I didn't realize it at first, but the year is 2010. This is my second life — my second chance — and I've been reborn with all the knowledge of what's to come. I'm originally from the year 2030, and now, with a 20-year head start, I'm rewriting my destiny.
This time, I won't just live a normal life. This time, I'll become one of the richest men in the world. I've already reached millionaire status by investing early in companies and technologies I knew would become global giants. From social media platforms and mobile tech to green energy and biotech, I planted seeds in industries that hadn't even started booming yet. And they've already started paying off.
Right now, I'm 20 years old and living in the state of Florida. I'm currently sitting in one of my own buildings — a luxury hotel I developed from the ground up. It's just one of the many properties I own. My real estate empire is still growing, but I'm not stopping there.
I'm 178 cm tall, with jet-black hair and dark eyes. I've always been into fitness, so naturally, I turned that passion into another business venture. I built my own chain of gyms — high-end, premium facilities that cater to both elite clients and my own routine. I train there daily, not just to stay in shape, but to remind myself that discipline builds empires.
Under my name, I now control multiple companies across different industries — tech, hospitality, fitness, and logistics, to name a few. I have hundreds of employees and partners working under me. With this kind of wealth and power, enemies are inevitable. I've already received my share of death threats, which is why I always have a dozen well-trained bodyguards assigned to me at all times. It's a precaution — a necessary one.
But I don't plan to stop here. This is only the beginning. I'm not just aiming to be a billionaire. I want to reshape the future. And with every passing day, I get closer to becoming a name the world will never forget.
That was the plan—until reports started flooding in across the country.
Something was wrong.
All over the United States, strange incidents were being reported. At first, it was brushed off as isolated violence, random outbreaks, maybe even new drugs on the street. But soon, whispers turned into full-blown headlines. People were changing—getting infected. No one knew how it started or how far it would spread, but one thing was certain: this wasn't normal. And it wasn't going away.
I first heard about it from one of my closest friends, Jessy Jones. He called me directly—didn't even bother with a message. When I picked up, his voice was serious, shaken. "Marcus," he said, "something's not right. We need to talk. In person."
That's when the three of us met—me, Jessy, and Ray Donovan. All three of us are self-made millionaires, friends who've stuck together since 2005, back when we were just 15-year-old dreamers trying to build something from nothing. We met by pure chance, but our shared ambition turned us into brothers.
We met up in my hotel suite in Florida, the atmosphere thick with tension. Jessy, the red-haired genius with a knack for spotting trends before they explode, laid it out first. "We need to prepare. This thing… it's not going to stay small."
Ray, blonde and calm under pressure, chimed in with his usual blunt logic. "If this spreads, resources will become scarce fast. Fuel, food, clean water—gone. We need to act now."
He was right. The news was already showing signs of collapse in rural areas. Some towns had gone dark entirely. Other countries were beginning to report similar events, but governments were still trying to keep things quiet. That silence only made things feel worse.
That night, the three of us began planning. Hard.
We didn't wait around for answers. We bought massive food supplies, fuel tanks, backup batteries, medical kits, and—perhaps most importantly—several industrial generators. Jessy had his mother and little sister to protect. Ray had both his parents and grandparents. And me?
I was alone.
My father—the man who adopted me—passed away two years ago. He was old when he took me in, but he was kind. He had no children of his own, just a quiet house and a heart full of stories. He was a writer once, published a few novels, and still had a modest stream of royalties coming in. I grew up with him in that house, and every time I showed interest in something—books, computers, movies—he gave me what I needed, no questions asked.
Now, I carry his name and his spirit.
My name is Marcus Walt. I'm 20 years old, black-haired, and I stand at 178 cm. Jessy's taller at 180 cm, always the loudest in the room. Ray's slightly shorter at 170 cm, always the calmest. It's funny—we're like three pieces of a tricolor flag: red, blonde, and black. Different on the outside, but bound by the same drive.
After saying our goodbyes that evening, I was left alone in my penthouse suite. The silence pressed against me like a weight. To calm my nerves, I took a long, hot shower. The steam helped clear my mind, but a sense of unease clung to me.
I wrapped a towel around my waist and made my way to the living room, flipping on the TV to distract myself. That's when I saw him.
A man was speaking on the news, standing in front of a government building. He introduced himself as Dr. Edwin Jenner, a virologist from the CDC. He spoke with a firm but desperate tone, claiming that he and his wife were working tirelessly to find a cure for the strange infections spreading across the country.
Something clicked in my head.
That name. Jenner. CDC. The way he spoke, the fear behind his calm expression—I knew this.
I've seen this before.
I shot up from the couch, and called one of my most trusted men—my head of security and personal informant, Troy Yale.
Troy is a towering man—190 cm tall, a solid wall of muscle, dark-skinned, sharp-eyed, and loyal to the bone. He's ex-military, an orphan like me. We've known each other for years, ever since he took a bullet for me during a security job gone wrong. Since then, I've trusted him with my life.
"Troy, I need you to check for any strange reports coming out of Georgia," I said. "Specifically in King County."
"King County?" he repeated. "What kind of reports are we talking about?"
"Police activity. Sheriff departments. Any incidents involving officers or unexplained attacks."
He grunted in understanding. "Alright. Give me a few minutes."
As he made the calls, I changed into fresh clothes and kept flipping through the news channels, piecing things together. This wasn't just a health crisis. This was the outbreak.
This was The Walking Dead.
I knew it now. The signs matched. The infection. Jenner. The timeline. If I was right, then Rick Grimes—the man who would one day become a legend—was still unconscious in a hospital in King County.
A few hours later, Troy returned to my suite. He handed me a phone without a word.
A gruff voice came through. "Mr. Walt?"
"Speaking."
"I have the information you requested. There was a recent incident in King County involving a sheriff—name's Rick Grimes. Got shot during a traffic stop. He's in a coma at the county hospital. Happened just yesterday."
I let out a slow breath. "Perfect. Transfer's on the way."
I nodded to Troy, who pulled out his secure tablet and began the transaction without a word. That's the kind of man he is.
Now I knew for sure. The countdown had begun.
I had only a few weeks—maybe less—before the world fell apart.
Time was no longer on my side.
I had to act now. I needed to liquidate more assets, convert everything into survival necessities—food, water, fuel, weapons, and ammunition. But more importantly, I needed people. Soldiers, and survivors alike.
I had 20 bodyguards under my payroll. With Troy, that made 21.
Not enough.
I would need to double—no, triple—those numbers. I needed to build a team capable of withstanding the chaos ahead.
And I needed to warn Jessy and Ray.