Sasha—that was the na of the girl whose body I currently inhabited.
A corporate slave through and through.
If stress and overwork hadn’t eaten away at her, she might have been stunning. She had those natural, tumbling curls of deep violet, the kind of hair won spent thousands of dollars trying to dye into perfection. They shimred when the light hit them, trailing down her back like ribbons of silk.
Her face, small and heart-shaped, carried an innocent, almost shy charm. She could have passed for a sweet college student if not for the dark circles under her eyes and the way her spine curved from endless hours at the desk.
But that Sasha—the ek, overworked office drone—was gone. Her body now housed a different soul. Stronger in character. Sharper in will.
The timid way she hunched in etings was replaced by a straight back and calculating eyes. Where she once muttered apologies, now there was only certainty in her tone.
Of course, inheriting her body didn’t erase the problems she left behind. And Sasha—, in this world—was already staring at two monuntal headaches.
Problem number one: money.
Her salary and pitiful savings wouldn’t even buy her supplies that would last her a week in the apocalyptic wasteland that was about to unfold, much less the years I knew I’d be trapped here.
Survival required food, tools, weapons, and shelter—and right now, the balance in Sasha’s bank account could barely afford instant noodles for a month.
But did that faze ? Not in the slightest. I already had a plan.
"Loan sharks," I whispered to myself as I tugged on Sasha’s wrinkled blouse. "Lots of them. Huge loans. Collateral: . Easy."
Sure, it was reckless. Signing away your body, your organs, your freedom, your dignity—every sensible part of Sasha would have scread against it.
But this wasn’t about the future they thought existed. I wasn’t planning on living long enough to deal with a broken kneecap or being chased down by guys with baseball bats.
In one month, the whole world would collapse anyway. Money, contracts, debts, none of it would matter.
Honestly, I almost wanted to see the look on those loan sharks’ faces when the sky split open and their interest rates went up in flas.
Problem number two was a little less amusing.
The villain. Or rather—the fact that I had no clue who the villain of this world was.
Normally, villains were marked by the ga system, given their shiny na tag of doom. But this world? Blank slate. No glowing red arrow. Just , wandering blind among millions.
And worse—much worse—Sasha died on the first day of this particular apocalypse.
That ant I didn’t know much about the world’s future. I didn’t know where safe zones would form, which factions would rise, or how the villain would even reveal themselves.
I could, technically, take the easy way out. Make myself the villain again. It wouldn’t be the first ti I played that card, and it certainly wouldn’t be boring.
But this world was different.
There was a specific unknown villain in this world. It was written in the rule. One among the hundred thousand survivors scattered across the globe.
Good luck finding him, right?
I exhaled sharply, a laugh slipping through despite myself. "A hundred thousand haystacks and one flaming needle. Perfect."
My kind of ga.
So, with Sasha’s curls bouncing lightly against my back, I straightened up and marched forward. My mind already spun with possibilities, checklists, and sches.
Stockpile supplies.
Find a fortress.
Borrow absurd amounts of money from very dangerous people.
Track the villain.
And above all—survive the first day and the rest of my stay here.
I clenched my fists, a smile tugging at my lips.
"That’s that, then. Ti to get moving. No ti to waste when the end of the world is knocking."
====
The good thing about making contracts with loan sharks—with yourself as collateral—was that you could borrow millions right away.
Of course, Sasha promised them the moon, the stars, and the whole Milky Way. She swore she’d pay the high interest. Swore she’d pay on ti. Swore she wouldn’t vanish.
They agreed.
Ha! Good luck hunting down a month from now when the monsters show up. Let’s see your baseball bats and brass knuckles hold up against man-eating mutants.
By the end of the afternoon, Sasha had visited four different loan sharks in four different neighborhoods, piling debt like a queen stacking crowns.
She managed to walk away with dozens of millions in cold, hard cash stuffed into duffel bags that nearly broke her shoulders.
The next day, she didn’t waste a second. She headed straight to the underground vehicle auctions and bought herself a secondhand armored truck—the kind of thing you’d see outside a World Bank, escorting gold bars and suspicious briefcases.
It was bulky, ugly, and built like a rolling tal coffin. The kind of ride that scread: Try shooting , see what happens.
Perfect.
But Sasha wasn’t satisfied with just "bulletproof." No—this wasn’t going to be just a car. This was going to be her moving fortress, her apocalypse survival base on wheels.
Building a fortress inside just one building wasn’t really her style—if she wanted to track down the villain, she needed mobility.
She dragged it to a chanical shop in a grimy back alley, slamd a wad of cash on the counter, and pulled out a notebook full of sketches.
The chanic, a guy with oil permanently sared into his eyebrows, raised an unimpressed look.
"So, you want the usual upgrades? Reinforced glass, smoke dispenser, maybe a turret—"
"Nope," Sasha cut him off and flipped the notebook open.
The man squinted at her doodles. His frown deepened.
"Is that . . . a bunk bed?"
"Yes. With under-storage. Oh, and a fold-out desk."
He looked again. "Is that a—wait—are you asking to install a mini-kitchen inside a bank truck?"
"Not mini," Sasha corrected, stabbing her finger at the page. "Full sink, two-burner stove, a little fridge. I’m not living off cold canned beans while the world burns."
The chanic blinked at her like she’d asked him to build a spaceship.
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