten minutes before settling: seven hundred and seventy thousand. All of my assets.

Then I wrote a seven-page checklist in Excel, sorted by priority. Tier One: water purification equipment, antibiotics, high-calorie food. Tier Two: firearms and ammunition, ballistic gear, fuel. Tier Three: seeds, hand tools, hard currency — vodka, lighters, water purification tablets.

My gaze lingered on the medicine section. Half the people who died in my past life perished not from the disaster itself, but from poorly treated wounds or fevers they could not bring down.

I kept expanding the list: amoxicillin, cephalosporins, epinephrine, insulin, tetanus vaccine, iodine solution, bandages, hemostatic powder, painkillers, fever reducers, antibiotic ointment, rubbing alcohol. Two full pages of dense writing. Even I fell silent after reading through it.

Most of these were prescription drugs; there was no way for me to get that much legally. So I dialed a number I hadn't called in ages.

Tyler Grant. A pharmaceutical sales representative, an old friend from my foster home days. One of the only people who reached out to help me in the first few days of the catastrophe last life.

The phone rang a few times before he picked up. "Chloe?"

"Tyler, I've got a large order. A client needs a batch of medications. I'll send you the list by photo, and I need delivery tonight."

There was a pause on the other end, his voice dropping to a whisper. "…Amoxicillin, epinephrine, vaccines, insulin? Are you joking?"

"The money's already transferred. One hundred and twenty thousand. Refund for any surplus. The client has one requirement — the goods must be here tonight."

I hung up and sent the transfer screenshot. The order was filed under a new customer's name, not mine. That protected him, and protected me too.

Once finished, I closed my laptop, changed into black athletic wear by the entryway, tucked the pocket watch close against my body, grabbed my car keys and the freshly printed checklist.

Before heading out, I took one last look at the view through the floor-to-ceiling window. Illysum City glowed brightly. Social media was full of jokes, people saying the name "Leviathan" was overblown, that it would be a nice break from work, a chance to throw hurricane parties.

No one knew that in three days, the lower levels of this city would be swallowed by more than ten meters of murky floodwater. The smart homes, same-day delivery services, and balances in their phone apps would turn into scrap overnight.

I pulled open the door and did not look back.

Seventy-two hours. Starting now.