Rosie's first stop was a large industrial supply store on the edge of the district—one she'd remembered from her previous life, where she could buy bulk waterproof materials and basic tools without attracting too much attention. She parked her car a block away, pulling up the hood of her jacket and adjusting her mask, making sure her face was hidden. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the air was still thick with dampness, and the streets were nearly empty, save for a few stray cars and a handful of hurried pedestrians. She walked quickly to the store, pushing open the heavy metal door; the sound of wind chimes clanged softly, and the smell of rubber, metal, and fresh paint hit her instantly.
The shopkeeper, a burly man with a scar across his cheek, looked up from behind the counter, his eyes narrowing suspiciously as he took in Rosie's hidden appearance. "What do you need?" he grunted, his voice rough and gruff, his hand resting casually on a baseball bat under the counter—standard for a rough neighborhood like this, where theft was common. Rosie didn't flinch; she'd expected this, had rehearsed her response a hundred times in her head.
"Waterproof sheeting, as much as you have," she said, her voice low and muffled, "heavy-duty plastic, at least 50 rolls. Also, duct tape, metal nails, a dozen crowbars, and two portable generators—gas-powered, no electric. And don't skimp on quality. Money's not an issue." She touched the locket lightly, a silent reminder that the cash was safe, ready to be pulled out at a moment's notice. The scarred man's eyes lit up at the mention of money, his suspicion fading slightly, but he hesitated, scratching the back of his neck with a gruff sigh. "Can't do 50 rolls," he grunted, his tone shifting from greedy to guarded, "Had a guy come in yesterday, bought up most of the heavy-duty waterproof sheeting—only 20 rolls left. Generators too, only one gas-powered left. The rest sold out last week, no restock coming anytime soon." Rosie's heart tightened; she hadn't anticipated a shortage—most people were still going about their lives, unaware of the disaster ahead, so she'd assumed supplies would be abundant. Before she could respond, the shopkeeper leaned forward, a greedy glint returning to his eyes. "But I can save what's left for you—for double the price. You said money's not an issue, right?" His hand drifted back to the baseball bat under the counter, a silent threat—take it or leave it, no negotiations. Rosie's jaw tensed, her fingers brushing the utility knife in her pocket; a price hike was a hassle, but wasting time to find another shop could be fatal. Worse, the shopkeeper's hesitation and sudden greed made her wary—had someone else been stockpiling supplies too? Ethan? Or the unknown sender of the text? She forced her voice to stay steady, masking her unease. "Double is fine. But I want all of it—20 rolls, the generator, every last bit of the duct tape and nails. No games."
Far away, Ethan's sedan glided slowly down the street, parked half a block from the supply store. He stared through the rain-streaked windshield, watching Rosie's figure disappear into the store, a cold smile spreading across his face. Sarah, huddled in the passenger seat, leaned forward, her eyes wide with excitement. "She's in there! Are we going in after her? Can we take the supplies now?"
Ethan shook his head, his gaze never leaving the store door, his tone sharp and impatient, no extra nonsense. "No. We wait." He tapped the steering wheel, his fingers flexing with anticipation, his eyes glinting with greed. "That $1.2 million is nothing to me. I don't care about the cash—what I want is everything she's buying, everything she's hiding. Let her work, let her gather all the supplies, let her carry them to her precious safe house. Then, when she's exhausted, when she thinks she's safe, we strike. We take the supplies, take the money, take that weird locket she's always touching—and we make her pay for every last thing she's done."
Sarah nodded eagerly, sinking back into her seat, her excitement barely contained. She didn't understand why Ethan wanted to wait, but she trusted him—trusted that he'd get them the supplies, the safety, the wealth he'd promised. What she didn't know, what neither of them knew, was that the unmarked black SUV was parked a few cars away, its driver staring at both their sedan and the supply store, a faint, unreadable expression on their face. The hunt was on, but no one knew who the real prey was.
The scarred man's greedy grin stretched across his face, satisfied with her compliance. "Smart girl," he grunted, turning to yell toward the back storage room, "Jake! Drag out the last 20 rolls of heavy-duty sheeting, the gas generator, and all the duct tape and nails we got! Hurry it up!" A muffled reply came from the back, and the sound of crates scraping against concrete filled the air. Rosie stayed rooted in the shadows, her eyes never leaving the shopkeeper—his relaxed posture didn't ease her wariness, the thought of someone else stockpiling supplies gnawing at her. She'd mapped out three supply stores for this trip, but if the first was already low on key goods, the others might be too. Ethan wouldn't be the only one with a head start, it seemed. Minutes later, a scrawny teen with a messy mop of hair stumbled out of the storage room, hauling a stack of waterproof sheeting on a dolly, a portable gas generator clattering behind it, and two crates brimming with duct tape and metal nails following close. The shopkeeper kicked the dolly toward Rosie, nodding at the pile. "All yours. Total's $18,000—double the usual, like we said." Rosie didn't hesitate; she reached into her jacket, pretending to pull cash from an inner pocket, and instead brushed her fingers against the silver locket. A thick stack of $100 bills materialized in her palm, crisp and untraceable—she counted out $18,000, slamming it on the counter. The shopkeeper's eyes darted to her hand, a flicker of confusion crossing his face at how quickly she'd produced the cash, but greed won out; he snatched the money, shoving it into a locked metal box under the counter without a second glance. "Load it yourself," he grunted, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, "Jake's got other work. And make it quick—don't block the door." Rosie bit back a retort; arguing would only waste time. She grabbed the dolly, wheeling it toward the back door of the shop—she'd scouted it earlier, a narrow alley leading to where she'd parked her car, far from the main street, less likely to draw attention. She moved fast, her muscles burning as she hefted the generator onto the dolly, stacking the waterproof sheeting and crates on top, her movements precise and efficient, honed by the memory of scrambling for supplies in her last life, when every second wasted meant losing out to scavengers and looters. As she wheeled the dolly into the damp alley, the locket hummed softly against her throat. She paused for a split second, touching it gently—with a silent thought, the entire pile of supplies vanished, sucked into the locket's boundless storage, not a single trace left on the dolly. She exhaled a quiet breath of relief; the last thing she needed was to be seen hauling a mountain of survival gear through the streets. She wheeled the empty dolly back to the shop's back door, leaving it by the threshold, and slipped into the alley, her hood pulled low, mask tight against her face, moving toward her car with her senses on high alert.
Half a block away, Ethan watched from the driver's seat of his sedan, his jaw tight, his eyes cold as he tracked Rosie's figure slipping into the alley. Sarah leaned forward, her brow furrowed, confused. "She only took a little stuff—why's she leaving so fast? And where'd she put it? I saw her wheel a dolly out, but it was empty when she came back!" Ethan's fingers tapped the steering wheel faster, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He'd seen the teen wheel the supplies out, seen Rosie pay double the price—he'd planned to let her load the supplies into her car, to follow her to where she stashed everything, but she'd vanished into the alley with the goods and come back with an empty dolly. No bags, no trunk full of gear, nothing. "Where the hell did she hide it?" he muttered, his gaze darting to the alley, sharp and searching. He knew she hadn't dumped it—she'd moved too fast, too purposefully. The only explanation was that she'd stashed it somewhere nearby, or… he thought of the silver locket she was always touching, the one she'd brushed her fingers against when she paid the shopkeeper. A flicker of suspicion crossed his face. That damn locket. It was always there, always close to her, and she touched it when she was nervous, when she was in a hurry… when she'd just made a pile of supplies disappear. "Start the car," he snapped at Sarah, his voice sharp with frustration and a flicker of unease. "We follow her. She's going to another supply store—she didn't get half the stuff she needs. And this time, we don't just watch. We track every move she makes, every shop she goes to. I want to know exactly where she's hiding all of it. And if she so much as touches that locket again, you take a picture. Clear one." Sarah fumbled with the keys, starting the car quickly, her hands shaking slightly at Ethan's sharp tone. She didn't understand his obsession with the locket, didn't care—she just wanted to get the supplies, to get to safety. But Ethan's eyes were fixed on Rosie's figure as she slipped into her black unmarked car, and he knew, with a cold certainty, that the locket was more than just a piece of jewelry. It was her secret. His secret, soon enough.
Rosie merged onto the road, her eyes darting to the rearview mirror every few seconds—she didn't see Ethan's sedan, but she knew he was there, lurking, watching. The shortage at the first shop had put her behind schedule, and the thought of another unknown stockpiler made her blood run cold. She'd planned to hit a hardware store next, for heavy-duty tools and water filters, then a grocery store for non-perishable food and bottled water—essential supplies she couldn't afford to miss. She turned onto a side street, heading for the hardware store she'd marked on her map, a small, family-run shop in a quieter neighborhood, less likely to have supply shortages… or greedy shopkeepers. As she parked the car, she touched the locket again, a silent check—all the supplies from the first shop were safe, tucked away in the endless blackness of the locket's storage, no chance of being stolen or damaged. She took a deep breath, adjusting her mask and hood, and stepped out of the car, her hand resting on the utility knife in her pocket, ready for whatever trouble awaited her next. The flood was coming, and every supply, every second, every secret, was a fight for survival. And she wasn't going to lose this time.