“Wait, is that a Plaza Hotel truck?” one of the women said, squinting.
Before anyone could answer, a second truck appeared around the corner.
Then a third.
Then a fourth.
Nobu Downtown Pizza Hut Shake Shack And then—absurdly—a swarm of delivery drivers, wearing the uniforms of every food delivery app in the city.
DoorDash, Uber Eats, Grubhub, Postmates.
Their insulated bags were stuffed to capacity, bulging with containers.
Within minutes, the normally quiet residential street had transformed into a chaotic convoy of food service vehicles stretching back almost a quarter-mile.
Patricia and her walking group stood frozen on the sidewalk, mouths hanging open.
“What in the actual hell…” someone whispered.
The Matthews Estate gate—that massive steel barrier they’d all been complaining about—began sliding open.
And the trucks started filing through, one after another, like soldiers entering a fortress.
Delivery people jumped out of vehicles carrying massive insulated containers, stacked pizza boxes, bags of takeout, catering trays.
Some were waiters in formal uniforms.
Others were teenage delivery drivers.
A few were actual chefs still wearing their kitchen whites.
They formed a line—an actual procession—carrying food toward the main house like offerings to a king.
“Is he…
is he having a party?” someone asked weakly.
“For two hundred people?” Patricia shot back.
“Look at the volume!” The scene was beyond extravagant.
It was insane.
Like someone had decided to order every item from every restaurant in New York City simultaneously.
“Maybe he’s…
catering an event?” another woman suggested.
But even as she said it, she knew it didn’t make sense.
Who caters an event at their private home with McDonald’s and Le Bernardin?
Who mixes Michelin-star sushi with KFC buckets?
From early morning through the afternoon, the convoy didn’t stop.
If anything, it got worse.
More trucks arrived.
More delivery drivers.
Some restaurant owners—clearly having received follow-up payments and gone completely manic—were driving their own personal vehicles, trunks and backseats crammed with food containers, joining the pilgrimage to the Matthews Estate.
The street was gridlocked.
The security guards at the neighborhood entrance looked completely overwhelmed but didn’t dare intervene—every driver had documentation showing they were authorized by the property owner of A01.
Inside the estate, Ryan was exhausted.
Not physically—though he’d been on his feet for hours—but mentally.
The logistics of this operation were brutal.
He had to direct traffic, telling each delivery person where to stage their food inside the house.
Had to answer phone calls from restaurant managers with questions about additional orders.
Had to coordinate timing so the trucks didn’t create a complete traffic disaster outside.
Most importantly, he had to find moments—brief windows when no one was looking—to use his storage ability and make the food disappear.
The living room would fill with a hundred KFC meal boxes.
Ryan would shoo everyone out for “just a moment,” close the door, and—store—the entire pile would vanish.
Then he’d open the door and call in the next group.
The dining room would be stacked floor-to-ceiling with sushi platters from six different Japanese restaurants.
Ryan would step inside, close the door, store everything, and emerge seconds later to an empty room.
“Next!
Italian food, bring it through!” He was like a magician running the world’s most elaborate trick, making literal tons of food disappear in real-time while maintaining the illusion that it was simply being distributed throughout the house.
The delivery people saw busy activity, saw food staged in various rooms, saw some accumulation—but none of them realized that in just a few hours, this house had consumed enough prepared meals to feed a small army for months.
Ryan had just finished authorizing another $750,000 transfer to a steakhouse chain when a sharp, mocking voice cut through the noise.
“Well, well, well!
Look who’s throwing a party and didn’t invite the neighbors!” Ryan looked up, already knowing who it would be.
Three people stood near the gate, looking at him with expressions ranging from amusement to outright contempt.
Two women and a man.
The speaker was a woman in her late twenties wearing head-to-toe designer clothes—Chanel dress, Louboutin heels, heavy makeup.
Ashley.
Jessica’s best friend and eternal sidekick.
Next to her stood Jessica herself, wearing a sweet, innocent expression that Ryan now recognized as completely fake.
She was holding onto the arm of the man between them.
And the man—early thirties, Versace suit, Patek Philippe watch, chin tilted up like he was posing for an invisible camera—was someone Ryan recognized immediately.
Brandon Pierce.
Ryan’s eyes went cold.
He knew these people.
Knew them too well.
Ashley and Jessica both lived in the high-rise building section of the neighborhood—the less prestigious part where apartments started at “only” $2 million instead of the $15 million single-family estates.
Both women had come from middle-class backgrounds, worked their way into professional careers, and deliberately moved to this expensive neighborhood specifically to social-climb.
To meet rich men.
To marry up.
Jessica had targeted Ryan because she’d seen him living in Estate A01 and assumed he was wealthy and naive.
Which, in his previous life, he had been.
She’d played the role of devoted girlfriend perfectly—right up until the apocalypse stripped away the facade and she’d decided Ryan was worth more as food than as a partner.
And Brandon?
He lived in Estate 03.
His father owned a shipping company worth about $1.5 billion.
Brandon himself had never worked a real job in his life, spent his trust fund on cars and watches and a rotating cast of girlfriends he discarded like used tissues.
In Ryan’s previous timeline, Brandon had survived the initial apocalypse thanks to his family’s resources, then died in the second year when his fortress got overrun by a gang that wanted his supplies.
Now, apparently, Jessica had moved on from Ryan to Brandon in record time.
Good for her, Ryan thought coldly.
She can eat him when the food runs out.
“Ryan, what is all this?” Ashley said, walking closer on her stilettos, gesturing at the trucks and delivery people.
“Are you so afraid of going bankrupt that you’re building a literal fortress to hide from debt collectors?” She laughed—a cruel, tinkling sound.
“I hate to break it to you, sweetie, but that wall won’t stop anyone.
They’ll just bring a ladder, climb right over, and drag you out of your little turtle shell.” Ryan didn’t bother responding to her.
Just gave her a brief, dismissive glance.
“I’m not hiding from debt collectors,” he said calmly.
“I’m keeping out people who spend their days spying on their neighbors because their own lives are too boring.” Ashley’s face flushed bright red.
“Excuse me?!
How DARE you—” “Ryan.” Jessica’s voice cut in, sweet and poisonous.
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