New York City is a tomb made of glass and steel. In his past life, Ethan learned that lesson the hard way. High-rise apartments became frozen chimneys, and subway tunnels became mass graves. If he wanted to survive the "Great Frost," he needed more than a Queens apartment with thin walls and a standard radiator.
He pulled his car over in Long Island City, staring across the East River at the Manhattan skyline.
"Too much glass," he muttered, checking off a list in his mind. "Too many entry points. Too many neighbors."
He needed a place with thick concrete, deep foundations, and limited access. Most importantly, he needed a place with its own independent water source and a massive basement for the industrial generators he'd just bought.
He opened a real estate app on his phone, filtering for "Industrial Warehouses" and "Cold Storage Facilities." Most were located in New Jersey or deep Brooklyn, but one listing caught his eye: a former bank vault and printing facility near the Brooklyn navy yard. It had been reinforced during the Cold War, featuring two-foot-thick concrete walls and a decommissioned underground well.
The price was absurd—$4.5 million.
Ethan tapped his steering wheel, a cold glint in his eyes. In thirty days, $4.5 million would be worth less than the screen it was displayed on.
He called the agent. "I'm looking at the Navy Yard property. I'll give you a $500,000 non-refundable deposit today if I can move my 'equipment' in tonight. The rest will be wired in thirty days."
"Tonight? Sir, the paperwork alone—"
"Five hundred thousand. Cash and wire. No inspections. No contingencies," Ethan interrupted. "Take it or I call the next listing."
There was a stunned silence. For a real estate agent in a shaky market, this was a dream—or a scam. But the money was real.
"I'll have the keys at the site in two hours," the agent stammered.
As the sun began to set, Ethan stood inside the cavernous, dark basement of his new fortress. The air was musty, but the walls were solid. He walked to the center of the room and waved his hand.
Vwoom.
One of the twenty industrial generators he had purchased materialized on the floor, its heavy metal frame echoing against the concrete. Then came the drums of diesel. Then the crates of professional-grade insulation foam.
[Subspace Capacity: 45/100 Cubic Meters]
"I need more space," he whispered. "And I need a way to defend this."
He thought back to the "Blackwood Group," the private militia that had ruled Midtown in the previous timeline. They had survived because they had raided a National Guard armory in the first forty-eight hours of the freeze.
Ethan checked his watch. He had twenty-nine days left. He couldn't wait for the chaos to start. He needed to "collect" some equipment before the National Guard even realized there was a problem.
Suddenly, his phone vibrated. It wasn't Sarah this time. It was a news alert.
[NASA Reports Unexplained Atmospheric Cooling over the Arctic Circle. Scientists call it a 'Temporary Fluctuation.']
Ethan stared at the headline. It was starting. The "Temporary Fluctuation" was the first domino. In the last timeline, people ignored it. They went to work, bought lattes, and complained about the slight breeze.
He looked at the heavy steel door of the vault.
"Enjoy the sun while you can, New York," Ethan said, his voice echoing in the empty chamber. "Because the sun is never coming back."
He reached into his subspace and pulled out a steaming hot steak he'd stored earlier. It was perfectly medium-rare, the fat still sizzling. He ate it in the dark, the warmth of the meat a sharp contrast to the cold vengeance growing in his heart.
[End of Chapter 3]