Adam scrolled through his banking app, the number on the screen so large it barely felt real.
95 million dollars.
Less than twenty-four hours ago he was a broke, obese student with a deteriorating life.
Now… he had power. Resources. Purpose.
He exhaled slowly.
"Time to buy a car and a house."
But first—next month's rent.
He sent $3,500 to his landlord, Andrew, a 35-year-old businessman who usually responded quickly.
A second later—
[Transfer Refunded]
Adam blinked.
"…?"
A message arrived instantly.
Andrew:
Kid, I'm planning not to rent out that apartment anymore.
Adam frowned and typed back.
Adam:
Uncle Andrew, why? What happened?
The reply came a few seconds later.
Andrew:
Ah, it's like this. I've already put the apartment on the market. Planning to sell it soon.
Adam leaned back on the couch, lips pressed in a thin line.
So that was it.
The real estate market had been declining for years.
People were cashing out.
Stability was gone.
Andrew's apartment—
around 90 square meters, two bedrooms, a small living room, one bathroom—
wasn't big, but the layout was good and the location excellent.
Walking distance from the college.
The going price for units in this community: 31,000 per square meter.
At its peak: 51,000.
Adam had lived here for three years.
It was the closest thing he had to a home.
He typed:
Adam:
Uncle Andrew. How about selling the apartment to me?
The reply came quickly—surprised.
Andrew:
You want to buy? I'm actually in a hurry to sell. If you can pay in full within half a month, I can let it go for 2.6 million.
Adam's eyes sharpened.
Based on the market price, the unit should easily sell for 2.9 million.
A 300,000 discount—
Andrew was indeed desperate for liquidity.
Fair enough.
Adam typed calmly:
Adam:
Okay. Let's go for the transfer tomorrow morning.
There was silence for a moment.
Then—
Andrew:
You serious? You're not joking?
Adam replied:
Adam:
I've lived here three years. It's home now. Suddenly moving out would be… uncomfortable. I was going to buy a house anyway. Might as well take this one.
It was the truth.
Buying a new property meant pre-sale homes, waiting a year or two for completion and renovation.
Buying a second-hand home in another community meant adapting all over again—and he needed a stable base, urgently.
Moreover, every hour mattered.
He couldn't waste time moving boxes when another world depended on him.
No agents.
No middlemen.
Direct purchase.
Clean, fast, efficient.
Andrew responded:
Andrew:
Alright. Tomorrow, 10 AM. We'll settle everything.
The matter was done.
Adam closed his phone and lay back, exhaustion finally crashing into him.
Within minutes, he fell unconscious.
Twelve Hours Apart
As urban Adam sank into sleep—
apocalyptic Adam's eyes snapped open.
He stared at the dark ceiling of the ruined apartment, taking slow, steady breaths.
A realization hit him suddenly.
"…A precise 12-hour difference."
If urban Adam was day, apocalyptic Adam was night.
If urban Adam was asleep, apocalyptic Adam was awake.
One soul.
Two bodies.
Alternating.
It was a perfect system—
and a terrifying one.
"If zombies surround me while I'm asleep… I'm dead."
A cold chill crept up his spine.
He needed somewhere safe.
Somewhere he wouldn't be interrupted.
Somewhere fortified.
His life—both lives—depended on it.
He sat cross-legged and closed his eyes.
The space appeared in his mind, dim and cramped, but
filled with valuable supplies.
Take out everything.
One by one, items materialized on the floor:
Two machetes.
Three hatchets.
Twenty pounds of rice.
Beef.
Pork.
Fresh vegetables—bok choy, chili peppers, potatoes, cucumbers, celery.
Oil.
Salt.
Soy sauce.
Vinegar.
Alcohol stove.
Bottles of alcohol.
Mineral water.
A small mountain of supplies.
Adam crossed his arms, evaluating.
"The space is still too small… I can't store much at once."
Half a month of supplies—maybe.
Barely enough.
Still, for now, it was life-saving.
He set to work cooking.
Oil sizzled, meat released its aroma, vegetables softened into fragrant steam.
In the quiet ruin of the apocalypse, the scent of actual food felt almost surreal.
Adam sat down with a heavy metal bowl and dug in.
Meat.
Rice.
Vegetables.
He ate like a starving beast, like someone reclaiming life itself.
As he swallowed the last mouthful, he noticed something.
His appetite was enormous.
Almost unnatural.
His body demanded fuel—
like a machine in the middle of an awakening.
He touched his chest.
"…The zombie crystal."
His voice was low, cold, resolute.
"It's changing me."
Strengthening him.
Fueling him.
Preparing him.
And as he sat in the dark, flickering firelight illuminating the hardened lines of his face—
Adam Gray made a silent vow:
In this world or the next… I will never be powerless again.