The familiar, cramped confines of his rented room felt like a different world entirely, a fragile shell against the terrifying possibilities that lay beyond the bathroom door. The lingering stench of sweat and city grime clung to Michael, but personal hygiene was a luxury his racing heart could no longer afford. His mind was a whirlwind, a chaotic storm of fear, desperation, and a grim, newfound resolve. The memory of his mother's frail voice over the phone was a sharper spur than any threat from Brother Dong's enforcers. This was no longer about curiosity or cheap thrills; it was a financial last stand.
With trembling fingers that seemed to belong to someone else, he flipped open his aging laptop, the fan whirring like a distressed insect. The glow of the screen illuminated his determined, sleep-deprived face. He navigated to the search engine, its blank bar a gateway to understanding. He typed a single, pivotal word: Refuge, Shelter.
The results flooded the screen, a digital tapestry of post-apocalyptic fiction and survivalist forums. The term, once just a vague echo from the minotaur's conversation, now sparked a cascade of connections. Fallout. The word leaped out from the search results, and with it, a floodgate of recognition opened. The rusted car husks, the ramshackle walls of Cinder Town, the bizarre mutations—it wasn't just random fantasy; it was a coherent, if horrifying, genre. A world scoured by some cataclysm, likely nuclear. A wasteland.
But confirmation came from a more specific ghost. He typed the faded letters he'd seen on the sign near the town wall: Wayne State University. The result was a jolt of surreal clarity. A prestigious public research university in Detroit, Michigan. This wasn't an alternate dimension with dragons and elves; it was a terrifyingly possible future for his own planet, a future that had already happened there. The timeline, judging by the decay, could be decades, maybe a century ahead. The pieces clicked into a chilling mosaic: a post-nuclear holocaust Earth. Yet, the puzzle was far from complete. What explained the ogres? The minotaurs? The radiation, he theorized with a cold knot in his stomach, must have done more than just poison the land; it must have twisted the very genetics of its inhabitants.
The "why" was a problem for later. The "how to survive" was all that mattered now. He dove down internet rabbit holes, consuming the musings of armchair survivalists and hardcore preppers. The advice was a wild mix of the practical and the absurd. He dismissed suggestions about "充气娃娃" with a snort, but others struck him with their stark logic: knowledge was the ultimate currency, weapons were necessary but secondary to awareness, and anything brought along must be durable, practical, and ideally, tradable.
For three days, Michael moved with a purpose he had never known. The frantic energy of a man with nothing left to lose fueled him. His first, humbling task was a round of phone calls to his closest friends. The responses were a mirror of his own former financial state—well-meaning, but ultimately empty pockets. The total gathered, a paltry three thousand one hundred yuan, was a stark reminder of his social circle's place in the economic food chain. It was enough for a discount store spree, not an outfitter's paradise.
The "Procurement Phase," as he grimly termed it, was a masterclass in budget-conscious apocalypse-prep. The centerpiece of his kit was not a tactical backpack but a vast, brightly striped synthetic sack—the kind used by migrant workers during the Spring Festival travel rush. It was ungainly and screamed "outsider," but its capacity was undeniable, and its cost was a fraction of a proper hiking pack.
He filled this sack of humble hopes with a collection of cheap, knock-off goods scavenged from Yangcheng's wholesale market and online bargain sites. It was a bizarre care package for the end of the world: cartons of instant noodles and synthetic-meat ham sausage, their flavors garish and artificial; basic toiletries like toothpaste and a small mirror; a cheap plastic raincoat; rolls of duct tape; hard candies; and a flimsy telescope. These were his intended trading stock, his bid for peaceful commerce in a world he was ill-equipped to fight.
Then came his sales satchel, now transformed into a vital survival kit. Inside, he placed his most calculated gambles:
132 Bottle Caps: Gleaned from dumpsters behind bars, these were his proposed currency, a direct homage to the wasteland trope he now believed in.
A Geiger Counter: Purchased online, this was his essential early-warning system. His heart raced at the thought of its tell-tale clicking.
Potassium Iodide Tablets: A small bottle, his desperate shield against radioactive fallout.
Medical Supplies: The leftover painkillers and anti-inflammatories, supplemented with basic gauze and alcohol swabs. Even the remainder of a bag of Bǎnlángēn - a common Chinese cold remedy was tossed in—a placebo of comfort, if nothing else.
A bag of laundry detergent and topical skin cream: This was his insight, his potential market edge. The memory of Lynda and Faye's weeping sores inspired this. He imagined clean skin could be a luxury in Cinder Town, and the woman who provided it might gain valuable allies, or at least, safer passage.
For weaponry, he was brutally pragmatic. A single, sharp kitchen knife was his only concession to direct combat. He knew that against the inhabitants of that world, any armament he could afford would be laughable. His real investment, his true escape plan, was his scooter. He spent a significant portion of his funds on a full service—new tires, fresh brakes, a tuned engine. His strategy was not to stand and fight, but to run. The "little donkey" was to be his steel steed.
On the fourth morning, the final package arrived. His room was a monument to surreal preparation, the snake-skin bag bulging grotesquely. He looked at his wallet, now holding little more than a hundred yuan. There was nothing left to buy, nothing left to wait for. Donning his helmet, he took a deep breath, the air tasting of instant noodles and finality. He kicked the scooter to life, its familiar sputter now sounding like a war chant. With a grimace that was more a baring of teeth than a smile, he nudged the vehicle forward, not towards the city streets, but into the shimmering, emerald void of the bathroom portal. He was all in.