JOSH.
The trick was to act like I wasn't panicking.
People don't ask questions when you look like you're spending too much money on something impractical. In this city, that just means you're rich and bored.
I booked the contractors the next morning.
Three teams — one for the penthouse, one for the empty main level, one for the roof. I told them I was prepping for luxury flood mitigation and urban retreat conversion. No one blinked. Not when I used the word "bulletproof." Not when I added a rush bonus if they finished within the week.
"The condo association?" the foreman asked.
I waved it off.
"My family owns the top four floors."
Technically, true.
The lower units were still incomplete. The developer had run out of funding mid-project. All that concrete and drywall made a perfect skeleton. Quiet. Private.
Exactly what I needed.
They reinforced the floor slab under the penthouse with custom steel braces, hidden inside hollowed sections of ceiling in the unit below. I'd read somewhere that weight distribution mattered — especially when you're planning to store months of supplies and seal yourself into a self-contained fortress.
Next came the bulletproof windows — high-end laminated polycarbonate sheets fitted behind the original glass. They were sleek, silent, and just reflective enough to obscure the interior at night.
The contractor had asked if I was worried about protestors.
"Not yet," I said.
He laughed. I didn't.
It started with noise.
Drills. Welding sparks. The whine of heavy glass hoisted by cable winches. The penthouse had always been quiet — designed for serenity, wealth, and detachment. But now it buzzed with industry.
I watched from the edge of the terrace, hoodie pulled over my head, clipboard in hand. Not to look important — just to keep from pacing like a lunatic.
The foreman looked up from the blueprint.
"You're sure about the bulletproof glass?"
"Yes," I said. "It's not for looks."
He didn't ask more. I'd paid enough not to.
The greenhouse went up first. Custom-built aluminum frame, reinforced against wind shear, seated into the concrete edge of the rooftop and anchored with steel bolts. Triple-layered polycarbonate glass — the same material used for armoured vehicles — slid into place with suction clamps. The roof panels opened on hinges, solar-powered.
Inside, we laid the foundation for a closed-loop hydroponic system: vertical columns for leafy greens, floating raft beds for herbs and root vegetables, drip towers for tomatoes and cucumbers. The water tank system fed into itself, filtered through layered sand, charcoal, and UV light arrays I sourced from a solar tech distributor.
"You planning to feed an army?" the gardener had joked.
"Just a very hungry lawyer," I replied.
He didn't laugh. Good.
I installed a seed bank beneath the floorboards in the greenhouse — a sealed container packed with vacuum-sealed packets, labeled and dated. Everything from medicinal herbs to beans, grains, even pollinator-friendly flowers. Backup seeds. Backup of the backup.
The leisure terrace was trickier.
I didn't want it to look like a bunker. I needed somewhere to breathe, and Houdini needed grass under his paws.
So I had them lay in artificial turf edged with real soil plots. Sunflowers lined the far railing — bright, absurdly hopeful. High-yield, seed-bearing, and natural air filters. They reminded me of my mother.
Raised beds wrapped the border with lavender, sage, and bright marigolds — things that would thrive in full sun and make the world feel less like a cage.
At the far corner, I built a natural water filtration setup: layers of gravel, sand, and charcoal in a cascading bin system, capped with a slow-drip collector. I ran pipes from the roof's runoff edge to feed it.
I tested it three times. Clean enough to drink.
The only thing I couldn't filter was the dread.
When it was done, I stood in the centre of my own apocalypse garden, Houdini sniffing sunflowers, the greenhouse glinting like a dome behind me. Self-contained. Secure. Untouchable.
"Come hell or high water," I murmured, "we're ready."
A breeze blew through the glass, soft but heavy.
Something was coming.