Sunny returned exhausted.
She dropped the luxury car keys on the marble table in the living room. Her back hunched forward, her muscles aching and screaming from dodging angry dockworkers and running for her very life. The adrenaline crash hit her hard, settling deep in her bones.
Despite the dust and grime clinging to her combat boots, standing in the middle of this pristine, high-tech glass mansion made her look expensive.
The soft ambient lighting caught the red in her hair. She belonged here. She looked like a billionaire heiress who just got back from a rough hike, rather than a desperate girl trying to survive the end of the world.
She dragged her tired feet up the floating wooden stairs. She bypassed the giant walk-in closet and walked straight into her huge bedroom, flopping face-first onto the plush mattress. The soft duvet wrapped around her like a warm hug.
She closed her eyes, ready to pass out until tomorrow.
Then, the memory of the dark storage shed flashed in her mind.
The pitch-black space. The stifling heat radiating off his broad chest. The sharp, intoxicating scent of rich cedar and expensive tobacco filling her lungs. The way he leaned in, his piercing grey eyes searching the shadows just inches from her face.
Sunny kicked her bare legs in the air and let out a high-pitched squeal that bounced off the vaulted ceiling.
"FUCK HE SMELLS GOOD!!!"
She rolled over onto her back, her face flushing a furious, angry red. She grabbed the collar of her black halter top, pulling it right up to her nose. She took a deep, desperate breath.
He actually transferred his scent onto her. He leaned in so close in that shed that his expensive cologne rubbed right off on her clothes.
Sunny kicked the mattress again, squealing even louder.
"I’m not going to wash this top ever!!!"
My fictional husband is perfect. He’s broad, he’s smart, and he smells like a literal god of wealth. The author didn’t lie about his hygiene.
She sat up, staring at the white wall, biting her bottom lip hard. She pictured him leaning in just a fraction of an inch closer in that dark shed. She pictured his cold, calculating gray eyes softening.
She pictured his large hands grabbing her waist, pulling her flush against him, and kissing her right there in the shadows while his security team searched the docks outside.
Another wild squeal left her lips. She fell backwards, burying her face into a fluffy white pillow, giggling and kicking the bed like a teenager with a huge crush.
Donnie, babe, you’re going to fall so hard for me once I save your life. We’re going to be so cute together in our little apocalypse bunker.
She spent the next hour just rolling around, letting her heart rate finally settle back down to a normal rhythm.
The next day brought a fresh wave of survival paranoia.
Sunny targeted a giant industrial fuel reserve located on the dusty outskirts of Koria. She crouched on a rusted metal catwalk, looking down at rows of towering white cylindrical tanks that stretched out into the distance.
Millions of gallons of diesel sat right below her boots.
She had a state-of-the-art solar grid back at the mansion. It was top tier technology. But this was an apocalypse novel. When the sky cracked open and the monsters poured out, the sun would vanish.
Thick layers of supernatural smog and ash would block out the light for months. When those shiny solar panels failed to catch a single ray of sunlight, she needed a manual backup.
Generators don’t run on good vibes and hopes.
She adjusted the waist bag strapped across her chest and climbed down the metal ladder. Her Phantom Treads made zero sound as she hit the concrete ground.
It was exactly noon. The workers were huddled inside the cafeteria for their lunch break, escaping the brutal heat. The yard was practically deserted, save for a few lazy guards scrolling on their phones near the main gate.
Sunny kept her head down. She jogged past the giant storage silos and headed straight for a row of commercial tanker trucks parked near the loading bay. They were filled to the absolute brim, prepped and ready to be dispatched to gas stations across the entire city.
She checked her corners. Clear.
She pressed her bare hand flat against the cold metal grill of the first truck.
Store.
A bright flash of silver light erupted, and the huge vehicle vanished into her spatial pendant, leaving only tire tracks behind.
She ran to the next one.
Store.
Gone.
She moved down the line like a ghost. She took four giant tankers in under two minutes. It was enough diesel to run her bunker’s main generators for a decade. She could run the air conditioning, play video games, and take hot showers while the rest of Koria burned to the ground.
She dusted off her hands, a wicked smirk crossing her lips.
I’m robbing this city blind, and nobody even knows it yet. Thank you for the generous donation, Koria Fuel Corporation.
Meanwhile, Donovan Fallon sat at the head of a long glass table inside a private VIP room at the Viper’s Den. The pulsing bass from the underground fighting arena vibrated straight through the floorboards.
He slammed a thick manila folder onto the glass.
"I want every camera checked," Donovan commanded, his voice cold and precise. "Every street corner, every toll booth, every single security feed leading away from Pier 4. Spare no expense."
Across the table, the Viper Boss lounged back in his velvet chair. He swirled a glass of dark rum, a lazy smirk resting on his flawless pale face. His glowing red eyes scanned the scattered papers. They were full of blurry security images of a red-haired woman running through the shadows.
Donovan put his entire intelligence network on the hunt. He pulled favors, hired hackers, and deployed street-level informants to track down "Sunny Game." He wanted her face plastered on every screen in his underground network.
"She bypassed a digital lock in five seconds," Donovan stated, crossing his arms over his tailored suit jacket. "She evaded a twelve-man security detail in broad daylight. She moved three crates of military explosives without a vehicle. She’s a highly trained criminal. Some rival CEO definitely hired her to sabotage my supply chain."
The Viper Boss let out a low, rumbling chuckle. He took a slow sip of his rum, clearly enjoying the show.
"You need to calm down, Donovan," the mafia boss said smoothly, resting his elbows on the table.
Donovan narrowed his gray eyes. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. "Calm down?"
"Yes," the Viper Boss replied, unbothered by the freezing glare. "I held her in my arms, remember? She isn’t some trained corporate assassin. She was terrified. Her heart was beating out of her chest against my hand. She babbled some nonsense about taking a wrong turn looking for a balcony. She’s just a chaotic little bird who got lucky."
Donovan gave his friend a sharp, piercing look. A look that clearly said it wasn’t as simple as that.
"Luck doesn’t empty a shipping container in three minutes," Donovan countered, his voice low and dangerous. "Luck doesn’t march into my private auction, break into your secured vault, and raid my docks."
He stood up, fixing the cuffs of his pristine shirt. His jaw clenched tight.
"Something’s playing in the background," Donovan said softly, staring out the darkened window of the VIP lounge. "And I just know it."
Miles away, Sunny slipped through a hole in the perimeter fence of the fuel reserve. She landed softly in the dirt on the side of the highway.
"Achoo!"
She sneezed loudly, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand.
"Someone’s definitely talking about me," Sunny muttered, sniffing the air.
Probably Donnie thinking about how much he misses me. Or cursing my name. Same difference, really. The obsession is mutual.
She started walking toward her parked luxury car, swinging her keys around her finger and humming a happy little tune. She felt invincible. She had food, guns, a bunker, and infinite gas. She was winning the apocalypse before it even started.
[CRITICAL ALERT.]
[Narrative deviation detected due to Host interference.]
[The apocalypse timeline just shifted forward by two days.]