The Apocalypse Hoarder

Russell grinned. "Good. Our interest rate is 40%. You borrow 1,000,000, you pay back 1,400,000. Write me a promissory note for 1,400,000 dollars."

He leaned back, eyes glinting. "And of course, you'll need collateral. A house, a business, a car—something of value."

Cyrus hesitated for effect, then gritted his teeth and pulled out his property deed—the same one he had used earlier at the bank.

"My apartment's worth over 1,000,000 dollars. That should cover it, right? I've also got a Benz worth 60,000 dollars. If I can't pay, you can take that too."

Russell's eyes lit up as he scanned the documents. The market value was easily closer to 1,200,000 dollars. With a car on top, the deal was solid.

Still, he wore a dissatisfied expression. "Mr. Knovell, your place is worth 800,000 dollars, maybe 900,000 dollars at most. And you want to walk away with 1,000,000 dollars? It sounds like I'm taking a loss."

Cyrus widened his eyes, panic flashing across his face. "Mr. Brond, you have to help me! I need the cash desperately. If you can transfer it today, I'll settle for 900,000 dollars!"

Russell and Mason exchanged a glance and smirked faintly. They thrived on desperation—the more a man begged, the deeper they could cut.

"Impossible. That's too much of a stretch," Russell said firmly.

After a round of fake bargaining, they settled on 800,000 dollars. Cyrus had one condition: the funds had to hit his account today.

Loan sharks were ruthless but fast. Efficiency was their only advantage over banks. The paperwork was done in minutes. Soon after, Cyrus' account lit up with an 800,000-dollar transfer.

He smiled. For Russell, that money might as well have vanished into a black hole. It was never coming back.

He chuckled and walked out humming.

Behind him, the office erupted in laughter

"Hahaha! Easiest deal we've ever made," Mason said, slapping the desk. "That idiot just walked out with 800,000 dollars like it was nothing."

Russell puffed on his coffee and said smugly, "We'll clear at least 400,000 dollars, maybe 600,000 dollars in profit. Our monthly quota's already in the bag."

Mason frowned. "Boss, he signed the papers too easily. What if there's something wrong with the house?"

Russell waved the deed with a grin. "It's real. The place is his. With this and the 1,400,000-dollars promissory note, he's not going anywhere. If he defaults, we take the property. And if that's not enough, we have other ways to squeeze him dry."

His eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped to a cruel murmur. "Worst case, we sell some of his parts overseas. We never lose money."

Outside, Cyrus strolled away with a cheerful grin. He glanced back at the dingy office building and muttered mockingly, "Such kind souls. Just handing me money to burn."

He would never cross paths with Russell or Mason again. More likely, they'd be frozen corpses in a month.

His coffers now held 2,000,000 dollars—enough to execute his plan. With prepayments and deposits, that money carried the buying power of tens of millions. He wouldn't need to scrape for more, though exploiting online loan platforms would be trivial if he wanted.

Instead, he drove across Volaris to Wyvern Security's headquarters, one of the nation's largest private firms. They were famous for protecting billionaires, celebrities, and sometimes government officials on sensitive trips.

Cyrus chose them because he had heard they had built a billion-dollar doomsday fortress for the heir of a real estate empire in his past life. That man had survived comfortably through the apocalypse thanks to Wyvern.

At the front desk, Cyrus stated his request. Within minutes, he was ushered into a lounge, and a receptionist brought him freshly ground coffee.

Then the door opened, and a mountain of a man strode in. He had a buzz cut, a black suit stretched taut across his broad chest, and radiated the air of a "gangster in formal wear." He was intimidating yet strangely reassuring.

Hector sat across from Cyrus. "Good afternoon, sir. I'm Hector Webb, the manager of the business department. How can we assist you?"

Cyrus sipped his coffee calmly. "I want you to build me a safehouse. The best you can manage. Something strong enough to withstand the end of the world."

Hector's eyes sharpened instantly. To outsiders, the request would sound absurd. But to Wyvern, it made perfect sense. The rich and powerful feared death more than anything. Billionaires worldwide had spent fortunes on doomsday bunkers, whether fearing natural disasters or human enemies. Wyvern had simply carved its niche.

'Here's another fat contract,' Hector thought.

"Mr. Knovell, Wyvern is a world-class security company. Whatever you need, we can provide."

Cyrus leaned forward. "What if I want my 24th-floor apartment completely remodeled into a fortress? Can you do it?"

Hector blinked. Most clients preferred standalone villas or underground shelters. Rarely an apartment. Still, a client was a client.

Hector plastered a confident smile. "Of course. We're the best in the industry. If that's what you want, we'll make it happen."

Cyrus' decision was set. He would stay. He wanted to watch his back-stabbing neighbors die with his own eyes.

Hector handed him a sleek tablet. "All our services are bespoke, custom-made. You can browse the options here, complete with pricing."

Cyrus scrolled carefully. The range was staggering: steel reinforcements, blast-proof doors, air filtration systems, even shelters 300 feet underground or beneath the sea.

But time was short. He had only one month.