Ryan parked his BMW at a safe distance from the construction chaos and stepped out.
The air was thick with dust and diesel fumes, but somehow the smell was comforting.
It meant progress.
It meant the fortress was taking shape.
He walked toward the edge of the massive excavation site, and a figure broke away from the crowd of workers—Marcus, covered in dirt and looking like he hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours.
“Mr.
Matthews!” Marcus jogged over, standing almost at attention.
His eyes were bloodshot but burning with manic energy.
“Progress report,” Ryan said.
“Sir, we are absolutely crushing this timeline!” Marcus pulled out his tablet, swiping through screens of data and progress photos.
“We’re not just meeting expectations—we’re exceeding them.” He pulled up a 3D rendering of the excavation.
“The foundation for the outer perimeter is complete—all hundred and sixty feet, poured with ultra-high-performance concrete rated at 15,000 PSI.
We added basalt fiber reinforcement for additional tensile strength.
This thing could take a direct hit from an artillery shell and barely crack.” Marcus swiped to another screen showing the underground levels.
“The third sublevel excavation is seventy percent complete.
We’re running three full crews in eight-hour rotations—the machinery literally never stops.
Right now we’ve got teams simultaneously laying the waterproof membrane and installing the primary steel framework.” His finger moved across the tablet.
“That special-order steel you wanted?
The military-grade stuff?
It arrived this afternoon, four days ahead of schedule.
I had to grease some palms at the Port of Newark to jump the customs line, but we got it.
All of it meets or exceeds mil-spec standards.
With this material, we can accelerate the main structural frame by at least thirty percent.” Marcus looked up, his expression somewhere between exhaustion and religious ecstasy.
“Seven days, Mr.
Matthews.
We’re going to complete the primary structure in seven days.
The smart systems, life support, final equipment installation—all of it will be done by midnight on day seven.
This is going to be the fastest military-grade construction project in modern history.” He hesitated, then added more quietly: “But sir, I need to be straight with you.
The materials you’re demanding…
they’re expensive.
Really expensive.
We’re burning through the budget faster than projected because everything is premium-grade and rush-delivered.
The deposit you gave us was generous, but with the current burn rate…” He trailed off, clearly uncomfortable discussing money.
Ryan nodded.
“I understand.
I’ll wire you another payment tomorrow.
How much do you need to keep going at full speed?” “Another twenty million would ensure we have no material delays,” Marcus said carefully.
“You’ll have forty million by noon tomorrow,” Ryan said.
“I don’t want you worrying about budget.
I want you worrying about quality and speed.” Marcus’s eyes widened.
“Forty—yes sir.
Absolutely.
With that kind of backing, I can push the timeline even harder.” “Do it,” Ryan said.
“But I need the speed to increase even more.
I need this finished by midnight on day seven.
Not a minute later.
Understand?” Marcus nodded sharply.
“The extreme cold starts at midnight on day seven?” Ryan blinked.
He hadn’t mentioned the specific timing of the apocalypse before.
Marcus must have seen something in Ryan’s expression, because he quickly added: “Sir, I’ve been in crisis construction long enough to recognize the pattern.
When someone builds a fortress like this on a seven-day deadline, they’re preparing for something specific.
Something they know is coming.
I don’t need the details.
I just need to make sure we’re ready in time.” “Midnight,” Ryan confirmed.
“Day seven.
Not negotiable.” “Then we’ll be done by 11 PM to give you an hour buffer,” Marcus said firmly.
“You have my word.” Ryan stood at the edge of the excavation, looking down into the massive pit being carved out of the bedrock.
The roar of machinery was deafening—excavators, concrete pumps, welding torches, generators, all creating a symphony of industrial noise.
Floodlights illuminated the pit like a stadium, showing workers scurrying around the bottom like ants, drilling anchor points, laying rebar, connecting conduit.
It was exactly what he needed.
But the noise was giving him a headache, and he suddenly realized there was no way he’d be able to sleep at the estate tonight.
Not with construction running 24/7 right outside his window.
Ryan walked back to the mansion, grabbed his laptop from his father’s study, and headed to his car without saying goodbye to Marcus.
He needed somewhere quiet.
Somewhere he could focus.
Somewhere he could watch the biggest trade of his life unfold in peace.
The Ritz-Carlton in White Plains wasn’t as nice as the Manhattan locations, but it was close, quiet, and had excellent internet service.
Ryan checked into a suite on the top floor—corner unit with views of the Hudson Valley—and immediately set up his laptop on the large desk.
He closed the blackout curtains, plunging the room into darkness except for the glow of his computer screen.
He needed this.
The isolation.
The focus.
Tomorrow morning, he was going to war with the global financial markets.
And he was going to win.
Day Two: 8:00 AM Ryan woke before his alarm, his body thrumming with nervous energy.
Six days until the apocalypse.
Six days until everything changed.
But first: the nickel trade.
He opened his laptop and logged into an encrypted overseas futures trading platform—one that operated through the Cayman Islands and didn’t ask too many questions about large transactions.
Then he opened his banking app.
Balance: $103,700,000 David had come through.
Every asset liquidated, every stock sold, every piece of real estate converted to cash.
His parents’ entire life’s work, reduced to a number on a screen.
Ryan transferred all of it—every single dollar—to his futures trading account.
He stared at the number for a long moment.
$103.7 million.
Everything he had.
If this worked, he’d have the capital to not just survive the apocalypse, but dominate it.
If it failed…
well, he’d be starting the end of the world completely broke.
But it wouldn’t fail.
Because Ryan knew the future.
He’d lived it once already.
The clock on his laptop read 9:29 AM.
The London Metal Exchange would open in sixty seconds.
Ryan pulled up the nickel futures chart.
The price was stable—had been stable for weeks.
Currently trading at $28,000 per metric ton, showing the kind of flat, boring movement that made day traders ignore it in favor of more volatile commodities.
No one knew what was about to happen.
No one except Ryan.
9:30 AM.
The market opened.
Ryan clicked “Buy”—full position, all $103.7 million.
But that wasn’t enough.
His cursor moved to the leverage options.
20x LEVERAGE His finger hovered over the button.
Twenty times leverage meant he wasn’t betting $103.7 million.
He was betting over $2 billion.
If the trade went wrong—if his memory was faulty, if the timeline had shifted, if some butterfly effect had changed history—he wouldn’t just lose everything.
He’d owe money he’d never be able to repay.
Ryan clicked the button.
CONFIRM The trade executed instantly.
For a moment, nothing happened.
The screen just showed his position—long nickel, 20x leverage, $2.074 billion in exposure.
Then Ryan’s heart started hammering in his chest.
His palms were sweating.
His breath came short and fast.
Even knowing what was supposed to happen, even having lived through this timeline before, the sheer terror of gambling everything on a single trade was overwhelming.
The first thirty minutes were agony.
The nickel price didn’t surge.
It didn’t even stay flat.
It dropped.
$28,000…
$27,800…
$27,600…
Ryan’s account balance went red.
-$50,000 -$120,000 -$340,000 -$680,000 In ten minutes, he’d lost more than he’d paid Victor for the weapons.
Ryan’s breathing became ragged.
His fingers gripped the edge of the desk hard enough to hurt.
Butterfly effect?
Did my rebirth change something?
No.
Impossible.
The nickel squeeze was driven by state-level capital—Russia, China, massive hedge funds operating with tens of billions in assets.
His $2 billion position was a rounding error to them.
There was no way his entry into the market could change the fundamental dynamics.
The timing just wasn’t right yet.
Ryan forced himself to lean back in his chair, to breathe, to wait.
The trigger event was coming.
The Indonesian civil war that would shut down the Sorowako mines.
The panic buying from manufacturers desperate to secure supply chains.
It was coming.
It had to be coming.
9:45 AM.
The chart moved.
A green candlestick—small at first, barely noticeable.
Then another.
Then the entire chart exploded upward like it had been hit with rocket fuel.
$28,000 $29,200 $31,500 $34,800 The price wasn’t climbing—it was vertical.
A nearly straight line pointing toward the sky.
Somewhere in Indonesia, fighting had broken out near the nickel mines.
Somewhere in boardrooms across the world, risk managers were panicking.
Somewhere in trading pits, short sellers were getting annihilated.
Ryan’s account balance reversed course, the red numbers flipping to green and then exploding upward.
+$2 million +$15 million +$47 million +$83 million The numbers were moving so fast Ryan could barely track them.
$40,000 per ton $45,000 $50,000 Short positions were being liquidated by the thousands—automated stop-losses triggering, margin calls forcing traders to cover, the buying pressure creating a feedback loop that drove prices even higher.
Ryan watched, transfixed, as his account balance climbed into territory he’d never imagined.
$150 million $280 million $420 million $630 million At 11:30 AM, the market paused for the midday break.
Ryan’s account balance locked in at: $913,000,000 Nine hundred and thirteen million dollars.
Ryan collapsed back in his chair, his entire body drenched in sweat.
Holy shit.
It worked.
It actually worked.
The historical trajectory hadn’t changed.
His rebirth hadn’t created some catastrophic butterfly effect.
The trade had executed exactly as he’d remembered.
He’d just turned $103 million into $913 million in two and a half hours.
But Ryan didn’t close the position.
Because he knew this was just the warmup.
The afternoon session—when the panic really set in, when manufacturers started placing emergency orders at any price, when the last remaining short sellers got crushed—that’s when the real massacre would happen.
Ryan stood up on shaky legs and walked to the minibar.
He grabbed a bottle of water and drank the entire thing in three long gulps.
His phone buzzed.
A text from Marcus: Excavation hit bedrock at 162 feet.
Starting foundation pour in 2 hours.
We’re ahead of schedule.
This is actually happening, boss.
Ryan smiled grimly and typed back: Good.
Keep pushing.
I’ll have your payment by tomorrow morning.
He set the phone down and stared at his laptop screen.
$913 million.
By the end of today, if everything went according to his memory, that number would more than double.
And then, in four days, the Deep Space Coin pump would multiply it again.
By the time the apocalypse started, Ryan would be one of the richest people on Earth.
And unlike everyone else, he’d know exactly how to use that wealth to survive.
The afternoon session opened at 1:00 PM.
Ryan settled back into his chair, watching the numbers start to move again.
This was it.
The real show was about to begin.
If you are interested can check it out.