Julia shot up from the Egyptian cotton sheets. She panted heavily, her chest rising and falling as cold sweat dripped down her forehead.

She frantically grabbed her wrists. She rubbed the skin, searching for the torn flesh and the cold iron. There was nothing. Her skin was smooth and flawless.

She threw the heavy duvet off and swung her bare feet onto the floor. She ran straight into the adjoining marble bathroom. She slammed her hands onto the edge of the sink, gripping the cold stone until her knuckles turned white.

She stared at the mirror.

The woman looking back had perfectly styled chestnut hair and flawless makeup. There was no blood on her face. No brain matter in her hair. Was it a nightmare? A psychotic break? She touched her cheek, feeling the warmth of her own skin, her mind spinning in a chaotic vortex of panic and disbelief. How could the pain have felt so real? Where was the concrete room? Where was Byron? As her internal questions reached a deafening crescendo, a sudden, chilling answer manifested.

"Time node reset complete. Current time: Three months before the apocalypse outbreak."

The mechanical voice returned, shattering the quiet hum of the central air conditioning.

Julia's heart slammed against her ribs. Three months. She had three months to survive.

"Newbie task triggered," the system announced. "Proceed to the first-floor lobby. Use the whip to punish the villain, Byron Serrano. Maintain the vicious supporting female character persona."

The name hit her like a physical blow. Ricky's exploding head flashed behind her eyes. Her stomach violently rejected the memory. She leaned over the porcelain sink and dry-heaved, coughing until her throat felt raw.

She turned on the faucet and splashed freezing water onto her face. The shock of the cold cleared the panic from her brain.

She gripped the edges of the sink again, looking at the water dripping from her chin in the mirror. Her eyes hardened.

"I refuse," she stated in her mind.

"Warning. Refusing tasks will deduct points. Reaching zero points will result in obliteration." The system's ice-cold voice echoed in her mind, accompanied by a glaring, blood-red warning symbol that flashed aggressively across her field of vision.

Julia let out a harsh, breathless laugh. She grabbed a velvet towel from the rack and wiped her face.

"You just rewound time because he was about to kill me," she thought back, her internal voice dripping with venom. "You need me alive. You won't obliterate me."

The system went dead silent. A faint static buzz hummed in her ears as it processed the logic.

Julia threw the towel on the counter. She walked out of the bathroom and back into the massive bedroom. She marched over to the heavy blackout curtains and yanked them open.

"Either let me survive my way, or we both die right now," she challenged.

Sunlight flooded the room. The system finally chimed, the tone defeated.

"Strong host resistance detected. Vicious female route closed. Plot hint privileges revoked."

The glowing interface in her mind went dark, leaving behind only a simple, ticking countdown timer in the corner of her vision. Julia let out a long breath. The cheat codes were gone, but she owned her body again.

Her stomach growled loudly. The physical hunger grounded her.

She walked over to the walk-in closet and pulled open the double doors. Rows of haute couture dresses and limited-edition handbags lined the walls.

She ignored the silk gowns. She dug through the racks until she found a simple pair of denim jeans and a soft cashmere sweater. She stripped off her silk pajamas and pulled the clothes on. She gathered her hair and tied it into a tight, practical ponytail.

She walked over to the nightstand. The latest smartphone sat there, the screen lighting up with over a dozen missed calls. Party invitations from people who would be dead in ninety days.

She picked up the phone and swiped it into airplane mode.

She moved to the mahogany desk near the window. She pulled open the drawers until she found a leather-bound notebook and a Montblanc pen.

She sat down, uncapped the pen, and pressed the nib hard against the paper. She wrote three words.

Funds. Bunker. Supplies.

She stared at the ink. The entire plan hinged on the first word. She had no idea how much liquid cash this body actually possessed.

She dropped the pen and started tearing through the desk drawers. She tossed aside empty velvet jewelry boxes and a stack of previously declined, maxed-out credit cards, searching for any active bank cards or financial statements.

In a locked bottom drawer, she found a stack of credit card bills and three black debit cards. Her pulse ticked faster.

She grabbed her phone, turned off airplane mode, and connected to the manor's Wi-Fi. She downloaded the banking app and typed in the account details she found on the statements.

The loading circle spun on the screen. Julia held her breath, her thumb hovering over the glass.

The screen refreshed. The available balance loaded.

$3,250.45.

Julia blinked. She rubbed her eyes and stared at the screen again. The numbers did not change.

She quickly tapped on the credit card tab. A list of five platinum cards appeared, every single one of them maxed out. The negative balances glowed in red, totaling over a hundred thousand dollars in debt.

Her knees went weak. She collapsed back into the velvet desk chair. The original host was a complete fraud. She lived in a mansion and wore diamonds, but she was living on empty credit.

Three thousand dollars would not even buy the air filtration system for a bunker.

Anxiety clawed at her chest. She bit down hard on her lower lip, tasting copper. Her eyes darted around the room and landed on the half-open doors of the walk-in closet.

She shot out of the chair and ran into the closet. She stared at the wall of Hermes Birkin bags, the Chanel tweed jackets, and the drawer full of Rolex watches.

She dragged two massive Rimowa suitcases out from the storage corner and threw them open on the bedroom carpet.

She grabbed the crocodile leather bags off the shelves. She did not bother with the dust bags. She shoved them violently into the suitcases, crushing the expensive leather. These were not accessories anymore; they were survival funds.

She grabbed a pair of diamond-encrusted heels and forced them into the corner of the suitcase. She pressed her entire body weight onto the lid, trying to force the zipper shut.

The bedroom door swung open without a knock.

Brenda McCoy, one of the manor's maids, walked in carrying an empty silver tray. She stopped and stared at the mess on the floor. A sneer twisted her lips.

"Playing the runaway game again, Miss?" Brenda asked, her tone dripping with blatant disrespect.

Julia froze. Her hands tightened on the zipper. The original host used to pack her bags and threaten to leave just to extort more allowance from her father.

Julia let go of the suitcase and slowly stood up. She turned to face the maid.

Brenda expected a tantrum. Instead, Julia felt a violent spike of adrenaline. Her first instinct was to shrink back, still haunted by the phantom pain of the torture room. But the ticking clock in her mind reminded her that weakness meant death. She forced herself to mimic the arrogant, untouchable aura of the original host. She locked her trembling knees, straightened her spine, and pushed all her lingering terror deep into the back of her eyes. When she looked up, she met the maid with a gaze so cold and heavy it made the air in the room feel thin.

Brenda's sneer faltered. She took a half-step back, the silver tray rattling slightly in her hands.

Julia closed the distance between them. She stopped inches from the maid.

"Who taught you to enter my room without knocking?" Julia asked. Her voice was low, flat, and carried absolute authority. "Get out."

Brenda's face flushed bright red. She opened her mouth to argue, but the sheer physical pressure of Julia's stare shut her up. She gritted her teeth, spun around, and practically fled the room.

Julia turned back to the suitcases. She yanked the zippers closed. The bags were incredibly heavy.

She grabbed the handles and dragged them out of the bedroom. The wheels bumped heavily against the Persian runner on the spiral staircase, making loud, rhythmic thuds all the way down to the first floor.

Her arms ached by the time she reached the marble foyer. She was panting, sweat forming at her hairline.

She leaned the suitcases against a marble pillar and walked over to the entryway table. She grabbed the keys to the Porsche Cayenne.

She checked the antique grandfather clock. Two in the afternoon. The luxury pawnshops in Los Angeles would be busy.

She bent down to grab the suitcase handles.

Tires screeched violently outside.

The heavy solid wood front doors were kicked open with a deafening crash. Julia flinched, pulling her hands back.

Two massive men in cheap black suits walked in. They smelled of stale cigarette smoke and fresh blood.

One of the thugs was dragging a body by the collar. He casually tossed the bleeding figure onto the pristine marble floor.

The body hit the stone with a sickening thud. A low, pained groan escaped the man's lips as he curled into a tight ball. Dark red blood dripped from his forehead, pooling instantly on the white marble.

Julia's lungs seized. Her eyes locked onto the torn white shirt.

"Brought your punching bag back, Miss," the thug announced loudly, spitting on the floor. "Kid's got a hard mouth."

On the floor, Byron Serrano slowly forced his swollen right eye open. Through the matted hair and the blood, his gaze found Julia.

The memory of the panic room crashed over her. The gunshot. The brain matter. The cold leather glove.

Her breath stopped completely.

The thug smiled a greasy smile. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a leather riding whip, the tip stained dark brown with dried blood. He held it out to her.

"You want to do the honors, Miss? Or should we break his other leg?"

The bloody leather whip hovered inches from Julia's nose. The metallic smell of dried blood invaded her nostrils, making her stomach churn violently.

On the floor, Byron's chest heaved with ragged, wet breaths. He forced his head up. His dark eyes, hidden beneath his messy hair, locked onto her. It was the stare of a dying wolf-cornered, hateful, and memorizing the face of its killer.

Julia's hands clamped down on the plastic handles of her suitcases. She squeezed so hard her fingernails dug into the hard plastic, fighting the overwhelming urge to turn and run out the door.

The original host would have snatched the whip and started swinging. She would have laughed while doing it.

But the phantom sensation of Spike's knife nearing her eye paralyzed Julia. Cold sweat broke out across her back, soaking the soft cashmere of her sweater. Her legs trembled slightly.

The thug frowned, his arm still extended. "Miss? Is it too dirty? I can go grab a fresh one from the stables."

At the thug's movement, Byron's muscles locked. He bit down on his lip, bracing his broken body for the inevitable strike.

Julia sucked in a sharp breath, forcing her vocal cords to work. She tilted her chin up, adopting a look of absolute disgust.

"Get that away from me," she snapped, her voice dripping with impatience. "You're ruining the Persian rug."

The thug froze. His hand hung awkwardly in the air.

On the floor, Byron's body twitched. Julia saw a subtle shift in his uninjured eye-a fleeting reaction that almost looked like surprise before it hardened back into a dark, impenetrable glare. She couldn't read the depths of his hatred, but she could guess what was running through his mind. He likely thought this was just another one of her sick, unpredictable games.

Julia looked down at the blood pooling on the marble and visibly recoiled. "Can't you see I'm leaving? Who told you to bring this disgusting mess to the front door?"

The thug lowered the whip, looking lost. "But... the boss said to bring him to you for discipline..."

The word 'discipline' made Julia's heart skip a beat. She raised her voice, letting the spoiled heiress persona take over completely.

"I am not in the mood! Throw him back in his hole and get out of my sight!"

Her tone left no room for argument. The two thugs exchanged a nervous glance. They knew better than to push the crazy daughter when she was throwing a fit.

The first thug grabbed Byron by the collar of his ruined shirt and hoisted him up. Byron let out a suppressed gasp of agony. His right leg dragged uselessly across the floor, the bone clearly broken.

Julia's pupils contracted. The physical reality of his broken leg hit her hard. Guilt and terror warred in her chest.

The thugs dragged Byron down the hallway toward the basement stairs. A thick smear of blood painted the marble behind them.

Just as they reached the corner, Byron turned his head. He looked at Julia one last time. There was no gratitude in his eyes. Only a cold, calculating assessment.

The look pierced right through her.

When they disappeared around the corner, Julia let go of the suitcases. She slumped against the marble pillar, gasping for air as if she had been held underwater. Her heart hammered wildly.

She had changed the plot. She hadn't hit him.

But the blood on the floor proved he was critically injured. If he died, the world line would collapse.

She forced herself to look away from the blood. Survival first. She needed money.

She grabbed the suitcases, pushed open the heavy front doors, and stepped out into the blinding Los Angeles sun. The heat felt like a different universe.

She dragged the bags to the Porsche Cayenne, heaving them into the trunk. She slammed the trunk shut.

She climbed into the driver's seat and hit the ignition. The V8 engine roared to life, a deep, powerful sound that vibrated through the steering wheel.

She cranked the air conditioning to the maximum, shivering as the cold air hit her sweat-dampened skin. She typed the address of the largest luxury pawnshop in Beverly Hills into the GPS.

She slammed her foot on the gas pedal. The SUV shot out of the manor's iron gates.

She watched the massive house shrink in the rearview mirror. But no matter how fast she drove, Byron's blood-soaked, staring face remained burned into her mind. Her hands gripped the leather steering wheel until her knuckles ached.