Evelyn stopped mid-step, her hand freezing on the doorknob.
She turned slowly, her eyes cold and sharp as ice.
“My last name is Hart,” she said, her voice dropping three degrees.
“Not ‘sweetheart’ or whatever you were about to call me.” Ryan winced internally.
“Right.
Sorry.
Ms.
Hart—” “What do you want?” She crossed her arms, clearly done with this entire situation.
Ryan took a breath and forced himself to focus.
This was important.
Maybe the most important conversation he’d have today.
“I know this is going to sound crazy,” he started, “but what I’m about to tell you could save your life.
You need to listen.” Evelyn’s expression didn’t change.
“I’m listening.
Barely.” “Today—don’t go anywhere.
Don’t go to your office, don’t go to meetings, don’t leave your house.
Just…
stay home.” Evelyn stared at him like he’d grown a second head.
“Excuse me?” “After midnight tonight, there’s going to be a catastrophic weather event.
Global scale.
It’ll start with hail, then snow, then temperatures will drop to lethal levels within hours.” Ryan’s voice was urgent, intense.
“If you’re outside when it hits, you could die.
You need to be somewhere safe.” Evelyn continued staring.
Ryan pressed on.
“And between now and then, you need to stockpile supplies.
As much as you can carry.
Go to stores, buy everything—food, water, warm clothes, medicine, fuel.
Everything.
Get back to your house before 5 PM, lock all your doors and windows, and don’t leave.” He was almost pleading now.
“Please.
Just trust me on this.” Evelyn’s expression cycled through several emotions—confusion, concern, then finally settling on something like pity.
She looked at Ryan of someone having a breakdown.
“You need help,” she said quietly.
“Professional help.” “I’m not—” “No, seriously.” Evelyn shook her head.
“Ryan, I don’t know if this is some kind of…
delayed trauma response from your parents’ death, or stress from selling your company, or what.
But you’re clearly not okay.
You should talk to someone.” “I know how it sounds, but—” “It sounds insane,” Evelyn interrupted.
She moved toward the door again.
“Thank you for…
for stopping those men last night.
I mean that.
But I’m not staying home because you had some apocalyptic vision or whatever this is.” “Evelyn, please—” “Goodbye, Ryan.” She opened the door and walked out, her footsteps quick and determined on the hardwood floor.
Ryan stood in the empty bedroom, staring at the open door.
He’d tried.
He’d warned her.
But she wouldn’t listen—couldn’t listen, because from her perspective, he sounded completely unhinged.
In her previous timeline, she survived the initial apocalypse.
Made it three years before…
before the end.
She’ll probably be fine.
At least at first.
Ryan pushed down the guilt.
He couldn’t force her to believe him.
Couldn’t reveal his storage ability or explain how he knew the future without sounding even crazier.
Buzz buzz.
His phone vibrated on the nightstand.
Ryan grabbed it and checked the security camera feeds.
Another convoy of delivery trucks was approaching the estate.
Food shipments from the final wave of restaurant orders.
Right.
Back to work.
He’d deal with his personal life after the apocalypse.
Right now, he had twelve hours left to finish preparations.
12:47 PM Ryan signed for a delivery of ten brand-new Polaris snowmobiles—top-of-the-line models designed for Arctic exploration, each one costing about $25,000.
The delivery drivers helped him unload them onto the back lawn, lining them up in neat rows.
Ryan waited until they drove away, then walked out to inspect his new toys.
Sleek machines, built for deep snow and subzero temperatures.
When the roads became impassable and cars were useless, these would give him unmatched mobility.
Ryan smiled and placed his hand on the nearest snowmobile.
Store.
All ten machines vanished simultaneously, appearing in his storage space.
Perfect.
He went back inside and kept working—directing deliveries, storing supplies, answering calls from restaurant managers with questions.
He didn’t stop for lunch.
Didn’t stop for breaks.
Just worked straight through the afternoon.
8:03 PM The estate was still buzzing with activity despite the late hour.
Delivery trucks lined the street.
Workers hauled containers of food.
The whole operation had the frantic energy of a military logistics hub.
Then— VROOOOM.
A deep, aggressive engine sound cut through the noise, getting louder as it approached.
Everyone stopped working and turned to look.
A convoy of luxury vehicles was barreling down the street toward the estate—LED headlights blazing, engines roaring, moving with intimidating precision.
Leading the pack: a black Rolls-Royce Cullinan, probably worth $400,000.
Behind it: two Maybach S-Class sedans and over a dozen black Mercedes G-Wagons.
SCREEEECH.
The vehicles came to a stop in a semicircle formation around the estate entrance, completely blocking any exit routes.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Doors opened in synchronized precision.
Fifty men in identical black suits, sunglasses, and earpieces emerged from the G-Wagons.
They moved with military efficiency—two neat rows forming a corridor, hands clasped in front of them, postures radiating menace.
The delivery workers froze, faces going pale.
Several started backing away slowly.
This was way above their pay grade.
Two of the suited men jogged to the Cullinan and the lead Maybach, opening the rear doors with practiced deference.
From the Cullinan emerged a man in his fifties—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a custom suit that probably cost more than most people’s cars.
His face was hard, his expression cold, and he moved with the authority of someone used to being obeyed without question.
Charles Pierce.
Brandon’s father.
Owner of Pierce Global Shipping, net worth approximately $1.8 billion.
From the Maybach stepped another man of similar age and presence—slightly heavier, with harder edges and a face that suggested he’d climbed to power through means that weren’t entirely legal.
Marcus Wang.
The man who would, in another timeline, become the cannibalistic warlord of the Denver Safe Zone.
Behind them, two younger men emerged.
Brandon Pierce, his head wrapped in thick bandages, only his eyes visible through the gauze.
He was being helped by two assistants, moving gingerly like every step hurt.
And from another vehicle: Derek Wang, sitting in a wheelchair, his leg in a cast from hip to ankle, his face pale with fury and pain.
Charles and Marcus stood side by side, surveying the scene with identical expressions of barely controlled rage.
They looked at the busy delivery operation, then at their injured sons, then at the fortress-like estate in front of them.
“Dad!
That’s him!” Brandon’s voice came muffled through the bandages.
“That bastard Ryan Matthews!
He’s the one who—” “It was him!” Derek shouted from his wheelchair, trying to lunge forward despite his injury.
“He shot me!
I want him DEAD!
I want him chopped into pieces and—” Charles raised one hand, silencing both young men instantly.
He took several steps forward.
His fifty bodyguards moved with him like a living wall of black suits, pressing forward in formation.
The air itself seemed to freeze.
Charles’s gaze cut through the crowd of delivery workers like a laser, locking onto Ryan, who was standing calmly near the estate entrance.
When Charles spoke, his voice was quiet but carried absolute authority—and underneath it, a promise of violence.
“You’re the one who hurt my son?”
If you are interested can check it out.