Brandon’s scream went up another octave, the sound raw and animalistic.
Jessica and Ashley stood frozen, their brains completely locked up trying to process what had just happened.
First a frying pan.
Then a brick.
Both appearing out of nowhere, both hitting with devastating precision.
Where the hell did they come from?!
They looked around frantically at the crowd of delivery people—drivers, chefs, waiters—but everyone wore the same expression of innocent confusion, like they had no idea what was happening.
Ryan crouched beside Brandon, his face a mask of concern.
“What are you two waiting for?!” he shouted at Jessica and Ashley.
“Get him to a hospital!
His nose is broken!
If you wait any longer, it might not heal properly!” The urgency in Ryan’s voice snapped them out of their paralysis.
“Oh God!
Brandon!” Jessica screamed, finally rushing forward.
She and Ashley grabbed Brandon—one taking his arms, the other his legs—and started dragging him toward his Porsche Panamera parked down the street.
They looked less like concerned partners and more like criminals disposing of a body.
Brandon left a trail of blood drops on the pavement, still moaning and clutching his face.
Ryan watched them go, his expression shifting from fake concern to cold indifference the moment their backs were turned.
He didn’t waste another thought on them.
Instead, he turned to the crowd of delivery people who’d stopped working to watch the show.
“Hey!” Ryan’s voice cut through the murmuring.
“What are you all staring at?!” The crowd jumped.
“Is your job done?
Did you finish delivering everything I ordered?!” Ryan’s tone carried an edge of authority that made people instinctively straighten up.
“Get back to work!
Now!” The delivery drivers, chefs, and restaurant workers scattered like startled birds.
Nobody wanted to piss off the guy who’d just dropped $38 million on takeout without blinking.
“Yes sir!
Right away!” “On it, Mr.
Matthews!” “Sorry for the delay!” Within minutes, the gridlocked street cleared.
Trucks and delivery bikes streamed away, drivers looking relieved to escape.
Ryan kept working for hours.
From 6 AM until well after dark—nearly 10 PM by the time the last delivery truck pulled away.
Sixteen hours of non-stop coordination, directing traffic, answering calls, and most importantly, making literal tons of food disappear into his storage space.
His legs felt like lead.
His mental energy was completely drained.
When the villa gate finally closed behind the last vehicle and silence fell over the property, Ryan dragged himself into the living room.
He didn’t bother turning on lights.
Just walked to the couch and collapsed into it.
Ryan closed his eyes and let his consciousness sink into his storage space.
The sight made every ounce of exhaustion worth it.
Mountains.
Mountains of food.
KFC boxes stacked twenty feet high—tens of thousands of burgers, chicken nuggets, fries, all perfectly preserved in the moment they’d entered the space.
Walls of Peking duck from a dozen different restaurants, vacuum-sealed and ready to eat.
Elaborate sushi platters.
Gourmet steaks.
Italian pasta.
French cuisine.
Indian curries.
Mexican food.
Thai dishes.
All of it organized by category, all of it fresh and hot, all of it representing the kind of abundance that would drive any apocalypse survivor insane with envy.
In his previous life, Ryan had fought other survivors over half a can of spoiled beans.
In this life, he had a food empire that would make kings jealous.
Grrrrowl.
His stomach chose that moment to remind him he hadn’t eaten all day.
Ryan pulled his consciousness back from the storage space and was about to retrieve a steak or some sushi when a thought stopped him.
He checked his phone.
August 19th, 10:34 PM Tomorrow at midnight—25 hours and 26 minutes—the apocalypse begins.
This was the last calm night before the world ended.
The last few hours of normal civilization.
Ryan sat in the darkness for a long moment.
He didn’t want to just grab something from his stockpile and eat it in his empty fortress.
He wanted to see the world one more time.
To witness its final moments of beauty before everything collapsed.
Ryan stood, changed into clean clothes, and walked out of the estate on foot.
He called an Uber and gave the driver an address: Le Coucou, the most prestigious French restaurant in Manhattan.
The drive into the city took forty minutes.
Ryan sat in the back seat, staring out the window at the world streaming past.
Neon signs advertising movies and products.
LED billboards showing smiling models.
Restaurants with outdoor seating, full of people laughing and eating.
Couples walking hand-in-hand.
Street performers.
Food trucks.
A late-night bookstore still open.
Everything was normal.
Nobody knew that in 25 hours, all of this would be gone.
The infrastructure would fail.
The power grid would collapse.
The social order would disintegrate as temperatures plummeted and people realized the government couldn’t save them.
All these people—eating dinner, going to shows, making plans for next week—they had no idea they were living in the last day of the old world.
Ryan felt a strange melancholy wash over him.
What if I’m wrong?
What if the apocalypse doesn’t come and I’ve just spent $15 billion preparing for nothing?
The thought was absurd—he’d lived through the end times, he knew with absolute certainty what was coming—but for just a moment, he let himself imagine a world where tomorrow was just another normal day.
Where he could use his remaining billions to live a comfortable, peaceful life.
Where Jessica was just a bad ex-girlfriend instead of a future cannibal.
Where he didn’t have to spend the next decade fighting to survive.
But that’s not reality, Ryan reminded himself coldly.
The apocalypse is coming.
And I’m the only one ready for it.
Le Coucou was everything you’d expect from a two-Michelin-star French restaurant—elegant, intimate, absurdly expensive.
Ryan got a table by the window overlooking SoHo.
He ordered without looking at prices: filet mignon, black truffle pasta, oysters, escargot, a cheese course, dessert.
And a bottle of Romanée-Conti that cost $18,000.
The waiter’s eyes widened slightly at the wine selection, but he nodded professionally.
“Excellent choice, sir.” Ryan ate slowly, savoring each bite.
Not because the food was particularly amazing—though it was very good—but because he wanted to remember this.
The ritual of fine dining.
The pretense of civilization.
The luxury of caring about whether your wine was properly decanted.
All of it would be irrelevant soon.
He was saying goodbye to an entire era.
After paying the bill—$27,000 for a single meal—Ryan declined the offer to call him a car.
Instead, he walked.
Down through SoHo, through the Village, across into the Upper West Side, then finally catching the train back toward Westchester.
He wanted to feel the city one last time.
To walk through crowds of people living their normal lives.
To see the lights and hear the noise and smell the food trucks and street vendor pretzels.
The late summer evening was pleasant.
A cool breeze cut through the lingering warmth.
Music drifted from an open window—someone’s playlist, something upbeat and pop.
In a small park, a group of older people were doing yoga, moving through the forms with graceful precision.
Everything was so peaceful.
So ordinary.
So fragile.
Ryan was nearing the entrance to his neighborhood when a figure stumbled out of a small grove of trees ahead and nearly crashed into him.
“Help…
please help me…” It was a woman.
Early twenties, wearing what had probably been an elegant white cocktail dress before it got covered in dirt and grass stains.
Her hair was disheveled.
Her makeup smeared.
She reeked of alcohol mixed with expensive perfume.
Her steps were unsteady, her eyes unfocused, and her cheeks were flushed with an unnatural heat that had nothing to do with embarrassment.
She grabbed Ryan’s arm, her grip weak and desperate.
“Someone…
they put something…
in my drink…” Her words slurred together.
“Need…
help…”
If you are interested can check it out.