The stocky guy let out a choked gasp, his eyes rolling back in his head, and his body went slack.
He dropped to his knees, the knife clattering to the ground beside him.
It had all happened too fast.
Too weird.
From beginning to end, Ryan hadn’t moved.
Not a single step.
He’d just stood there, hands in his pockets, expression calm.
But both the men on the ground and Victor standing in the distance—all three of them understood with absolute certainty: This was Ryan’s doing.
What kind of ability was this?
Telekinesis?
Remote manipulation?
Some kind of high-tech weapon they couldn’t see?
This wasn’t supposed to be possible.
This was real life, not some superhero movie.
Fear is contagious.
When confronted with the unknown, it spreads exponentially.
The stocky enforcer shook his head, trying to clear the stars from his vision.
The initial shock was rapidly being replaced by rage and humiliation.
He’d been knocked down.
Made to look weak.
Made to look like a bitch in front of his boss.
Unacceptable.
He lifted his head, eyes bloodshot with fury, and his hand shot toward the inside of his jacket.
Where he kept his gun.
“I’ll fucking kill you!” he screamed, fingers closing around the grip— WHOOOOSH—THUNK!
A sharp whistling sound cut through the air.
A steel rebar—about three feet long, covered in rust, God knows where it had come from—materialized out of nowhere and punched clean through the man’s forearm with devastating force.
“AAAAAHHHHHHHHH!” The scream was inhuman—raw, primal terror and agony.
Blood fountained from the wound as the rebar pinned his entire arm to the dirt like a specimen on a board.
The impact was so powerful it dragged his body half a meter across the ground, leaving a trail of disturbed earth.
The scene was straight out of a horror movie.
The tall enforcer—who’d just managed to push himself to his hands and knees—saw what happened to his partner and completely lost it.
His legs gave out.
He collapsed back to the ground with a wet thud, and a dark stain rapidly spread across the front of his jeans.
He’d literally pissed himself in terror.
Victor stood frozen about twenty feet away, his body rigid under the hood.
A wave of ice-cold fear shot up from his feet to the crown of his head, leaving him paralyzed.
He was armed.
He had two guns on him, actually—one in a shoulder holster, one at the small of his back.
But the moment that rebar had appeared, Victor had felt something he hadn’t felt in fifteen years of operating in the grey market: Death.
A primal, instinctive certainty that if he moved—if he so much as thought about reaching for a weapon—the next piece of steel would be coming for him.
And unlike his idiots on the ground, Victor would get it through the skull, not the arm.
What the fuck IS this guy?
Victor stared at Ryan’s calm face, trying to reconcile what he was seeing with anything in his experience.
This wasn’t martial arts.
This wasn’t some hidden-weapon technique.
This wasn’t explainable by anything Victor understood about how the world worked.
This was supernatural.
Impossible.
Some kind of power that shouldn’t exist.
He’d spent decades in the underworld.
He’d killed men.
He’d been shot at, stabbed, beaten within an inch of his life.
He thought he’d seen everything, thought his nerves were made of iron.
But this?
This was beyond his comprehension.
A force that could strike from range without warning, without defense, without even being visible.
Ryan could kill all three of them without getting within ten feet.
Could pin them to the ground with metal projectiles that appeared out of thin air like divine punishment.
Victor finally understood why the kid had been so confident on the phone.
Why he’d paid the full amount upfront without hesitation.
That wasn’t arrogance.
That was certainty.
When you had this kind of power, guys like Victor and his crew weren’t threats.
They were insects.
Ryan didn’t spare a glance for the two men on the ground—one unconscious and bleeding, one conscious and soaked in his own urine.
He just started walking toward Victor.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Each footfall echoed in the empty mine like a countdown.
Victor’s heart hammered against his ribs.
Every survival instinct he had was screaming at him to run, to draw his weapon, to do something—but his body wouldn’t obey.
He was locked in place by pure, animal fear.
Ryan stopped about six feet away.
Still wearing that same calm expression, like he’d just swatted a couple of annoying flies.
“So,” Ryan said quietly.
“Can we look at the merchandise now?
Or do we need to continue this little demonstration?” Victor would never know the truth.
Over the past two days, Ryan had been experimenting extensively with his storage ability, pushing its limits, testing its capabilities.
And he’d discovered something fascinating: He could make stored items appear anywhere within about fifty meters of his position.
Not just召唤 them to his hand.
Anywhere.
In mid-air.
Behind someone.
Next to them.
Wherever he focused his attention.
The rocks and bricks?
Ryan had stored them earlier specifically for this kind of situation.
All he had to do was focus on a point in space—say, six inches in front of someone’s face—and retrieve the object there instead of in his hand.
The result?
The object materialized at that point with its stored momentum, flying forward like it had been thrown.
The rebar?
Same principle, but more precise.
Ryan had focused on a point directly behind the enforcer’s arm as he reached for his gun, then retrieved the rebar moving forward at that exact location.
Physics did the rest.
It was like having telekinetic weapons, but the reality was simpler—just creative use of a storage ability that bent the rules of space.
But Victor didn’t need to know that.
Let him think it was some kind of supernatural power.
Fear was a useful tool.
Victor’s voice came out strangled.
“Of course.
Yes.
Sir.
Please, follow me.” The shift in his tone was stark.
He’d gone from calling Ryan “kid” to “sir” in the space of two minutes.
He turned toward the white van, moving slowly, carefully, like he was walking through a minefield.
Every few steps he’d glance back nervously, as if expecting a steel bar to come flying out of nowhere and skewer him.
Ryan followed at a leisurely pace, hands back in his pockets.
Victor fumbled with his keys—took him three tries to get them in the van’s back door lock.
His hands were shaking.
Click.
The door slid open with a metallic whoosh.
The smell hit immediately—gun oil, wood, metal, and something else.
The particular scent of weapons that had been stored carefully but were ready for immediate use.
Inside the van were four wooden crates of varying sizes, neatly arranged.
Victor grabbed a crowbar from a bracket inside the door and used it to pry open the largest crate.
The nails squealed as they came free.
Inside: five AR-15 rifles, factory-new, each one carefully wrapped in oiled cloth.
The black metal gleamed under the van’s interior lights.
“Five AR-15s,” Victor said, his voice still trembling slightly.
“All new.
Never fired.
Ten thousand rounds of 5.56 ammunition in the crate underneath.” He moved to the next crate and pried it open.
Twenty Glock 19 handguns, arranged in foam cutouts.
Magazines stacked beside them, already loaded.
“Twenty Glocks.
Two hundred rounds per pistol, pre-loaded magazines.” Victor pointed to a heavy canvas duffel bag in the corner.
“Ballistic vests.
Ten of them.
Level IIIA, rated to stop most handgun rounds and some rifle calibers.” Finally, he indicated the smallest but most reinforced crate—the one with extra metal banding and warning labels.
“Fifty M67 fragmentation grenades.
Military surplus, but tested and functional.
Each one has a five-second fuse and a casualty radius of fifteen meters.” He stepped back, head down, not making eye contact.
It was enough firepower to arm a small militia.
Enough to wage a localized war.
Ryan stepped forward and picked up one of the Glocks.
The weight was familiar—about 23 ounces loaded.
He checked the action, examined the barrel for wear, tested the trigger pull.
Perfect condition.
He set it down and picked up one of the AR-15s, feeling the heft of it, checking the bolt carrier group, peering down the barrel.
Also immaculate.
This was what mattered in the apocalypse.
Not money.
Not status.
Not connections.
Firepower.
The ability to defend what was yours.
The ability to make anyone who threatened you reconsider their life choices.
Ryan allowed himself a small smile—the first genuine one he’d had all day.
He placed his hand on top of the nearest crate.
Store.
The entire crate vanished.
Victor made a choking sound.
Ryan moved to the next crate.
Store.
Gone.
The Glocks.
Store.
The duffel bag with the vests.
Store.
The grenade crate.
Store.
In less than thirty seconds, the entire arsenal had disappeared into Ryan’s infinite storage space, leaving the van’s cargo area completely empty except for some stray packing straw.
Victor was staring at the empty van like he’d just witnessed a magic trick that violated the laws of physics.
Which, technically, he had.
Ryan turned to face him.
“We’re done here,” he said calmly.
“Your guys on the ground need medical attention.
I suggest you get them to a hospital.
Tell them you got jumped by a rival crew or something.
I don’t care.
But if any of you ever mention this meeting to anyone—anyone—I’ll know.
And I’ll be very disappointed.” He let that hang in the air for a moment.
“You don’t want to disappoint me, Victor.” Victor shook his head rapidly.
“No sir.
Never.
This meeting never happened.
We were never here.
You don’t exist.” “Smart man.” Ryan walked past him toward his BMW.
“Oh, and Victor?
You did good work.
The merchandise is exactly what I needed.
If I need more in the future, I’ll be in touch.” He paused at his car door.
“But next time, leave the amateur tough-guy routine at home.
It wastes both our time.” Ryan got in the BMW, started the engine, and drove away.
In his rearview mirror, he could see Victor still standing there, motionless, probably trying to process what the hell had just happened.
The stocky enforcer was still pinned to the ground by the rebar, unconscious and bleeding but alive.
The tall one was sitting in a puddle of his own piss, staring into space like he’d seen God and God had told him to retire.
Ryan smiled grimly as he navigated back toward the highway.
Five days until the apocalypse.
And now he had enough weapons to hold off an army.
If you are interested can check it out.