Ethan didn't waste a second. In his past life, he had spent the final thirty days of civilization worrying about his job at a mid-tier logistics firm and trying to "be a good citizen." That version of Ethan was dead, buried under the ice of 42nd Street.
The new Ethan stood in the middle of his Queens apartment, his eyes cold and calculating. He didn't see a home; he saw liquid assets.
He grabbed his laptop and opened his bank portal. $14,200. It was his life savings—the result of five years of grinding. In the old world, it was a decent safety net. In the frozen world, it wouldn't even buy a single gallon of gasoline.
"I need more," he whispered, his voice raspy. "Millions more."
He picked up his phone and dialed a number he had memorized in the dark of the apocalypse—the number of a high-interest private lender known for "no questions asked" loans.
"Yeah? Who's this?" a gruff voice answered.
"I need three hundred thousand. Cash. Today," Ethan said, his tone flat.
"Three hundred? You got collateral, kid? I don't give out charity."
"My apartment. My car. My entire portfolio. I'll sign it all over for a thirty-day bridge loan at whatever interest you want."
There was a pause on the other end. The lender probably thought Ethan was a degenerate gambler or a fool. It didn't matter. In thirty days, the legal system would vanish. Debt would be a word from a forgotten language.
"Come to the office in an hour. Bring the deeds."
By noon, Ethan was walking out of a dim office in Brooklyn with a heavy duffel bag and a digital transfer pending. He had sold his future for a stack of paper that would be worthless in four weeks. To him, it was the best trade in history.
Next, he headed to a massive wholesale warehouse in New Jersey. He needed a place to store the goods—not just any place, but somewhere his "Subspace" could operate without prying eyes.
He pulled up his blue system panel again.
[Subspace Level 1: 100 Cubic Meters] [Time Stasis: Active - Items do not age or lose heat]
A cruel smile touched his lips. Items do not lose heat. He walked into a high-end gourmet shop and ordered fifty premium, steaming-hot steaks to go. The clerk looked at him like he was insane. "Fifty? You having a party, man?"
"Something like that," Ethan replied.
He took the boxes to his car, and once the doors were locked, he focused. One by one, the steaming boxes vanished into the blue void. He pulled one out seconds later. It was still sizzling, the scent of garlic and butter filling the car.
"Perfect," he muttered. "While they starve and eat frozen rats, I'll be eating like a king."
But food was only the beginning. He needed fuel, medicine, high-grade winter gear, and most importantly—weapons.
His phone buzzed. A message from Sarah, the woman who had put a knife in his ribs in the future.
"Hey Ethan! Are we still on for dinner tonight? Marcus and the guys are coming too!"
Ethan stared at the screen. His grip tightened until his knuckles turned white. He could feel the phantom pain of the blade sliding between his lungs.
He typed back a short, simple reply: "Can't make it. Busy preparing for the future."
He blocked her number. He wasn't going to kill them yet. Dying now would be too easy for them. He wanted them to feel the cold. He wanted them to see him through the glass of his fortress, warm and well-fed, while they turned into monsters for a crust of bread.
He pulled his car into a massive construction supply yard.
"I need twenty industrial-grade generators," Ethan told the manager. "And every gallon of stabilized diesel you have in the yard."
"Son, that's going to cost a fortune. What do you need twenty generators for?"
Ethan looked at the man, his blue eyes reflecting a coldness that hadn't arrived yet.
"I'm expecting a very long winter."
[End of Chapter 2]