The three of them pushed the loaded carts back into the residential complex. Cyrus' neighbors spotted them along the way and began whispering. Cyrus did not care. Now that those two women had witnessed his shopping spree, secrecy was impossible.

If survival had been his only goal, he could have sold everything, vanished into the wilderness, and built an impregnable fortress. But what about revenge? What about the neighbors who had literally torn him apart in his past life?

Until he killed them all, the knot in his chest would never loosen.

One survival plan required staying in this very community, repaying every betrayal with a cruelty of his own design. That plan relied on the security company constructing a truly unbreakable safehouse. Failing that, Plan B awaited: an underground shelter far from civilization.

He scanned the smiling neighbors. To them, his overflowing carts were a curiosity, fodder for gossip. However, Cyrus already knew the truth—when the world collapsed, these same people would try to smash down his door and strip his home bare.

He was not afraid. Not this time. He would ensure they saw the food, smelled it, hungered for it, and still could not touch a single bite. That would be his revenge.

He and Diana lived in the same apartment block. As a supervisor at the Volmart warehouse, his neighbors often asked him to buy discounted stock. Everyone knew him.

Seeing them haul three carts of food, a grandmother out with her grandson waddled over.

"Oh, Cyrus, why so much? Did the warehouse mark this down?" Her eyes gleamed at the sight of fresh beef and lamb. "You'll never eat it all. Why not share some with the neighbors?"

It was Linda Matthews, a busybody on the Neighborhood Committee who loved throwing her weight around. She always schemed for freebies. In Cyrus' past life, she had guilt-tripped him into handing over food. When the mob stormed his apartment, she had been fiercer than the young men.

Diana and Natalie stepped back. "It's all Cyrus'. We were just helping him carry it."

Linda turned her smile on him. "Come now, Cyrus. These must be from the warehouse. Why not let me have a little?"

Even as she spoke, her brat of a grandson, Timmy Benson, climbed onto the cart and grabbed a box of imported chocolates worth over 40 dollars.

Cyrus snatched it back without hesitation and said coldly, "Sorry. These are mine."

The apocalypse was only a month away. He had no time for politeness with scavengers.

Linda's face darkened. "You!"

Her fury at the disrespect was palpable. Her spoiled grandson wailed louder, pointing a chubby finger. "You're a bad man! Give me the chocolate, or I'll beat you to death!"

Cyrus fixed him with a glare sharp enough to draw blood. "Say another word, and I'll slap your mouth."

The boy froze, then exploded into sobs, rolled on the ground, and threw a tantrum.

Linda rushed to soothe him, leering at Cyrus. "How could you pick on a child? It's just a box of chocolates! Give it to him. I'll pay you back later. Do you think I'm trying to take advantage of you?"

Cyrus sneered. Everyone paid with mobile apps now. If she had meant to pay, she could have done it instantly.

"I said it's mine. If you want chocolate, go buy it yourself." He barked a cold laugh and walked away with Diana and Natalie.

Behind them, Linda's shrill curses rattled the courtyard, but Cyrus ignored them.

Linda's son and daughter-in-law worked far from home, leaving her alone to care for Timmy. She normally bought only a day's worth of food, never more, which meant their house always ran out of supplies first when disaster struck.

In his last life, he had helped her. This time, he would not. Without stockpiles, Linda and Timmy would be lucky to survive ten days once Frostfall began. He had no interest in arguing with walking corpses.

Once the carts reached his apartment, Cyrus dismissed the women.

"Don't forget you owe us dinner!" Diana teased, batting her eyes.

The sight made his stomach turn. He muttered a vague response, too disgusted to care.

The women lingered, hoping to catch a hint of hidden wealth. When they realized he had no interest in entertaining them, they left reluctantly.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Cyrus summoned his pocket dimension and sent all the supplies into the white void. He wanted to see if they would change overnight.

By the time he finished, it was late. Instead of sleeping, he pulled out pen and paper and began drafting a one-month survival plan. Lazy as he had been in the past, the will to survive could unlock hidden potential.

He wrote: [To live luxuriously in the apocalypse, food comes first.]

He could easily acquire ordinary groceries. The real stockpiling would come from the warehouse, but only cautiously, only at the right moment. A few days in jail for theft would mean certain death.

He wrote the word "Food."

"Next is heat and warmth. Once the power grid fails, air conditioners are useless. A fireplace is the best option," he muttered.

He thought of Eldora's brutal winters. Fireplaces had kept people alive for centuries.

"If that's the case, I need to renovate the house—better insulation, proper heat-proofing." The thought stirred the memory of burglars breaking in during his last life, and his chest tightened at the recollection.

"This time, I'll turn my place into a steel fortress. Step one: reinforce every wall with heavy steel plates or alloy so it can withstand a blast."

In the apocalypse, people would kill for scraps. There was no room for mistakes. He had already died once and would not go through that again.

Securing a safehouse was simpler. Volaris had security firms catering to the rich, offering custom-built, fortified panic rooms. He recalled reading about a billionaire who had built a bunker capable of surviving small nuclear strikes.

"Next is medicine. I cannot afford to get sick. There's no treatment if I do. Volmart's warehouses stock basic drugs for cold, fever, and minor illnesses. But that's not enough. This ice storm will last decades at least. I need to be fully prepared."

Fortunately, he had contacts in hospital logistics. Money could buy any medicine he required.

He tapped the pen on the notebook, eyes sharp. "Last problem… Weapons."

Once civilization collapsed, violence would dominate. To survive, he needed firepower. He was no martial artist, and even masters fell to blades and bullets.

"Machetes, crowbars, and axes are easy to obtain. I also have sources for crossbows, air rifles, and compound bows. As for guns, foreign imports are best. That means the black market."

He rubbed his chin. Traveling abroad was unrealistic, but he still had a month. With enough cash, a way would turn up.

For three hours, he mapped out every detail. Only then did he take a long, hot shower before collapsing onto his bed.

…

The next morning, Cyrus woke groggy, still shaken by nightmares. Yet the warmth of his bed was real, and he drew a long, steady breath. Memories of the apocalypse had scarred him, but he refused to relive them. This time, he would be ready.

After breakfast, he checked his pocket dimension. To his delight, the meat, fruit, and vegetables he had left there overnight remained unchanged. Meat was hard to judge in just a day, but fruit and vegetables usually spoiled quickly. Inside the pocket dimension, they looked as fresh as if he had bought them yesterday.

"My pocket dimension exists outside this world. Maybe time works differently there. It could move slower or even stand still. Incredible. This means I can store anything I want without a single worry," he murmured.

The only exceptions were the fish. All of them were dead. Even in death, they looked lifelike, without a hint of decay.

Rubbing his chin, Cyrus realized he had just discovered another rule of the pocket dimension. "So living things can't survive here. That rules out hiding in it myself."

It was not a big loss. His apartment was far more comfortable. As long as supplies stayed fresh, he was more than satisfied.

An idea struck him. If meat and vegetables did not expire, what about prepared meals?

Cyrus could cook, but he was no chef. Eventually, he would tire of his own food. Why not stockpile ready-made gourmet dishes?

He picked up his phone and dialed the Grand Heritage Hotel, the most luxurious five-star hotel in Volaris. They offered delivery, and their food was excellent.

"Hello, this is the Grand Heritage Hotel. How can we help you?"

"Hello. I'm hosting guests at home," Cyrus said without hesitation. "I need enough food to cover 500 tables for the banquet."

Silence followed. Even for them, 500 tables of food was an extraordinary demand. At 800 dollars per table, the total exceeded 400,000 dollars.

The receptionist stammered, "P-Please hold. I need to get the manager."

Moments later, another voice came on the line. "Good afternoon, sir. I'm Dylan Thompson, the hotel manager. May I have your name?"

"My name is Cyrus Knovell," he said evenly. "I want to order food for 500 tables. Is that a problem?"

Dylan's heart skipped. In all the years the hotel had been open, no one had ever placed an order this outrageous.

Nonetheless, business was business. A 400,000-dollar deal could not be refused so easily.

"Mr. Knovell, 500 tables will cost over 400,000 dollars," Dylan said carefully. "If you confirm, we can begin at once, but we'll need an 80,000-dollar deposit upfront."

"No problem," Cyrus replied. "Send me the account, and I'll transfer it."

Money opened doors. The manager added him as a contact, sent the bank details, and within minutes Cyrus had wired the deposit.

Once the financial department confirmed the funds, Dylan went into full battle mode. "Hurry! We've landed a massive order. Purchasing, stock up immediately. Kitchen, stop taking outside requests. We've got 500 tables of food to prepare within a day!"

On the other end, Cyrus hung up and exhaled. "Money will be worthless in a month, but for now, it's still the key to everything."

Between his parents' inheritance and his own savings, he had about 800,000 dollars. Half was gone in a single transfer. The sting passed quickly. It was better to spend it than watch it turn to waste paper. Most people would never even have the chance to do so.

Still, he needed more. Much more.

His gaze swept across the apartment. The 1,300-square-foot unit sat in Volaris' central ring and had been purchased outright a decade ago. At over 800 dollars per square foot, its market value easily exceeded 1,000,000 dollars

Cyrus grinned. "I'll mortgage it. That'll give me the cash."

The best part? He would never need to repay it.

He grabbed his keys, left home, and drove straight to the bank. Halfway there, his phone buzzed. It was a message from Diana.

Diana: [Cyrus, weekends are so boring. I wish someone would take me out.]

He glanced once before tossing the phone aside.

At the bank, the process was smooth. His house was fully paid, his documents in order, and he requested a large loan. They approved 800,000 dollars. It was less than he wanted, but he did not argue. Free money was free money.

He signed the papers, and soon the funds hit his account.

'After the banquet transfer, I still have about 400,000 dollars left,' he calculated. 'It's enough to turn the apartment into a fortress. But weapons and medicine will cost plenty. This still won't be enough.'

Cyrus rubbed his chin, plotting ways to raise more cash. Just then, a street punk with bleached hair and a sly grin spotted him.

The punk's eyes flashed, and he strolled over. "Hey, buddy. Need money?"

"Who are you?"

The punk leaned closer and lowered his voice. "I asked if you need cash. The bank wouldn't lend to you, right?"

Cyrus' eyes narrowed. 'A loan shark.'

A plan flickered in his mind. He let out a heavy sigh and forced a troubled look.

"Yeah. My family business needs urgent capital, but the bank…" he trailed off.

The punk smirked. Anyone who could borrow from a bank wouldn't be standing there.

"Yeah, banks are slow and picky these days," the punk said smoothly. "But me? I can help. If you need fast money, I've got connections."

Cyrus gave him a cautious look. "You? Are you sure? I need at least 1,000,000 dollars."

The punk's eyes lit up. 'Big fish.'

He whipped out a business card. "Our company specializes in rescuing people from desperate situations. If you need money, you came to the right place."

The card read: [Duomore Finance. Mason Hackett, Sales Manager.]

Cyrus' face brightened with feigned excitement. "You can really lend me money? I need a million. Help me through this, and I swear I'll pay it back within three months."

Mason chuckled. "That can be arranged. Our company is capable. We exist to help people like you. Come on, let's go to the office. We'll discuss the details there."

Cyrus nodded eagerly and followed.

The "office" was tucked inside a shabby building. Mason led him straight to his employer's room. A broad-shouldered man in a sharp suit sat waiting, his businesslike smile undermined by his menacing gaze.

Mason made the introduction. "Mr. Brond, this is the client I told you about."

Russell Brond smiled widely and gestured for Cyrus to sit. "Mr. Knovell, how much do you want to borrow?"

'Typical loan shark—straight to the point. No contracts, no red tape. Just the money and the price of it,' Cyrus thought.

"One million," Cyrus said calmly.

Russell's brows lifted. "That's not a small sum. Let me be clear. Our interest rates are very high. You'll need to be prepared."

Mason jumped in quickly. "But Mr. Knovell just needs cash to keep his business afloat. Once it turns around, paying us back will be easy. Right?"

The two played off each other, their act obvious to Cyrus.

Still, Cyrus maintained an eager expression. "Yes, exactly. I can repay quickly. High interest or not, I'll take it—as long as you lend me the money."

Russell grinned. "Good. Our interest rate is 40%. You borrow 1,000,000, you pay back 1,400,000. Write me a promissory note for 1,400,000 dollars."

He leaned back, eyes glinting. "And of course, you'll need collateral. A house, a business, a car—something of value."

Cyrus hesitated for effect, then gritted his teeth and pulled out his property deed—the same one he had used earlier at the bank.

"My apartment's worth over 1,000,000 dollars. That should cover it, right? I've also got a Benz worth 60,000 dollars. If I can't pay, you can take that too."

Russell's eyes lit up as he scanned the documents. The market value was easily closer to 1,200,000 dollars. With a car on top, the deal was solid.

Still, he wore a dissatisfied expression. "Mr. Knovell, your place is worth 800,000 dollars, maybe 900,000 dollars at most. And you want to walk away with 1,000,000 dollars? It sounds like I'm taking a loss."

Cyrus widened his eyes, panic flashing across his face. "Mr. Brond, you have to help me! I need the cash desperately. If you can transfer it today, I'll settle for 900,000 dollars!"

Russell and Mason exchanged a glance and smirked faintly. They thrived on desperation—the more a man begged, the deeper they could cut.

"Impossible. That's too much of a stretch," Russell said firmly.

After a round of fake bargaining, they settled on 800,000 dollars. Cyrus had one condition: the funds had to hit his account today.

Loan sharks were ruthless but fast. Efficiency was their only advantage over banks. The paperwork was done in minutes. Soon after, Cyrus' account lit up with an 800,000-dollar transfer.

He smiled. For Russell, that money might as well have vanished into a black hole. It was never coming back.

He chuckled and walked out humming.

Behind him, the office erupted in laughter

"Hahaha! Easiest deal we've ever made," Mason said, slapping the desk. "That idiot just walked out with 800,000 dollars like it was nothing."

Russell puffed on his coffee and said smugly, "We'll clear at least 400,000 dollars, maybe 600,000 dollars in profit. Our monthly quota's already in the bag."

Mason frowned. "Boss, he signed the papers too easily. What if there's something wrong with the house?"

Russell waved the deed with a grin. "It's real. The place is his. With this and the 1,400,000-dollars promissory note, he's not going anywhere. If he defaults, we take the property. And if that's not enough, we have other ways to squeeze him dry."

His eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped to a cruel murmur. "Worst case, we sell some of his parts overseas. We never lose money."

Outside, Cyrus strolled away with a cheerful grin. He glanced back at the dingy office building and muttered mockingly, "Such kind souls. Just handing me money to burn."

He would never cross paths with Russell or Mason again. More likely, they'd be frozen corpses in a month.

His coffers now held 2,000,000 dollars—enough to execute his plan. With prepayments and deposits, that money carried the buying power of tens of millions. He wouldn't need to scrape for more, though exploiting online loan platforms would be trivial if he wanted.

Instead, he drove across Volaris to Wyvern Security's headquarters, one of the nation's largest private firms. They were famous for protecting billionaires, celebrities, and sometimes government officials on sensitive trips.

Cyrus chose them because he had heard they had built a billion-dollar doomsday fortress for the heir of a real estate empire in his past life. That man had survived comfortably through the apocalypse thanks to Wyvern.

At the front desk, Cyrus stated his request. Within minutes, he was ushered into a lounge, and a receptionist brought him freshly ground coffee.

Then the door opened, and a mountain of a man strode in. He had a buzz cut, a black suit stretched taut across his broad chest, and radiated the air of a "gangster in formal wear." He was intimidating yet strangely reassuring.

Hector sat across from Cyrus. "Good afternoon, sir. I'm Hector Webb, the manager of the business department. How can we assist you?"

Cyrus sipped his coffee calmly. "I want you to build me a safehouse. The best you can manage. Something strong enough to withstand the end of the world."

Hector's eyes sharpened instantly. To outsiders, the request would sound absurd. But to Wyvern, it made perfect sense. The rich and powerful feared death more than anything. Billionaires worldwide had spent fortunes on doomsday bunkers, whether fearing natural disasters or human enemies. Wyvern had simply carved its niche.

'Here's another fat contract,' Hector thought.

"Mr. Knovell, Wyvern is a world-class security company. Whatever you need, we can provide."

Cyrus leaned forward. "What if I want my 24th-floor apartment completely remodeled into a fortress? Can you do it?"

Hector blinked. Most clients preferred standalone villas or underground shelters. Rarely an apartment. Still, a client was a client.

Hector plastered a confident smile. "Of course. We're the best in the industry. If that's what you want, we'll make it happen."

Cyrus' decision was set. He would stay. He wanted to watch his back-stabbing neighbors die with his own eyes.

Hector handed him a sleek tablet. "All our services are bespoke, custom-made. You can browse the options here, complete with pricing."

Cyrus scrolled carefully. The range was staggering: steel reinforcements, blast-proof doors, air filtration systems, even shelters 300 feet underground or beneath the sea.

But time was short. He had only one month.