Chapter 5

By Wednesday morning, three days after my rebirth, my spatial dimension looked less like an empty void and more like an industrial distribution center.

Dozens of pallets stacked with long-shelf-life grains, crates of canned meat, medical kits, solar batteries, and military-grade filtration units floated in neat, orderly rows inside the dark expanse of my mind. The ability had quickly become second nature. A simple touch, a brief pulse of intent, and hundreds of pounds of cargo would vanish instantly into the void.

My remaining bank balance was sitting at around $22,000. To stretch my money as far as possible, I spent the morning at a heavy commercial supply yard on the industrial edge of the city, picking up rebar, heavy steel plating, and high-tensile security bolts to reinforce the estate's doors and windows. The metal was cold and smelled faintly of machine oil and rust, but to me, it represented the line between life and death.

I had just pushed a heavy steel flatbed cart laden with thousands of dollars' worth of industrial hardware toward the loading dock when I felt it.

A sudden prickling sensation at the back of my neck. The instinctive, hardwired survival trigger that warned me I was being watched by a predator.

I froze, my fingers tightening around the cold rubber handle of the cart. I didn't turn around immediately. Instead, I used the side mirror of a nearby delivery truck to scan the perimeter.

Standing beside a sleek, matte-black armored SUV parked near the loading bay was a man wearing a tailored charcoal coat over a dark tactical sweater. Broad-shouldered and tall, with sharp, angular features and eyes as cold and gray as a winter sky, he looked entirely out of place amid the grease and grime of the commercial yard.

Adrian Cross.

My heart slammed against my ribs so hard it felt like a physical blow, nearly knocking the wind out of my lungs.

In my previous life, Adrian Cross was a name spoken in hushed, terrified whispers among the few who managed to survive past the first year. He had emerged six months after the red rain as the ruthless, calculating leader of the Northern Defense Front, a dominant survivor faction that controlled half the eastern ridge through sheer tactical supremacy. He was a brilliant strategist, a lethal combatant, and a man who had adapted to the apocalypse with terrifying efficiency.

What is he doing here? my mind screamed, panic threatening to break through my composure. He shouldn't be here. In my memories, he didn't start consolidating power or stockpiling assets until months into the collapse!

Adrian wasn't looking at the warehouse manager or the loading schedules. He was looking directly at me. His icy gray eyes swept over my cart, measuring the sheer volume of steel plates, structural beams, and heavy hardware stacked onto the metal frame—a load far beyond what any ordinary college student would need for a home repair project.

He took two slow, deliberate steps toward me, his hands resting casually inside his coat pockets. His posture seemed relaxed, almost languid, but every line of his body radiated conditioned, dangerous precision.

"That's a lot of steel for a Wednesday morning." His voice was a low, resonant baritone, quiet enough that it barely carried over the rumble of a nearby forklift.

I forced myself to remain relaxed, keeping both hands wrapped around the steel handle of the cart to prevent them from visibly shaking. I couldn't afford to look panicked. If he suspected I was anything more than an eccentric buyer, he would dig deeper.

"It's for a construction project," I said, keeping my voice crisp, level, and entirely free of hesitation. "Renovating an old property out in the country."

Adrian stopped five feet away. Up close, his presence was suffocating. He didn't look like a civilian buying DIY supplies. He carried himself with the quiet, lethal calm of someone who already understood that the rules of society were about to burn away.

His eyes flicked from my face to my hands, taking in the faint calluses on my palms and the smudge of dirt on my sleeves—evidence of the heavy labor I'd been doing alone at the estate over the last forty-eight hours.

"Reinforced steel plating, heavy-duty deadbolts, and industrial structural brackets," Adrian murmured, a slight, dangerous edge touching the corner of his lips. "That's not a home renovation, Miss...?"

"Mira," I replied flatly, refusing to break eye contact despite the icy dread pooling in my stomach. "And my private property isn't really any of your concern."

"It becomes my concern when someone starts clearing out commercial suppliers of items I intended to purchase myself," Adrian said softly. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze piercing through my defenses. "First, bulk grain and medical supplies from the wholesale district two days ago. Then solar hardware yesterday. Now industrial steel."

Cold sweat prickled down my spine, soaking through the back of my hoodie.

He's been tracking supply trends. He wasn't just reacting to the world; he was actively buying up survival gear, hardware, and long-term provisions.

Why is he preparing now? My mind raced through the fractured timeline, trying to make sense of the impossibility before me. In my memories, Adrian didn't show up with supplies or weapons until month six! Why is he sweeping wholesale markets thirty days before the rain? Did someone else change the timeline? Or did he... did he come back, too?

The thought hit me like a lightning bolt, making my breath hitch. No, if he had memories of the previous timeline, he would have approached me differently—or wiped me out as a potential competitor. Unless he was still figuring things out, just like I was.

"You're preparing for something," Adrian said. It wasn't a question. It was a firm, absolute statement, backed by the confidence of a man who trusted his own deductions above all else.

I tightened my jaw and stepped slightly to the side, blocking his view of the loaded cargo. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Cross. I'm just fixing up my grandmother's house."

The moment his name slipped past my lips, the air between us shifted from tense to lethal.

Adrian's expression went completely blank. His polite, conversational demeanor vanished instantly, replaced by a razor-sharp, predatory focus. His right hand moved half an inch inside his coat, hovering near a concealed holster.

"I didn't give you my name," he said, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with immediate, unmasked threat.

A terrible realization crashed over me, leaving me momentarily breathless. Shit. I used his name. In my shock, overwhelmed by the memory of the man he would become, I'd spoken as though I already knew him. But to him, I was an absolute stranger who had just named a man who kept his identity and movements tightly guarded from corporate rivals and public registries.

"I... I recognized you from a business profile in the financial journal," I lied smoothly, forcing my expression into a mask of mild, slightly annoyed confusion. "Cross Holdings, right? Your face was on the cover last month."

Adrian didn't break his stare. For three agonizing seconds, neither of us moved. The industrial yard around us faded into white noise. The forklift engine hummed, and metal clanked in the distance, but time seemed frozen between us. He didn't believe my lie for a single second. I could see it in the sharp, calculating glint of his gray eyes as he weighed every word, measured my heart rate, and tested my resolve.

"Right," Adrian said softly, though the suspicion in his tone was sharp enough to cut glass.

He didn't relax his posture, but he backed away half a step, giving me some physical space while maintaining his tactical advantage. "A business profile."

He didn't press further, but the look he gave me promised that this conversation was far from over. He reached into his inner coat pocket, pulled out a dark matte card, and tossed it onto the stack of steel plates resting on my cart. It landed with a soft clack against the metal bracket.

"If you find yourself needing more than just steel plating in the coming weeks, Mira," he said quietly, his eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made my skin crawl, "give me a call. The world is getting small very fast."

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and walked back to his armored SUV with fluid, silent steps. A moment later, he pulled out of the loading bay and vanished into the gray city traffic.

I stood frozen beside my cart for a long moment, the hum of the warehouse rushing back into my ears. My fingers trembled slightly as I reached down to pick up the card. It bore no company logo or corporate address, just an encrypted phone number and a single name printed in raised silver text:

ADRIAN CROSS

I swallowed hard, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Adrian was preparing. He was tracking supplies, securing heavy gear, and moving long before the red rain had even touched the ground. The timeline I thought I knew was fracturing beneath my feet, and the man who would one day become a warlord of the wasteland was already standing in my path.

If he knew something was coming, and I knew something was coming, our paths were bound to collide again.