Chapter 1 She Is Back

Breann Fisher gasped, bolting upright in bed with a heavy chest.

She stared blankly at her room. There were no monsters. There was no bone-deep, agonizing pain either.

Faded pop music posters clung to the drywall. A few empty cans of chili sat in the corner.

It was her childhood bedroom.

Breann turned her head. Her gaze locked onto the battered smartphone on her nightstand.

She swiped the screen, reading the stark date: June 13, 2144.

Exactly one month before the Calamity Era began.

She was back.

Ice-cold clarity quickly replaced her initial adrenaline rush.

Three years of grinding through the apocalypse in her past life had stripped her of all useless emotions.

She immediately began taking stock of her situation.

Her parents had died in a car crash, leaving her a small suburban house and a bank account with roughly sixty thousand dollars.

Then, there were the memories. She had detailed knowledge of the apocalyptic disasters unfolding over the next month, along with the system known as The Chosen Game.

In her previous life, when extreme weather ravaged the globe, she became a player in The Chosen Game.

Right before she died, she had finally unlocked a spatial inventory, only to perish seconds later.

'If I came back with everything, does that mean I still have my inventory?' Breann wondered silently.

The moment the thought crossed her mind, a wave of mild dizziness washed over her.

When she opened her eyes again, she was no longer in her familiar bedroom. She stood in a boundless expanse of dark void.

Her pocket dimension really came back with her.

In her previous life, she had just stored her hard-earned game loot in this exact space.

She had not even gotten a second to celebrate before a sudden harpy mutant ripped her to shreds.

The inventory had just been unlocked, but her life was forfeit.

There was no more ironic way to die.

With a mere thought, she returned to her bedroom.

Breann glanced at the half-eaten ramen cup in the corner. Suddenly, lines of glowing blue holographic text popped into her vision.

[Item: Canned Chili

[Status: Consumed. The leftover chili is currently breeding harmful bacteria at a rate of three million per hour.

[Immediate incineration or deep burial is recommended. Otherwise, it will severely pollute the indoor air. Long-term inhalation may cause pulmonary lesions.

[Note: You finished eating but didn't throw it away. Were you waiting for it to grow legs and walk to the trash itself?]

Breann froze for a couple of seconds.

This feature did not exist in her previous life.

'Is this a newbie bonus that came with my regression? Or did I just die too fast to notice it before?' she wondered.

She skeptically shifted her gaze back to the smartphone on her nightstand.

[Item: Pear phone

[Status: Battery severely depleted. Hidden defects in the motherboard. Estimated remaining lifespan under 72 hours.

[Note: If you tried to sell this industrial garbage to a scrap dealer, you would have to pay them a buck for gas.]

Breann was speechless. 'This system is a total smartass.'

Yet, her heart began to beat wildly.

Identifying the quality of supplies and spotting hidden flaws in equipment was an absolute godsend.

In an apocalypse where resources were scarce and deadly traps were everywhere, this was the ultimate survival tool.

She quickly tallied her assets again: a suburban house, sixty grand in savings, memories of the future, a massive pocket space, a snarky appraisal system.

Sixty thousand dollars. In this day and age, that was not even enough to buy a decent armored truck, let alone hoard enough supplies to survive doomsday.

The money was nowhere near enough.

If she wanted to survive, and survive better than anyone else, she had to drop all unnecessary dead weight.

That included the only memento her parents left behind: the suburban house.

With exactly one month left until the end of the world, Breann looked up the city's largest real estate agency online.

She dialed their number, making her intention to sell perfectly clear.

"It is a detached single-family home on Greenfield Street in the suburbs," Breann stated flatly into the receiver. "It features a front and back yard, just under four thousand square feet, clean title. I need a quick cash sale.

"Five hundred thousand, non-negotiable. Whatever you make over that price is yours to keep."

On the other end of the line, Cecil Walker was visibly stunned before uncontrollable excitement took over.

"Ms. Fisher? Are you saying anything above the five hundred grand goes straight into my pocket?" he asked breathlessly.

He knew that neighborhood well. It was quiet and in a prime location. The market value was easily over six hundred and sixty thousand dollars.

She was basically handing him a massive payout on a silver platter.

"There is a condition," Breann replied, her voice completely flat. "If you sell it within a week, you get thirty percent of everything over the five hundred thousand.

"Within three days, fifty percent. In one day? A hundred percent."

"No problem. Absolutely no problem," Cecil said, his voice becoming ten times more enthusiastic. "Ms. Fisher, I'm Cecil Walker.

"Don't you sweat it, I am bringing the agency contract to you right now. I guarantee I will get this done ASAP."

While he said that, in his head, he had already decided to close the deal within two days.

After hanging up, Breann yanked open a drawer and pulled out a fresh notebook.

Selling the house was just step one. What came next was a real war.

She wrote down a few bold words in her notebook, prioritizing her needs with crystal clarity: [Medications > High-Calorie Foods > Survival Gear > Weapons > Fuel.]

In the apocalypse, a single tiny antibiotic pill was worth more than its weight in gold. A seemingly insignificant scratch could kill her from infection.

Get cash. Hoard supplies.

Just as she was about to flesh out her procurement list, the phone on her nightstand buzzed jarringly.

Two words flashed on the screen: Uncle Doug.

Breann's eyes instantly turned ice-cold. She swiped to answer but remained dead silent.

"Hello? Breann?" A man's eager voice came through the speaker. It was her uncle, Doug Fisher. "Breann, how are you holding up? You getting used to living alone?

"Man, your parents passing was so sudden. You're just a girl out there by yourself. If you run into any trouble, you gotta hit up your Uncle Doug, okay? Don't try to shoulder everything on your own."

Breann listened quietly, not uttering a single word.

"I actually have some awesome news for you," Doug continued seamlessly. "Your cousin is getting hitched. The bride's family is pretty well-off, but, well, you know how it is these days.

"Getting married without a house just doesn't look right. Your cousin is the only boy left to carry on the Fisher family legacy. We can't mess up something this important."

Breann scoffed inwardly, thinking to herself, 'Just as I thought. He wants the house.'

Doug cleared his throat, adopting the earnest tone of an elder. "Breann, when your dad was still around, he doted on Larry the most.

"He always used to say it was a damn shame you weren't a boy, otherwise his estate would have a proper heir.

"He even told me himself that when Larry tied the knot, he'd give him that suburban house as a wedding gift.

"Look, you're a girl. You're going to get married and move out eventually anyway. Keeping that house does you no good.

"Why don't you transfer the deed to your cousin? It'll fulfill your dad's dying wish. What do you say?"

He spoke with fabricated sincerity, acting as if it were the most logical thing in the world.

It was as if the house inherently belonged to Larry Fisher, and she was merely its temporary custodian.

Breann Fisher rolled her eyes. She knew exactly what kind of man Doug was.

When money was on the line, he lied without a second thought.

'Claiming my dad promised the house to Larry for his wedding? Yeah, right,' she scoffed inwardly. 'Did Dad somehow predict he was going to die in a car crash?

'Giving away our house? Like Mom didn't even exist!

Chapter 2 Stockpiling Supplies

Since Breann was a minor when her parents died, guardianship fell to Doug.

The funeral flowers had not even wilted before he shoved a stack of paperwork in front of her, bullying her to sign over the house deed.

Luckily, she stayed sharp. She fought him tooth and nail, flatly refusing to sign a single page.

Doug couldn't dump her into foster care without looking like a total dirtbag, so his family grudgingly took her in.

Day after day, they tried gaslighting her into believing the estate rightfully belonged to her cousin Larry.

"Breann? Are you even listening to me?" Doug demanded over the phone, his tone thick with impatience.

Breann gripped the receiver, her voice turning ice-cold. "When my parents died, you pocketed a hundred and sixty grand from their settlement for 'funeral expenses.'

"Did you blow through all that cash already?"

That excuse was total garbage, just a way to siphon the life insurance payout.

At fifteen, she was powerless to stop him. All she could do was watch him take the cash.

"Watch your mouth, young lady!" Doug sputtered, his anger masking his guilt. "That money paid for a proper send-off. I am your uncle!"

"Right," Breann replied flatly. "If a grown man can't afford his own place and has to steal his younger cousin's house just to tie the knot, here is my advice.

"Tell Larry to stay single. Don't drag some poor girl into his mess.

"Honestly, your side of the family is a walking dumpster fire. Do the gene pool a favor and let it end with him."

Before Doug could scream back, she tapped the red button and ended the call.

'This is far from over,' she thought.

Knowing her shameless relatives, they would show up at her front door next to force her hand.

She had to move fast.

Picking up her pen, she turned back to her notebook.

The house held zero sentimental value for her anymore. Selling it was not just about raising capital to survive the impending apocalypse. It was a clean break.

Her realtor, Cecil, arrived right on the dot to finalize the contract.

Dressed in a sharp suit with a practiced smile, he handed over the folder like it was made of gold.

"Ms. Fisher, I brought the paperwork. Please take a look," Cecil said cheerfully.

Breann took the folder and scanned the pages rapidly.

[Item: Exclusive Right to Sell Listing Agreement

[Status: Clear terms, defined liabilities, and zero hidden legal traps. Seven-day exclusive listing period. Commission structure matches the verbal agreement.

[Note: To secure that sweet five-figure commission, this guy pushed his professional diligence to the limit.

[He checked every comma and period three times just to make sure you would not back out.]

Satisfied, Breann signed her name without hesitation.

Cecil stared at her neat signature. He was so thrilled he almost crushed his leather briefcase, practically seeing that fat commission check waving at him.

*****

With the house listing settled, Breann kicked off her stockpiling plan.

She unlocked her cheap smartphone, a device the system had politely evaluated as "industrial garbage," and opened a B2B wholesale app.

The platform specialized in factory-direct bulk purchasing at rock-bottom prices.

Her target was clear. She needed daily necessities and hygiene supplies.

When society collapses and resources vanish, sanitation becomes the first line of defense against disease.

The first item she searched for was sanitary pads.

For a woman, this was an absolute necessity.

In her previous life, she had seen too many women develop severe infections from poor hygiene, dying in absolute agony.

A dizzying array of brands flooded the screen. She sorted by sales volume and clicked the top result.

[Item: "Slumber Angel" Extra-Long Overnight Cotton Pads, Family Pack

[Status: Pure cotton top sheet with a superabsorbent polymer core. Good absorbency and no fluorescent additives.

[However, the adhesive backing is weak, creating a risk of side leakage during strenuous physical activity.

[Note: For someone who might need to run for their life at any second, this tiny leakage risk could be fatal.

[Imagine running from a pack of zombie hounds only for your pad to quietly betray you.]

Breann scrolled past it with a blank expression and kept searching.

She needed reliable supplies. In extreme environments, the slightest flaw could be a death sentence.

Finally, her eyes settled on a mid-tier brand with plain, utilitarian packaging.

[Item: "Bedrock" Extreme Sports Pads, Pro Edition

[Status: Military-grade composite cotton with an embedded hydro-lock gel layer for ultra-fast absorption.

[Features 3M medical-grade adhesive backing for maximum grip, capable of withstanding high-intensity running, jumping, and rolling. Five-year shelf life.

[Note: Forget running for your life. You could complete an Ironman triathlon in these. The only drawback is feeling a pang of apology toward your underwear when peeling them off.]

'This is the one,' she thought, making an immediate decision.

Breann added fifty cases to her cart, following up with thirty cases of panty liners from the same lineup.

Next came toiletries.

For toothpaste, she chose a basic fluoride formula. The simpler the function, the more stable the ingredients over time.

She ordered a thousand tubes on the spot, along with two hundred soft-bristle toothbrushes and a hundred hard-bristle ones.

[Item: Disposable Hard-Bristle Toothbrushes, Hospitality Supply

[Status: Bristles made of high-tenacity nylon that resist deformation. Handles are rigid enough to serve as makeshift levers or defensive shanks in an emergency.

[Note: While everyone else is scrubbing their teeth with their fingers, you could use these to clean out a pipe. That is what you call ahead-of-the-curve survival intelligence.]

For soap and detergent, she opted for heavy-duty industrial packaging. She added fifty-pound sacks of stain-removing laundry powder and full cases of antibacterial bar soap to her cart.

She bought shampoo and body wash in five-gallon commercial buckets, adding a hundred cases of each.

She also stocked up on heavy-duty DEET bug spray and witch hazel. In the summer heat, this combo was a godsend.

It warded off mosquitoes, relieved itching, disinfected cuts, and masked the funk of going weeks without a shower.

She ordered twenty cases of standard pump-action bottles.

Toilet paper, dish soap, and microfiber towels. Breann systematically loaded her cart like a machine.

With hygiene and sanitation checked off, she moved on to clothing.

Post-apocalyptic weather was erratic and extreme.

In her previous life, once the cataclysms began, blistering heat waves and freezing blizzards alternated without warning.

A single downpour could send the temperature plummeting by 40 degrees Fahrenheit.

She navigated to an online military surplus store.

[Item: Military Surplus Extreme Cold Weather Parka

[Status: Outer shell crafted from high-density ripstop canvas with a reinforced heavy wool-felt lining. Outstanding windproof and thermal insulation properties. Extremely durable.

[Note: Ugly, but incredibly practical. Put this on, and you will be the warmest survivor on the block. The only downside is that running in it makes you look like a lumbering bear.]

Chapter 3 Hunger is More Terrifying Than Monsters

First on the list: one hundred heavy parkas.

Next came down jackets. Breann zeroed in on heavy expedition coats built for Arctic research, ordering twenty.

She paired them with matching insulated snow pants.

Hardshells, moisture-wicking tees, thermals, and cotton socks and underwear came next. She bought enough to last a decade.

But footwear was the real priority. She loaded her cart with high-top tactical boots, pro-grade hikers, and lightweight, slip-resistant sneakers.

For protective gear, she grabbed safety goggles, five hundred cases of N95 masks, and a thousand boxes of disposable nitrile gloves.

All these orders needed a staging ground. Her cramped apartment would not cut it.

She needed a temporary drop spot, a hidden warehouse big enough to swallow a mountain of supplies.

Browsing Craigslist, she found a private warehouse by an industrial park on the outskirts of town.

The owner, a middle-aged guy in flip-flops, drove over right after she called.

He didn't ask why a young woman needed a massive storage unit. He just gave her a quick once-over.

"1,200 dollars a month." The man scratched his chin. "I can cut you a deal if you sign a longer lease."

Breann stepped inside. The smell of dust and dry concrete hit her.

As she scanned the empty space, faint blue text materialized in her vision.

[Item: Warehouse B13

[Status: Solid concrete structure. The northwest corner has a slight leak risk, so avoid storing paper products there. The deadbolt is basic, but better than nothing.

[Note: The security guard clocks out at seven sharp every night to catch the baseball game at the local bar. It keeps honest people out, but it won't stop a determined thief.

[It definitely won't stop your Uncle Doug when he comes knocking to rob you.]

She paid the first month in cash and left no personal details.

Warehouse secured, she updated her shipping addresses and checked out. Hundreds of order statuses flipped to "Awaiting Shipment."

She staggered the delivery dates to keep things under the radar.

But this was just step one. Food and medicine were the real priorities.

She grabbed her notebook and drew a heavy red circle around "High-Calorie Foods."

Her stomach clenched at the memory as she reminded herself, 'A body runs on fuel. Skip a meal, and you crash.'

In the apocalypse, starvation was far more terrifying than any mutant monster.

She needed to hit up a commercial restaurant supply depot. That was the real battlefield for staple foods.

*****

Early the next morning, her realtor Cecil called. Excitement bled through his voice.

"Ms. Fisher! Great news!" he practically yelled into the receiver. "Someone is interested in the house!"

Breann blinked in surprise. It had only been one day.

"The buyer is a no-nonsense guy," Cecil explained eagerly. "He runs a business and loves properties with a private yard and a quiet vibe.

"I gave him a tour, and he's thrilled. I even talked him up to 550 thousand dollars! What do you think?"

Based on their agreement, that extra 75 thousand dollars would go straight into Cecil's pocket.

"That works," Breann replied crisply. "Draw up the paperwork today. When will the money clear?"

"Three days!" Cecil exclaimed. "He's paying cash with an expedited wire transfer. Your 500 thousand will hit your account by the end of the week."

He was netting 75 grand on this deal. That was more than his total commission for the entire previous year.

"Awesome," Breann said. She ended the call.

*****

Three days later, her phone buzzed. A bank notification popped up on the screen.

[Deposit: $500,000.00]

They were just cold numbers, but right now, they looked sweeter than poetry.

Combined with her checking account, she had just over 510 thousand. Breann locked her screen. Half the heavy burden lifted from her chest.

She didn't waste a second. She drove straight to the city's largest wholesale restaurant supply depot.

The place was a madhouse. The air smelled like raw grain and cheap, pungent spices.

Breann walked directly into the largest bulk dry goods vendor. The owner leaned back in an office chair, picking his teeth.

He didn't even bat an eye when she walked in.

"I need to check out some stock," Breann said clearly.

The owner lazily pointed a thumb at a mountain of rice bags. "It's all right there. Knock yourself out."

Breann walked over to a stack of heavy paper sacks labeled "Bulk Quick-Cook Oats" and swept her gaze over them.

[Item: Processed Quick Oats

[Status: Flash-steamed and rolled paper-thin. Stripped of natural nutrients to extend shelf life. High levels of agrochemical residue detected.

[Note: Eat this, and you'll be hungry again in an hour. Your body will weigh heavier than your wallet.]

Her expression remained unchanged as she moved to another pile.

[Item: Value-Brand Pinto Beans, Product of Maxica, 50 lbs/bag

[Status: Low-grade yield with a thirty percent ratio of broken beans, dirt clods, and pebbles. Sprayed with chemical desiccants. Highly susceptible to pantry weevils.

[Note: Better used as beanbag filler or slingshot ammo.]

Breann frowned slightly and turned back to the owner. "Do you have any unprocessed, new-crop staples? Stuff that will actually keep long-term?"

The owner finally looked at her properly and spat out his toothpick. "I do, but it's pricey. Look, lady, if this is just for your pantry, the regular stuff does the job. It'll save you a buck."

"Show me the good stuff."

Reluctantly, the owner led her to a back corner where several dozen plain-looking canvas bags sat on wooden pallets.

[Item: Triple-Cleaned Heirloom Pinto Beans, 50 lbs/bag

[Status: New harvest, vacuum-sealed, plump, and zero processing. Good for over 60 months in a cool, dry spot.

[Note: Finally, real survival protein. Congrats, you found a shred of conscience in corporate world.]

[Item: Artisan Unbleached Whole Wheat Flour, 100 lbs/bag

[Status: New wheat, stone-ground at low speed, zero additives. Retains authentic wheat flavor and high protein content. Vacuum-sealed, can be stored for 36 months.

[Note: Pure and natural. The only flaw is the price tag. Of course, the price was a problem for the old you. For the current you, well, never mind.]

"I'll take five hundred bags of these." Breann tapped the beans. "And five hundred bags of the whole wheat flour next to it."

The owner's eyes bugged out. "Come again? Five hundred of each?"

"Yeah, five hundred of each." Breann pointed to the large drums of canola and vegetable oil nearby. "And I need a thousand gallons of each oil.

"Plus two hundred pounds each of iodized salt and white sugar."

The owner froze. He stared at the slender girl, trying to size her up. She didn't look like a restaurant owner. She looked like a prankster.

"Lady, are you buying this for a corporation or something?" he asked, crossing his arms skeptically.

"Yeah, raw materials for a commercial commissary," Breann lied smoothly. She pulled out her phone. "Ring it up. Add the freight delivery fee and send it to this address."

She texted the warehouse address to him and paid the massive invoice without a second thought.

Breann arrived at the warehouse early to do a thorough sweep, ensuring there were no hidden cameras.

Just past seven in the evening, the wholesale supplier's box trucks rolled up.

She directed the crew as they hauled heavy bags of beans and flour, along with drums of oil, into the cavernous space.

Within an hour, they had built small mountains of supplies.

Once the trucks and workers drove off, the industrial park fell dead silent.

Breann locked the roll-up door from the inside and confirmed she was entirely alone.

She reached out and rested her hand gently against a towering stack of pinto beans.

With a single thought, the supplies vanished without a trace. In the blink of an eye, the massive warehouse was completely empty again.

'Done,' she thought with a smirk.

Chapter 4 Interrogation

Next up: medicine.

Breann visited dozens of different pharmacies, strategically spreading out her purchases.

For this trip, she changed into a faded, plain University hoodie and sweatpants. She carried herself with the naive, stubborn look of an earnest college student.

"Hi, I'd like to place a bulk order for some medications," she said, handing a densely packed list to a middle-aged pharmacy manager.

The pharmacist pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

Her gaze swept over the list, and her brows immediately furrowed. "Amoxicillin, Cefixime, Levofloxacin... this much? A hundred boxes of each?

"Sweetie, this isn't Costco. What do you need all these antibiotics for?"

Breann handed over a manila folder, her tone entirely earnest. "We're volunteers with a local non-profit. This is a targeted donation for a rural nursing home."

[Character: Chloe Jane

[Profession: Pharmacy Manager

[Status: Currently evaluating your pitch and doubting the legitimacy of your list. Preliminary judgment: you are a black-market reseller.

[Note: Her false eyelashes are about to fall off from all the hard blinking.]

Still skeptical, Chloe pulled the requested medications one by one. She helped load them into the small rented U-Haul Breann had acquired for the day.

Breann swiped her card for the massive bill without flinching.

Watching the cardboard boxes pile up in the back of her U-Haul, Breann felt the tension in her shoulders ease. Another piece of the puzzle locked in.

She leaned against the truck door and casually glanced at a box of Amoxicillin.

[Item: Amoxicillin Capsules, Tava Pharmaceuticals

[Status: Authentic product, 36-month shelf life.

[Note: Congrats, you bought the king of budget meds. The packaging is ugly, but the efficacy is rock solid. One pill packs the punch of three.]

To hoard supplies under the radar, she had to play different roles.

Today, she was an idealistic volunteer helping the elderly. Tomorrow, she could be a corporate purchasing agent. The day after, she'd play the role of a crazy prepper mom.

With staple foods and medicines secured, a huge weight lifted from her chest.

But she still needed water. The literal source of life.

Her first water order consisted of a thousand five-gallon jugs of purified drinking water, plus a hundred water filters.

When the delivery driver dropped the last jug at the warehouse door, Breann stood before the plastic mountain.

A phantom thirst clawed at her throat, a brutal memory from her previous life.

'Not enough,' she thought grimly. 'Far from enough.'

She placed her hand on one of the jugs.

[Item: Crystal Geyser Purified Water

[Status: Meets national drinking standards, tightly sealed. Can be stored for 12 months away from direct sunlight.

[Note: In the apocalypse, this stuff is harder currency than gold. Assuming you can beat the crap out of anyone trying to steal it, of course.]

This stash was barely enough for her to drink. What about hygiene, washing, and cleaning wounds? Every basic human task required water.

She never wanted to relive the days of fighting to the death over half a bottle of muddy sludge.

She pulled out her phone, Googled a local industrial plastics supplier, and dialed.

"Hello, I need to order twenty 8,000-gallon poly water storage tanks," Breann told the rep on the phone.

The salesman was clearly stunned by the volume.

He paused for a few seconds before asking hesitantly, "Ma'am, are you sure you need twenty? The 8,000-gallon ones? That's a hundred and sixty thousand gallons of total capacity.

"Usually, only massive agricultural farms or chemical plants buy those."

"Yes, twenty," Breann replied flatly. She spun another easy lie. "My family opened an eco-farm. We run a large-scale hydroponics setup, so our water consumption is off the charts.

"Give me a quote. Can you deliver them this week?"

Hearing it was a guaranteed mega-sale, the salesman's attitude flipped instantly. "Yes, absolutely! Text me the address, and I'll draft a quote right now. I guarantee the best price in the state."

In the late stages of the apocalypse, the municipal water and power grids would fail entirely. Clean water would become more precious than ammunition.

Mutated leeches would infest the rivers, and the rain would carry corrosive acid.

Countless survivors died not from starvation or monster attacks, but from infectious dysentery caused by a single sip of contaminated water.

Cleaning, disinfecting, treating wounds, washing clothes... surviving required water.

Without it, a human being lost all basic dignity.

When the time came, and others were bashing skulls over a puddle of mud, she planned to luxuriate in a hot, purified shower.

Only after securing the tanks did Breann truly relax.

A few days later, the twenty massive storage tanks arrived and were unloaded into the warehouse.

She scanned one of the towering plastic containers.

[Item: 8,000-Gallon Polyethylene Storage Tank

[Status: Brand new. Sturdy material, non-toxic, odorless, and resistant to acid corrosion. Can effectively inhibit algae growth if kept in the dark.

[Note: Weighs over thirty tons when completely full. Ensure your floor can handle the load.

[Friendly reminder: the concrete slab in the northwest corner of this warehouse has a slight subsidence issue. Don't host a block party of twenty full tanks in that spot.]

After the delivery crew drove off, Breann rolled down the metal warehouse door. With a wave of her hand, she absorbed all twenty gargantuan tanks into her pocket space.

But now came the real logistical nightmare. 'How the hell am I going to covertly fill them with a hundred and sixty thousand gallons of water?'

Hooking up a high-pressure hose in a busy industrial park was basically painting a neon target on her back.

She needed a two-pronged approach.

She decided to rent a temporary apartment in the city center to serve as her primary water-filling base.

She would keep the warehouse as a backup for siphoning water during the dead of night.

By the afternoon, she had signed a lease for a two-bedroom apartment with a private rooftop terrace in an older downtown neighborhood.

The landlady, Dorothy Simmons, watched Breann smoothly hand over the first month's rent and security deposit in cash.

The wrinkles on Dorothy's face bloomed into a massive smile. "Living alone, sweetie?" she asked warmly. "If you ever need anything, you just come knock on my door."

[Character: Dorothy Simmons

[Profession: Retired HOA Board Member, Veteran Landlady

[Status: Extremely satisfied with you. Currently debating whether to set you up with her nephew.

[Note: The filter of cold hard cash makes even Dorothy's crow's feet radiate maternal warmth.]

After seeing Dorothy out, Breann ran to a supermarket for basic pots, pans, and daily necessities. She placed most of it into her pocket space and left a few items out on the counters as a cover.

She pulled one of the massive storage tanks out of her space, setting it in the corner of the rooftop terrace.

She covered it with a heavy canvas tarp, hooked up a garden hose to the spigot, and cranked the faucet wide open. Time to fill up.

The building's water bill was paid monthly by the landlord. By next month, the apocalypse would hit.

Nobody was going to care about an unusually high utility bill.

Later that evening, she rigged up the hoses in the warehouse the exact same way, ready to run the water under the cover of darkness.

With all the prep work done, she finally let out a long breath. She whipped up a quick dinner, took a steaming hot shower, and collapsed onto the soft mattress.

An unprecedented sense of security wrapped around her.

Food, medicine, and water. The holy trinity of survival was set. At the very least, she wouldn't have to worry about starving for the next few years.

Just as she was drifting into a deep sleep, the phone on her nightstand vibrated violently against the wood.

The caller ID flashed in the dark: Uncle Doug.

Breann swiped to answer but held the phone to her ear without making a sound.

Doug's suppressed fury bled through the speaker. His voice was squeezed through gritted teeth. "Breann! You sold the house?!"

It wasn't a question. It was a vicious accusation.

If he hadn't bribed the next-door neighbor to keep tabs on the property, he would never have known Breann sold it out from under him.

'550 thousand dollars! How dare she swallow that all by herself?' Doug fumed.

"News travels fast," Breann stated flatly. Her voice gave away zero emotion.

That nonchalant response acted like gasoline on Doug's rage.

"You brat!" Doug roared into the receiver. "That house is the Fisher family legacy! You just sold it like that? How do you sleep at night?!"

Breann pulled the phone slightly away from her ear. She could practically picture the spit flying from his mouth.

Chapter 5 Foraging Fodder

"Your cousin is getting married next month. Where is he supposed to live, huh? Are you doing this just to screw us over?" Doug barked.

Breann rolled over, shifting into a more comfortable position on her bed.

Doug panted heavily on the other end of the line.

He dropped his pitch, adopting a demanding, authoritarian tone. "Fine, what's done is done. But here's the deal.

"Larry is getting married, and his fiancee's family expects a 150-thousand-dollar wedding. You're footing the bill.

"You also need to fork over 300 grand for his down payment on a new place. Plus another 150 grand for a car."

Breann did the math instantly. 'A 150-thousand-dollar wedding, 300 grand for a house, and a 150-grand car.'

She had only walked away with 500 grand from the sale. They literally expected her to go 150 grand into debt for them.

She shook her head. 'The absolute audacity of this guy.'

"600 thousand?" Breann chuckled softly into the receiver.

"Exactly!" Doug agreed, his pitch rising as he assumed she was giving in. "You owe your cousin a cut of that house money. Your dad always said the house was meant for Larry.

"It's only right you give him the cash for his wedding. It's your duty to family!"

Breann laughed again. The sound traveled through the phone, cold and sharp.

"Is Larry missing an arm, or did he lose a leg?" Breann asked flatly.

"What did you just say?"

Breann enunciated every word clearly. "I said, a fully grown man wants to steal his cousin's inheritance because he can't afford a house.

"Now he needs charity to pay for his own wedding? Why doesn't he just go beg on the street? It pays faster."

"You little animal! How can you talk about your own blood like that?!"

Breann scoffed. "Oh, I can be much harsher. A few years ago, you took 400 thousand from my parents' accident settlement for their funeral. Where are those receipts?

"When you bought Larry that brand-new car, did you forget that money was my parents' legacy? And now you have the nerve to ask me for more?

"You want money? Fine. Have Larry here and spit out every last cent you stole from my parents' settlement.

"Then, I might consider chipping in a few grand for his coffin. Tell him I hope he drops dead before the wedding."

"Breann Fisher! You little bitch, I..."

Breann hung up and immediately blocked his number.

The room returned to a heavy silence.

She switched her phone to silent mode and tossed it aside.

Being woken up by Doug had completely ruined her sleep. There was no way she could fall back asleep now.

'They will definitely show up at my door to try and take it by force,' she realized with a frown.

But she had already moved across town. They wouldn't find her anytime soon.

Right then, a cold, mechanical voice echoed in her mind.

[Suitable soul detected. Binding in progress...

[Player Breann Fisher, welcome to The Chosen Game.

[Initiate teleportation? Yes / No]

Breann froze for a moment. Her eyes widened. She chose "Yes" without hesitation.

[Tutorial mission initiating. Teleporting in 10 seconds.]

[10... 9... 8...]

Her vision blurred. When it cleared, her bedroom ceiling was gone. A massive mushroom cap radiating a faint blue glow obscured the sky above her.

The solid hardwood floor was replaced by soft, spongy turf. The air smelled strongly of damp earth and intense fungi.

She had entered The Chosen Game.

Around thirty people were scattered nearby in a clearing. Some wore pajamas, while others were dressed in business suits.

Every face showed pure panic and confusion.

'Why am I entering the game so early?' Breann wondered. 'Did the game suddenly grow a conscience or something?'

In her previous life, she hadn't been pulled in until the third year of the apocalypse.

The mechanical voice chimed in everyone's minds simultaneously.

[Objective: Survive on Mushroom Planet for 7 days. Collect and submit a total of 500 pounds of edible mushrooms.

[Submission Method: Deposit the gathered mushrooms into the small red cabin. The system will automatically verify them. Submission quantities accumulate over multiple trips.

[Mission Failure: Forced to remain until the quota is met. Return to the real world is restricted during this period.

[Hint: Thirty percent of the mushrooms on Mushroom Planet are highly toxic. Please identify them carefully. Eating the wrong one will kill you.]

Dead silence fell over the group. Then, the crowd exploded into chaos.

"What the hell is this? A movie set? Who's playing this sick prank?" a muscular guy in a tank top yelled, waving his arms.

"Five hundred pounds? Do you have any idea how much that is? In seven days?!" a man with glasses screamed, his voice cracking with hysteria.

"I want to go home!" a young woman sobbed, dropping to the dirt.

Breann stood quietly at the edge of the crowd. Five hundred pounds was an astronomical number for normal people.

She glanced at a colorful mushroom nearby. Faint blue text materialized in her vision.

[Item: Rainbow Reaper Shroom

[Status: The cap, stem, and gills contain fifteen complex toxins. Ingestion causes organ liquefaction, nerve immolation, or muscle petrification.

[Note: The method of death is randomized. Enjoy the loot box.]

Breann looked at a plain gray mushroom next to it.

[Item: Slacker Shroom

[Status: Non-toxic, but ingestion induces a 72-hour period of utter apathy. You will lose the will to live.

[Note: Better find a spot to lie down and wait for death.]

She kept her face neutral. 'Just as I thought. This place is a massive death trap.'

The muscular guy decided to prove his bravery.

He marched over and kicked a knee-high white mushroom right beside him.

"Nothing but cheap smoke and mirrors!" the meathead barked, puffing out his chest. "I'll show you guys."

Almost instantly, his face paled dramatically. He grabbed his leg and let out a bloodcurdling scream.

The sap from the shattered mushroom had splashed onto his pant leg, and a grotesque black rot crept up his calf at a visible rate.

Panicking, the big guy ripped his pant leg open. The skin underneath looked like charred wood, and the necrosis kept climbing.

"My leg! Oh god, my leg!" he wailed.

His agonizing screams snapped everyone's mouths shut.

A blond kid in his early twenties scoffed loudly, stepping forward.