#3

The air conditioner in my beat-up, ten-year-old hatchback rattled loudly, blowing air that smelled faintly of damp mold and burning exhaust. 

The driver's side door creaked as I leaned against it, idling in the clogged traffic of the industrial district. Across the passenger seat sat a lukewarm, grease-stained paper bag containing two plain egg sandwiches—my meal for the day.

My hands, rough and calloused from three years of hauling feed sacks and scrubbing irrigation pipes at the downtown hydroponics farm, gripped the faded steering wheel.

In my past life, every penny of the modest wage I earned at the farm had gone straight into Connor’s hands. I had lived on instant noodles and secondhand clothes, convinced by his gentle lies that we were "saving for our future," while he quietly fed my earnings into Lara’s boutique bills and their private dinners. 

I hadn't been a glamorous heiress with millions in liquid cash; I had been a overworked horse pulling a wagon for two parasites who took everything and gave back nothing.

My actual net worth wasn't tens of millions. It was $140,000—a modest lump sum payout from my late father’s life insurance policy, which had finally cleared in my bank account three days ago. In my previous life, I had handed the entire check over to Connor to "invest."

This time, that $140,000 was every drop of blood I had to buy my way out of the grave.

【Host Claire, your physical fatigue metrics are currently elevated at 38%. Heart rate: 84 BPM. Target Connor has sent four text messages in the past two hours regarding the $140,000 insurance payout release.】

System Syndicate’s voice echoed in my head—cool, structured, and strictly analytical, with just a hint of dry observation. A low-profile blue interface hovered in my peripheral vision, displaying my exact bank balance down to the cent: $138,420.00.

"Read the latest text," I muttered, staring through the cracked windshield at the smokestacks of the logistics park.

【Message from Target Connor: 'Babe, the insurance company confirmed the wire went through this morning. Let me swing by the farm later to pick up the check so I can deposit it into our joint high-yield account. You shouldn't be driving around with that kind of money unsettled. Love you.'】

I let out a single, harsh breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "He's already smelling the meat before the animal is even dead."

【Target Connor's bank account currently holds $820.00. His rent is due in five days. He is experiencing genuine desperation, Host Claire. Shall I send a system ping to simulate a network error on his banking app to increase his blood pressure?】

"No," I replied silently. "Let him think the money is sitting right there, just out of his reach. Desperation makes people sloppy."

I pulled the hatchback into the gravel lot of Vanguard Agricultural Supplies, a massive wholesale warehouse supplying commercial farms across the county. The air here was heavy with the scent of dry grain, diesel fumes, and fertilizer. 

Around me, workers in dirt-stained coveralls were loading pallets onto flatbed trucks. Real people, sweating for a paycheck, completely oblivious to the fact that in less than thirty days, the soil under their boots would turn into a cracked, infertile wasteland.

I stepped out of the car, adjusting my faded denim jacket. The heat of the late morning sun hit my face, making the skin on my arms prickle. It wasn't just warm; it felt unusually oppressive, as if the atmosphere itself was growing dense.

【Environmental Sensor Active: Atmospheric pressure dropping. Microscopic particulate density in upper troposphere increased by 0.04% over the last 12 hours. The volcanic vents are already off-gassing deep beneath the bedrock.】

"So it's starting," I thought, walking toward the heavy metal sliding doors of the main office.

Inside, the warehouse smelled of pine crates and burlap. Behind a counter stacked high with shipping manifests sat an middle-aged man in a grease-stained cap, chewing on an unlit cigar.

"Can I help you, miss?" he asked, not looking up from his ledger. "Retail counter is down the street. We only move wholesale volume here."

I placed my worn leather wallet on the counter, opening it to show my official employee ID from the downtown hydroponics farm, alongside a certified bank draft letter.

"I need bulk orders," I said, keeping my voice firm, flat, and practical—the tone of someone used to standing on concrete floors all day. "I'm procuring emergency stock for an independent agricultural cooperative outside the city."

The manager finally raised his eyes, squinting at my farm credential. "What kind of stock?"

"Five tons of hard red winter wheat in sealed steel drums," I said, listing the items I had spent the entire previous night calculating on scrap paper. "Two tons of rolled oats, three thousand pounds of dried p***o beans, fifty cases of iodized salt, and every unit of commercial grade water-purification tablets you have in storage."

The manager paused, his pencil hovering above the paper. "That's a heavy load for a small coop, lady. That's over twenty grand in dry goods alone. You got the transport lined up?"

"I'll pay the extra f*e for immediate delivery to a commercial storage unit on Industrial Way," I replied, pulling my debit card from my wallet. "And I need it dropped off by six o'clock tonight."

He looked at the card, then at my face. Seeing the dark circles under my eyes and the lack of hesitation in my posture, he spat into a plastic cup and began typing into his ancient desktop computer.

"Drums are fifty bucks a pop for the airtight sealing," he grunted. "Total comes to $28,400 with same-day freight."

I swiped the card. The machine chimed, and a receipt printed with a sharp, mechanical noise.

【Transaction processed,】 System Syndicate reported in my mind. 【Remaining liquid funds: $110,020.00. Storage Space initialized at Industrial Way, Unit 40B. Once the delivery drivers clear the site, stasis ingestion can occur at a rate of 1.2 tons per minute.】

My chest tightened, not from regret, but from the stark reality of the numbers. $28,000 gone in a single swipe, leaving me with barely enough to secure a hardened shelter space and fuel reserves. I wasn't buying luxury bunkers with swimming pools; I was buying survival, pound by pound, sack by sack.

I walked back out to my car, my boots crunching on the loose gravel. Before I could touch the door handle, my phone rang.

It wasn't Connor. It was Lara.

I picked up, pressing the receiver to my ear while watching a forklift haul a pallet of canned lard across the yard.

"Claire?" Lara’s voice came through, sounding thin and anxious, stripped of the sweet, bubbly tone she usually put on when she wanted me to cover her grocery runs. "Where are you? Connor said you weren't at the farm today."

"I took a personal day," I said smoothly, leaning my elbow against the hot roof of my car. "I had errands to run."

"Errands?" Lara echoed, her breath catching slightly.

 "Claire... did you get the insurance money? Connor said the bank processed it. My landlord for the boutique space is demanding the holding deposit by five PM today or he's giving the lease to someone else. Connor said you were going to transfer it to him so he could handle the deposit!"

I looked down at my hands—at the small scar on my index finger from a wire fence at the farm. A scar from working twelve-hour shifts so Connor could wear tailored shirts while secretly paying Lara's rent behind my back.

"The insurance company flagged the transfer for additional review," I lied, my voice dripping with fake exhaustion and distress. "They said because it's a death benefit payout, it takes forty-eight hours to clear anti-fraud verification."

"Forty-eight hours?!" Lara’s voice spiked into a panicked shriek. "Claire, I'll lose the location! Can't you just use your credit card? Or take a cash advance from your farm payroll?"

【Target Lara's anxiety level has reached 88%,】 the System noted, its voice dropping into that quiet, wicked sarcasm. 【She is currently standing in her cramped, unpaid apartment looking at three overdue utility notices. Her hunger for your labor is truly insatiable. Shall I offer her a sympathy card?】

Let her bleed, I thought back.

"I can't, Lara," I whispered into the phone, fake-sniffling. "My credit lines are maxed out from paying for Connor’s car repairs last month. I'm so sorry... I'm doing everything I can. Tell Connor I'm trying."

"Claire, this is insane!" Lara snapped, dropping the friendly facade entirely for a brief, ugly second before catching herself. "I—I mean, it's just really hard on Connor. He's working so hard for us, you know?"

"I know," I said softly. "He's doing so much."

I hung up before she could reply, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat next to my cold egg sandwich.

I sat in the driver's seat, staring at the dusty dashboard. My heart was pounding, not with fear, but with the cold, hard focus of someone who had already died once and refused to do it again. I had $110,000 left. Next was a commercial fuel distributor for four hundred gallons of stabilized diesel, a secondhand industrial generator, and a reconditioned air filtration unit from a surplus supplier.

No luxury. No comfort. Just steel, fuel, grain, and fire.

【Host Claire,】 System Syndicate spoke gently.【Target Connor's vehicle has just logged a location ping at your apartment building. He is waiting by your front door with a spare key.】

I turned the ignition key. The rusty engine roared to life, shaking the frame of the car.

"Let him wait," I said, pulling out onto the sun-baked asphalt. "I have fuel to buy."