Caelum Virel died without understanding why his life had gone wrong. He had tried to survive like everyone else, clinging to rules that no longer mattered and trusting people who disappeared the moment things turned ugly. By the time he realized strength was the only currency left, it was already too late.
His death wasn't dramatic. A collapsing evacuation vehicle, a sudden impact, and everything went dark. There was no pain, no regret-filled monologue, just the quiet realization that he had never mattered in the end.
Then he woke up.
The first thing he noticed was silence. No alarms, no screams, no distant explosions shaking the ground. Only the low hum of an air conditioner and the faint sound of traffic far below.
Caelum lay still on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The room was too clean, too intact, and painfully familiar. It was his penthouse, the one he had owned before the world fell apart.
His heartbeat slowly grew louder in his ears.
He sat up and looked around, confirming what he already suspected. The glass walls were unbroken, the city skyline untouched, and the sky outside was a calm blue. For a moment, he wondered if this was some cruel hallucination created at the moment of death.
He reached for his phone.
The screen lit up.
April 3.
Caelum's fingers tightened around the device. The date alone was enough to make his breath hitch. This was before the disasters, before the monsters, before humanity learned how fragile it truly was.
Three years earlier.
He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to calm down. Panic would accomplish nothing, and disbelief was pointless. He had lived long enough in the apocalypse to recognize reality when it stared him in the face.
"I came back," he muttered.
The words felt heavy, as if saying them made the truth settle deeper into his bones.
Memories surfaced uninvited. Starving crowds, abandoned shelters, and the cold eyes of people who had decided someone else deserved to die more than they did. He remembered hiding, running, and begging—things he had sworn he would never do again if given another chance.
This was that chance.
Caelum stood and walked to the window, looking down at the city. People moved with purpose, unaware of the future waiting for them. Offices opened, schools let out students, and life continued as if it were permanent.
It wasn't.
He knew exactly when everything would start. Not the exact hour, but close enough. Close enough to prepare, if he moved early and didn't draw attention too soon.
Preparation required resources.
Fortunately, that was the one thing he had.
Caelum turned away from the window and picked up his phone again. He didn't call anyone important, nor did he make any grand declarations. Instead, he sent a single message to his personal secretary.
Cancel all nonessential investments.
Liquidate quietly.
I want cash and flexibility.
The reply came quickly, confused but obedient.
Understood. May I ask the reason?
Caelum stared at the message for a second before locking the screen.
"No," he said quietly.
There was no reason to explain the end of the world to someone who still believed tomorrow was guaranteed. For now, subtlety mattered more than speed.
As he returned to the window, a strange sense of calm settled over him. The future was terrifying, but it was also familiar. This time, he wouldn't be dragged along by it.
This time, he would move first.
Far above the city, beyond clouds and satellites, something shifted ever so slightly.
A thread of possibility bent out of alignment, unnoticed by humanity. It was small enough to ignore, but different enough to be curious.
And curiosity, in higher places, was dangerous.
Caelum had no idea he had already been noticed. He only knew one thing with absolute certainty.
If he wasted even a single day, he would die again.