The line went dead silent.
Ryan could practically picture Jessica’s face—that perfect mask of beauty cracking as humiliation and rage fought for control.
Ten seconds passed.
Then fifteen.
Finally, her voice exploded through the speaker, shrill and venomous: “Are you out of your MIND?!
How DARE you talk to me like that!
Do you have any idea who you’re—” “Jessica,” Ryan interrupted, his voice carrying all the warmth of a winter grave, “do me a favor and disappear from my life.
Permanently.” “What—what the hell is wrong with you?!” Jessica shrieked.
“Are you seriously trying to break up with me over—” “I’m not trying to do anything,” Ryan said calmly.
“We’re done.
It’s over.
And honestly?
A woman like you?
I’d rather eat glass than waste another second of my life pretending to care.” In his previous life, the mere threat of a breakup from Jessica would have sent him into a panic.
He would have apologized, bought her whatever she wanted, done anything to make her stay.
But that Ryan was dead.
Literally.
“Fine!” Jessica’s voice hit a pitch that probably scared dogs three blocks away.
“FINE!
You want to break up?
We’re broken up!
Good luck finding someone half as good as me, you pathetic—” Ryan hung up mid-insult.
Then he blocked her number, deleted her contact, and for good measure, blocked her on every social media platform he could think of.
Silence.
Beautiful, blessed silence.
Dealing with Jessica for even thirty seconds had been exhausting, but necessary.
He needed to cut that cancer out of his life before it could metastasize.
In his previous timeline, she’d been a constant drain on his resources, his time, his energy—right up until the moment she’d decided he was more valuable as food than as a boyfriend.
But dwelling on her was a waste of time.
He had bigger problems.
Money.
Even with David liquidating the company, $100 million wasn’t going to cut it.
And the Deep Space Coin pump wouldn’t happen for another three days—he couldn’t afford to wait that long to start building his fortress.
Ryan paced his room, his mind racing through possibilities like a supercomputer crunching numbers.
The fortress he needed wasn’t just some glorified bomb shelter.
He needed a fully independent underground complex—something that could maintain life support indefinitely.
Climate control systems that could handle temperatures from negative seventy to over two hundred degrees.
Water purification and recycling.
Air filtration that could handle anything from toxic fumes to biological contamination.
Hydroponics for food.
Medical facilities.
Armory.
Communications.
Power generation with multiple redundant backups.
The walls would need to be reinforced concrete at least sixteen feet thick, probably with a steel honeycomb structure inside for additional strength.
It would need to withstand magnitude 9+ earthquakes, catastrophic flooding, and God knows what else.
This wasn’t a shelter.
This was a military-grade survival bunker that needed to be built from scratch in seven days.
$100 million wouldn’t even cover the materials.
He needed to multiply his capital before the Deep Space Coin crash.
Fast.
Were there any other opportunities he could exploit with his future knowledge?
Ryan’s pacing stopped abruptly.
Wait.
A memory surfaced—something that had been completely overshadowed by the Deep Space Coin hysteria but had still made waves in the financial world.
Nickel futures.
On day six before the apocalypse, there was going to be a sudden international incident—a civil war would erupt in Indonesia, shutting down the world’s largest nickel mining operations overnight.
The London Metal Exchange nickel futures would absolutely explode, jumping 280% in a single 24-hour period as manufacturers panicked about supply chains.
In his previous life, nobody had paid attention to it because the crypto markets were going absolutely insane at the same time.
But Ryan remembered.
He’d heard survivors talking about a hedge fund manager who’d made nearly $3 billion on that nickel trade, only to lose everything a week later when the internet went down permanently.
The nickel spike would happen on August 18th—six days from now.
Which meant if he went all-in on nickel futures tomorrow with maximum leverage…
Ryan did the math in his head.
With 20x leverage on $100 million, and a 280% return…
$5.6 billion.
Then, when the Deep Space Coin pump happened three days later, he could take a portion of those profits and turn them into tens of billions more.
His heart hammered against his ribs.
This could actually work.
But first, he needed to get the fortress construction started.
Now.
Today.
Ryan sat down at his laptop and pulled up Google.
He typed in: “private bunker construction military grade secure facility” Several companies came up, but one immediately caught his eye.
Sentinel Defense Solutions Their website was sleek but understated—no flashy graphics or marketing nonsense.
Just a simple tagline: “Bespoke security solutions for those who refuse to compromise.” The portfolio showed projects that made most billionaire panic rooms look like garden sheds.
Underground complexes with NBC (nuclear, biological, chemical) filtration.
Facilities designed to withstand direct military strikes.
One project—labeled only as “Project Redoubt”—appeared to be a full-scale underground mansion built into a Colorado mountain.
Perfect.
Ryan grabbed his phone and dialed the number listed on the website.
Two rings, then: “Sentinel Defense Solutions.
How may I direct your call?” The woman’s voice was professional, polished, with just a hint of a British accent.
“I need to build a private shelter,” Ryan said without preamble.
“Of course, sir.
May I ask what your timeline and budget parameters are?
We typically recommend beginning the consultation process at least six months before—” “Seven days,” Ryan interrupted.
“I need it built in seven days.” A pause.
“I…
I’m sorry, sir, could you repeat that?” “Seven days.
Location is the Matthews Estate in Westchester County, New York.
I need a two-level underground expansion beneath the existing foundation.
Specs: withstand magnitude 9+ seismic activity, temperatures from negative seventy Fahrenheit to surface temps exceeding two hundred degrees, sustained flooding for at least six months, and it needs completely independent life support—power, water, air, food production, the works.” The silence on the other end stretched for several seconds.
“Sir,” the woman said carefully, “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but what you’re describing is…
well, it’s essentially a military-grade doomsday bunker.
Those projects typically take eighteen to thirty-six months to design and construct, even with unlimited resources.
Seven days is…
I’m afraid that’s simply not—” “Let me talk to your project manager,” Ryan said.
“Sir, I don’t think—” “Now, please.” Another pause, then: “One moment.” Hold music.
Something classical.
Vivaldi, maybe.
Ryan waited, drumming his fingers on his desk.
Ninety seconds later, a new voice came on the line.
Male, older, with the gravelly tone of someone who’d spent years barking orders on construction sites.
“This is Marcus Webb, senior project director.
My receptionist tells me you want to build a military bunker in seven days?” His tone made it clear what he thought of that idea.
“Look, kid, I don’t know if this is a prank or if you just don’t understand how construction works, but—” “One million dollars,” Ryan said.
Marcus stopped mid-sentence.
“…What?” “One million dollars.
Deposit.
Right now, before we even meet.
Wire transfer to whatever account you want—personal, business, I don’t care.
You verify the funds, then you bring your best engineers and structural designers to the Matthews Estate in Westchester within the next hour.
We have a face-to-face meeting, you look at the site, and we negotiate the real contract.” “That’s…” Marcus’s voice had lost some of its certainty.
“You can’t be serious.” “If you can’t do the job, keep the million.
Consider it a consultation fee.
But if you can do it—or if you can at least get me something functional in seven days—I’ll triple your standard rates for a project this size.
Rush fees, hazard pay, overtime for your crews, whatever you need.
Money is not an issue.” Ryan could hear Marcus breathing on the other end of the line.
“Son,” Marcus said slowly, “do you have any idea what kind of budget you’re talking about?
For what you’re describing, even on a normal timeline, you’re looking at somewhere between two hundred and five hundred million dollars.
With a seven-day deadline?
The costs would be astronomical.
The permits alone—” “I don’t care about permits,” Ryan said flatly.
“I don’t care if you have to bribe every inspector in the state or pour concrete at midnight to avoid attention.
I need this done in seven days, and I need it done right.
So here’s the deal: you give me your account number, I wire you the deposit right now, and you get your ass to my property within an hour.
We’ll figure out the rest in person.” “You’re out of your mind,” Marcus said, but there was something different in his voice now.
Interest.
Curiosity.
Maybe even excitement.
“Nobody builds something like this in seven days.
It’s impossible.” “Then prove me wrong and keep the million,” Ryan said.
“Or prove me right and make the biggest payday of your career.
Your call, Marcus.
But I’m giving you about ten seconds to decide before I call the next company on my list.” Five seconds of silence.
Then: “Account number is 4472-8831-9653-7720.
Routing number 021000021.
Bank of America business account.” Ryan smiled.
“Smart man.
Expect the transfer in two minutes.
See you in an hour.” He hung up before Marcus could respond.
Opening his banking app, Ryan navigated to the wire transfer section and punched in the account details.
Amount: $1,000,000.00.
His finger hovered over the confirm button for just a moment.
A million dollars.
Sent to a stranger he’d talked to for less than five minutes, with no contract, no legal protection, nothing.
In his old life, this would have been insane.
But in his old life, he’d died screaming while the woman he loved carved him up like a Thanksgiving turkey.
Fuck the old life.
Ryan hit confirm.
TRANSFER SUCCESSFUL: $1,000,000.00 He set the phone down and turned back to his laptop, opening a new document.
Time to start designing his fortress.
Fortunately, his degree from Columbia had been in architectural engineering—something he’d chosen mostly because his father thought it would be useful for understanding the company’s real estate investments.
Ryan had never thought he’d actually use it for anything practical.
Funny how the apocalypse changed your perspective.
He started sketching.
First, the basic layout—two subterranean levels beneath the existing mansion, each approximately 15,000 square feet.
Level One would house the primary living quarters, command center, medical bay, armory, and main life support systems.
Level Two would be storage, backup generators, water treatment, hydroponics, and a secondary shelter-within-a-shelter in case Level One was compromised.
Access points: a hidden elevator shaft from the mansion’s basement, plus two emergency escape tunnels that would surface a quarter-mile away in different directions, disguised as old utility access points.
Wall composition: sixteen-inch-thick reinforced concrete with internal steel lattice structure and additional layers of lead lining for radiation shielding…
Four minutes later, his phone buzzed.
Ryan grabbed it.
Unknown number with a 914 area code—Westchester.
“Yeah?” “Mr.
Matthews?” Marcus Webb’s voice had completely transformed.
Gone was the skepticism and irritation.
Now he sounded almost breathless.
“The money.
Holy shit.
You actually sent it.
One million dollars.
It’s real.” “I told you it was,” Ryan said calmly, still sketching ventilation layouts.
“Right.
Yes.
Of course.” Marcus was clearly trying to pull himself together.
“Okay.
I’m grabbing my team now.
We’ll be at your location in…
Jesus, traffic is terrible right now.
Forty-five minutes?” “Make it thirty and I’ll add another hundred thousand to the final contract,” Ryan said.
“We’ll be there in twenty,” Marcus replied immediately.
“Good man.
Oh, and Marcus?” “Yes, sir?” “Bring someone who specializes in rapid-cure concrete and modular construction techniques.
And someone who knows hydroponics and life support systems.
This isn’t just a bunker—it needs to sustain long-term habitation.” “Already texting my guys.
We’ll bring the full specialty team.” “Perfect.
See you soon.” Ryan ended the call and returned to his designs.
He had seven days to build a fortress that could withstand the end of the world.
The clock was ticking.