Victor stood motionless in the darkness, studying Ryan.
“Check the merchandise,” he said, his gravelly voice clipped and professional.
Ryan crouched down, unzipped the black duffel bag, and peeled back the first layer of dark cloth.
A Glock 19.
Black, compact, deadly.
Three fully loaded magazines sitting beside it.
Ryan picked up the handgun with practiced ease.
Ejected the magazine with his thumb, checked the chamber, racked the slide.
The motion was smooth, automatic—muscle memory from years of survival in a world where knowing your weapon meant the difference between living and dying.
Victor’s posture shifted slightly under his hood.
He’d sold guns to hundreds of buyers over the years.
Nervous first-timers who held pistols like they might explode.
Rich kids playing gangster who couldn’t even figure out where the safety was.
Wannabe tough guys who talked big but fumbled through every basic operation.
But this kid?
This kid handled the Glock like he’d been doing it his whole life.
The movements were too fluid, too confident.
This wasn’t someone playing dress-up.
This was someone who knew weapons.
Victor filed that information away.
Interesting.
And potentially dangerous.
Ryan set the pistol down and unwrapped the other packages.
Five AR-15 rifles, disassembled for transport, each one clean and well-maintained.
Ammunition—several hundred rounds for each weapon.
He did a quick inspection of each rifle, checking the action, examining the barrels for wear, making sure nothing was damaged or defective.
Everything checked out.
“Goods are good,” Ryan said, looking up.
Victor nodded once, clearly ready to wrap this up and disappear.
“Wait,” Ryan said.
Victor froze, but didn’t turn around.
The two figures near the van tensed visibly.
“I need more,” Ryan continued.
“Can you source it?” A pause.
Then: “What kind of more?” “Ten ballistic vests—Level III minimum, rifle-rated.
Five more AR-15s.
Ten thousand rounds of 5.56 ammunition.
Twenty more Glock 19s with appropriate ammunition.” The two figures by the van shifted their weight, hands moving subtly toward concealed weapons.
Victor turned around slowly.
“Who the fuck are you?” His voice had lost its professional neutrality.
Now it carried an edge of genuine wariness—maybe even fear.
One handgun and a few rifles?
That was self-defense, maybe some paranoia.
Rich people bought that kind of hardware all the time.
But five automatic rifles, ten thousand rounds of ammunition, twenty pistols, and ballistic vests?
That wasn’t home defense.
That was building an arsenal.
That was preparing for war.
“Doesn’t matter who I am,” Ryan said calmly, slinging the weapons duffel over his shoulder.
“What matters is whether you can get it.
Can you or can’t you?” Victor stared at him through the darkness, and Ryan could feel the calculation happening behind those hidden eyes.
Turn down the deal—safe, smart, avoid whatever shitstorm this kid was planning.
Or take the deal—dangerous, but potentially the biggest payday Victor had seen in years.
“Yeah,” Victor said finally.
“I can get it.
But the price is different.
We’re talking serious volume here.” “Name it,” Ryan said.
“Six million.
Cash.” Ryan didn’t even blink.
“Done.
But I want to add one more thing.” “What?” “Fifty fragmentation grenades.
M67s if you can source them, similar spec if you can’t.” Victor went completely still.
Jesus Christ.
This kid IS planning a war.
“That’s another 600k,” Victor said slowly.
“Fine.
Total package: six point six million.
When and where?” Victor studied him for another long moment.
Then he pulled out a burner phone, typed something quickly, and showed Ryan the screen.
A string of numbers—an account number.
“Wire one million to this account as a deposit.
Once I confirm receipt, I’ll send you a time and location for the exchange.
Three days from now.” “Deal,” Ryan said.
He pulled out his phone right there, under Victor’s watchful gaze, and initiated the wire transfer.
One million dollars, sent to an account that probably belonged to a shell corporation in the Cayman Islands.
TRANSFER SUCCESSFUL: $1,000,000.00 Victor’s burner phone buzzed.
He checked it, confirmed the deposit, then looked back at Ryan with something that might have been respect.
“You’re either very smart or very stupid,” Victor said.
“I haven’t decided which.” “Guess you’ll find out in three days,” Ryan replied.
Victor gestured to his men.
They climbed back into the white van without a word.
“One more thing,” Victor called out before getting in.
“Don’t bring anyone to the exchange.
Don’t contact the police.
Don’t try to track me.
You do any of that, the deal’s off and you lose your deposit.
Clear?” “Crystal,” Ryan said.
Victor nodded once, then disappeared into the van.
The engine started, headlights flared to life, and the vehicle pulled away into the darkness, leaving Ryan alone in the abandoned lot.
He stood there for a moment, feeling the weight of the weapons bag on his shoulder.
Then he walked back to his BMW, put the duffel in the trunk, and drove away.
By the time Ryan merged onto the highway heading back toward Westchester, his stomach was growling loud enough to be heard over the engine.
He checked the dashboard clock: 7:43 PM.
He’d been running non-stop since this morning.
Meetings with contractors, placing massive supply orders, making illegal arms deals.
He’d eaten nothing but a protein bar around noon and his body was staging a full revolt.
His stomach cramped painfully, and Ryan realized with a strange detachment that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a real meal.
Wait—no.
He could remember.
In his previous life, the last actual meal he’d eaten had been three years into the apocalypse.
A scavenged can of beef stew that Jessica had “generously” let him have half of, back when he was still useful to her.
After that?
Stale crackers.
Moldy bread.
Rats, when they could catch them.
Tree bark boiled into a bitter sludge.
And then nothing at all, as the fever took hold and he became too weak to hunt for food.
Until Jessica and Marcus decided to solve two problems at once.
Ryan’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles going white.
No.
Stop.
Don’t think about that.
Tonight, before everything started tomorrow—before the nickel trade, before the excavation, before the final countdown to the apocalypse—he was going to have a real meal.
One last taste of civilization before it all burned down.
The Crown was one of Manhattan’s most exclusive restaurants—the kind of place where reservations were booked months in advance and the per-person cost could easily hit four figures.
Ryan pulled up to the valet station without hesitation, tossed his keys to the attendant, and walked straight through the ornate entrance.
The interior was exactly as pretentious as he’d expected: crystal chandeliers, white tablecloths, soft classical music, and the kind of hushed atmosphere that screamed old money.
Several diners glanced up as he entered, their expressions flickering between curiosity and disdain.
Ryan was still wearing the same clothes from this morning—dark jeans, a slightly rumpled button-down shirt, no jacket.
He looked like he’d just walked off a construction site, not into one of the city’s finest restaurants.
He didn’t care.
“Table for one,” he told the maître d’, a stick-thin man with a perfectly waxed mustache who looked deeply offended by Ryan’s casual appearance.
“Sir, I’m afraid we require reservations—” Ryan pulled out his wallet and handed over his black American Express card.
“I don’t have a reservation.
But I’m planning to spend about five thousand dollars in the next hour.
Still a problem?” The maître d’s expression shifted instantly from disdain to obsequious professionalism.
“Of course not, Mr.
Matthews.
Right this way, please.” Ryan was led to a table by the window overlooking Central Park.
The view was spectacular—the park lit up against the night sky, the city glittering beyond.
He sat down and picked up the menu without really looking at it.
“I’ll have one of everything marked with an asterisk,” Ryan said when the waiter appeared.
“And a bottle of your best Bordeaux.
Something old.
1982 if you’ve got it.” The waiter’s eyes widened slightly.
“Sir, that’s…
twelve entrées.
And our 1982 Château Lafite Rothschild is—” “I don’t care what it costs,” Ryan said flatly.
“Just bring it.” “Of course, sir.
Right away.” The food started arriving within minutes.
Australian Wagyu ribeye, seared to perfection.
Pan-seared foie gras with caramelized apples.
Black truffle pasta.
Butter-poached lobster.
Rack of lamb with rosemary.
Each dish was a work of art—beautifully plated, garnished with microgreens and edible flowers, drizzled with reduction sauces.
Ryan didn’t appreciate any of it.
He ate like a man who’d been starving for years—because he had been.
In another timeline, in another life, where food was the most precious commodity in existence and every calorie meant another day of survival.
He cut into the Wagyu steak, watching the pink juice run across the plate, and shoved piece after piece into his mouth.
The meat was tender, perfectly seasoned, probably worth two hundred dollars.
It tasted like salvation.
Ryan was halfway through his third entrée when a familiar voice cut through the restaurant’s ambient noise.
“Are you KIDDING me right now?!” He looked up.
Jessica.
Of course it was Jessica.
She stood a few feet from his table, dressed to kill in a skintight red dress that showed off every curve, her hair perfectly styled, diamond earrings catching the light.
Next to her was another woman—Ashley, Jessica’s best friend and eternal enabler.
Ryan recognized Ashley immediately.
In his previous life, she’d been attached to a minor gang leader in the early days of the apocalypse.
She’d spent months bragging to Jessica about how powerful her boyfriend was, how well-protected she was, how Jessica should dump Ryan and find someone “more capable.” The constant comparisons had eaten away at Jessica’s already minimal loyalty.
By the time the apocalypse hit its third year, Jessica had been fully convinced that Ryan was dead weight.
Ashley’s face held that same smug, superior expression now—like she was watching a particularly entertaining episode of a reality show where someone was about to get humiliated.
Jessica looked furious.
Her face was flushed, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
“You BLOCKED me?” she hissed, leaning over Ryan’s table.
“You actually blocked my number?
After the way you talked to me this morning?
And now you’re here, stuffing your face like nothing happened?” Ryan calmly set down his knife and fork, wiped his mouth with the linen napkin, and met Jessica’s eyes.
“Yeah,” he said simply.
“I blocked you.
Problem?”
If you are interested can check it out.