A raw, guttural scream tore through Alex's throat.
He bolted upright, his fingers clawing frantically at his abdomen. He expected to feel wet, warm blood. He expected to feel the jagged teeth of his neighbors tearing into his intestines, fighting over who got to eat his liver.
But there was no blood. No biting cold.
Only sweat.
The sticky, humid heat of a mid-July afternoon clung to his skin. The drone of a housefly buzzing against the windowpane replaced the screams of the dying.
Alex gasped, his chest heaving like a broken bellows. He grabbed the smartphone on the nightstand. The screen lit up, the brightness stinging his eyes.
July 12th, 2026. 2:14 PM.
"I'm back," he whispered, his voice raspy. "Three days. I have three days before the world turns into a hellscape."
He fell back onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling fan cutting through the stale air. The memory of the cold was still etched into his bones. The betrayal. The hunger. The feeling of being carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey by the people he had tried to help.
Linda. That bitch. She had opened the door for them.
Alex's eyes hardened. The fear in his pupils dissolved, replaced by a cold, predatory glint.
"System."
He didn't shout. He just stated it, a command born of absolute certainty.
Hum.
A semi-transparent blue panel flickered into existence before his retina.
[Doomsday Lord System Online.] [Host: Alex] [Dimensional Storage: Infinite (Time Stasis Active)] [Emotional Points: 0]
It wasn't a hallucination. It was his second chance.
Alex looked at the glass of water on the nightstand. He focused his will. Zap. The glass vanished. Pop. It reappeared in his hand, condensation still dripping down the side.
"Infinite storage. Time stasis," Alex muttered, a corner of his mouth twitching upward. "Put a bucket of KFC in there today, and it's still hot enough to burn your tongue in ten years."
He checked his bank account. $5,400.
In the old world, this was a month's salary. In 72 hours, it wouldn't buy a single sheet of toilet paper.
"I need capital," he said, swinging his legs out of bed. "And I know exactly where to get it."
The basement of the "Black Dragon Finance" company reeked of cheap tobacco, stale beer, and the metallic tang of dried blood.
Alex walked down the concrete steps, the sound of his sneakers swallowed by the heavy thumping of bass music. Two men with necks thicker than tree trunks stood guard at the metal door. One of them, a man with a spider web tattoo creeping up his jawline, stepped forward.
"Lost your way, pretty boy?" The thug sneered, blocking the path. "We don't sell girl scout cookies here. Kidneys, maybe. But you look too skinny."
Alex didn't stop. He didn't even slow down.
"I'm here to see Brother Scar. I have a business proposition worth fifty million."
The thug paused, exchanging a look with his partner. Fifty million was a lot of zeros.
"Wait here."
Two minutes later, the metal door groaned open.
The office inside was surprisingly opulent, though tacky. Gold-plated statues of tigers sat on shelves. Brother Scar sat behind a massive mahogany desk, using a combat knife to clean the dirt from under his fingernails. He didn't look up.
"You have three minutes," Scar grunted. "If you waste my time, I take a finger for every minute wasted."
Alex pulled a chair out and sat down, crossing his legs. He looked comfortable. Too comfortable.
"I need to borrow fifty million dollars," Alex said flatly. "Immediate transfer."
Scar froze. He looked up, his eyes narrowing. Then, he threw his head back and laughed. The thugs in the corner joined in, a chorus of mocking hyenas.
"Fifty million?" Scar wiped a tear from his eye. "Kid, do you know where you are? Do you have collateral? A company? A mansion?"
"I have my life," Alex said, his expression unchanging. "And I'm willing to sign a high-risk contract."
He leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk.
"Principal: Fifty million. Term: One week. Interest rate: Ten thousand percent."
The room went silent.
Ten thousand percent. That was five billion dollars in a week.
Scar stopped laughing. Greed, raw and ugly, dilated his pupils. He looked at Alex like he was looking at a dead man walking, but a profitable one. If the kid couldn't pay, Scar would own him. Every organ, every drop of blood, for the rest of his life.
"You're crazy," Scar whispered.
"I'm desperate," Alex lied smoothly. "I have an inside tip on the stock market. A sure thing. I just need the leverage."
Scar slammed the knife into the desk. "Draw up the papers."
The scratching of the pen on the contract sounded loud in the silent room.
Alex signed his name with a flourish. He didn't even read the clauses about "forced labor" or "organ harvesting." None of it mattered.
Brother Scar reviewed the signature, then nodded to his accountant. "Transfer the funds."
Ding.
Alex's phone vibrated. [Bank Alert: Your account ending in 8899 has received a transfer of $50,000,000.00]
"You have seven days, kid," Scar grinned, revealing a row of yellowed teeth. "On day eight, if the money isn't in my account, I'm coming for your heart. Literally."
Alex stood up, picking up the small briefcase of cash—a "sign-on bonus" of $100,000 he had demanded for immediate expenses.
He looked at Scar. For a second, he pitied the man. In three days, all this money would be digital dust. Scar would freeze in this basement, hugging his gold statues for warmth.
"Don't worry," Alex said, a strange, cold smile playing on his lips. "You'll get what you deserve. Every penny."
He turned and walked out.
The afternoon sun hit Alex like a physical blow.
He stood on the curb, squinting against the glare. 35°C. The asphalt was radiating heat waves. People walked by in shorts and tank tops, complaining about the humidity, wiping sweat from their foreheads.
"Enjoy it while it lasts," Alex murmured.
He loosened his collar, letting the warmth soak into his skin. He stored the sensation in his memory, fueling himself against the coming eternal winter.
He pulled out his phone and dialed a number he had memorized in his previous life.
"Hello? Westside Global Logistics Center?" Alex spoke into the receiver, his voice commanding. "I'm a procurement officer for a private firm. I want to rent your entire Warehouse A for the next 24 hours."
"Sir, Warehouse A is full of stock," the voice on the other end replied, annoyed. "We can't just—"
"I'm not asking you to move the stock," Alex cut him off. "I want to buy the stock. All of it. Cash upfront. I'm coming over now."
He hung up and hailed a taxi.
As the car merged into traffic, Alex looked at the city skyline. Millions of people. Millions of zombies-in-waiting.
The feast was about to begin.