The lock on her apartment door clicked shut behind her, a solid, definitive sound that sealed off the outside world.
This small, one-bedroom apartment was the only thing her parents had left her. In her past life, it had been a place of heartbreak, a sanctuary she had been tricked into giving up. This time, it would be her fortress.
Aleen walked to the window and looked down at the street below. People were walking their dogs, carrying groceries, laughing. A world blissfully unaware of the abyss it was about to fall into. Her gaze was cold, analytical.
She turned away from the window and went to her laptop. There was no time to waste.
Her fingers flew across the keyboard. First, the essentials. Cases of bottled water, military-grade MREs, high-calorie canned goods. She filled virtual shopping carts on Amazon, Walmart, and specialized survivalist websites.
Next, medicine. First-aid kits, antibiotics, painkillers, iodine tablets, vitamins. She knew from bitter experience that a simple infection could be a death sentence after the collapse. She bypassed insurance and prescription requirements, finding gray-market online pharmacies she remembered from her previous life.
She entered her credit card information again and again, the numbers a familiar mantra. The total climbed. Five thousand dollars. Eight thousand.
When the cumulative spending on survival gear and medical supplies crossed the ten-thousand-dollar mark, a wave of dizziness washed over her.
The room swam. She gripped the edge of her desk to steady herself, her knuckles turning white.
The image of her apartment faded, replaced by a translucent blue interface that bloomed in her mind's eye. It was sleek, futuristic, and utterly alien.
A line of text materialized in the center of her vision.
[Host activation requirements met. The Oracle AI initializing...]
Aleen froze, her heart hammering against her ribs. This... this was new. This had never happened in her past life.
A cheerful, synthesized voice, like a high-end virtual assistant, echoed in her head.
"Hello, Host! I am your personal survival optimization assistant, the Oracle AI!"
She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again. The blue screen was still there. She forced herself to calm down, to think logically.
What are you? she asked, the question forming silently in her mind.
"I am a creation of a higher civilization, bound to your soul," the AI replied instantly. "My activation is triggered when the host makes a significant, cumulative investment in their own survival. Congratulations on hitting the threshold!"
An image of a three-dimensional grid appeared on the interface, a cube of shimmering blue lines.
"This is your Dimensional Storage Space," the AI explained. "It is a pocket dimension where time is completely static. Food will never spoil, and water will never evaporate."
The initial space was small, a cube measuring 10 cubic meters.
"The space expands as you invest more in survival," the AI continued, its tone bubbly. "For every one thousand U. S. dollars you spend on supplies, the space will expand by one cubic meter."
Aleen's breath caught in her throat. Her heart, which had been hammering with shock, now began to pound with wild, unadulterated joy.
This wasn't just a storage unit. This was a game-changer. This was the single greatest cheat code for the apocalypse imaginable.
The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow. She had to spend all her money. Every last cent had to be converted into physical goods and stuffed into this space before the world ended.
Just then, her apartment buzzer rang. It was the delivery driver from a local water supplier, with the first of her orders. Fifty cases of purified water.
Aleen buzzed him in. The young man grunted as he stacked the heavy boxes in her living room, quickly filling a corner of the small space.
"Got a big party planned?" he asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Something like that," Aleen replied, her voice tight.
As soon as the door closed, she turned to the mountain of plastic-wrapped water.
How do I use it? she asked the AI.
"Simply touch the object you wish to store and focus your intent," the AI instructed. "Just think 'store'."
Aleen reached out, her fingers trembling slightly, and placed her palm flat against the top case of water.
Store.
In the blink of an eye, the box vanished.
There was no sound, no flash of light. It was just... gone.
She checked the interface in her mind. Inside the virtual grid, a perfect digital representation of the water case sat quietly in a corner.
A giddy, hysterical laugh escaped her lips. It worked.
She began to move faster, her hands slapping against box after box. Store. Store. Store.
Within a minute, the entire stack of fifty cases had disappeared. Her living room was empty again, as if the delivery had never happened.
She looked at the empty space, then at the mental image of her fully-stocked dimension, and a feeling of profound, absolute security washed over her. It was a feeling she hadn't known for a decade.
Adrenaline surged through her veins. She spun around and ran back to her laptop, a manic energy driving her.
She went back to her online shopping carts. The items she had hesitated on before-the expensive tent, the portable generator, the high-end solar panels, the professional-grade compound bow and carbon-fiber arrows-she now added them all without a second thought.
Click. Confirm purchase. Click. Confirm.
Her bank account balance plummeted. $50,000. $30,000. $10,000.
But in her mind, the blue cube of the dimensional space was visibly growing, expanding with every purchase.
"Excellent, Host!" the Oracle AI chirped. "We've reached 100 cubic meters! Keep spending!"
Aleen stared at the expanding grid, a new, bolder plan forming in her mind. This was not enough. The money she had was not enough.
She needed more.
She thought of the apartment. Her apartment. The one Candice and Colon had coveted, the one they had tricked her out of for a pittance in her past life.
This time, they wouldn't get it.
No, this time, they would be the ones to pay for it. They would become her personal ATMs.
