Amy pulled the Ghost up to the sleek black side garage and stepped out, her boots crunching softly over gravel. The biometric scanner blinked, recognized her, and unlocked the door with a low hiss. Inside, the garage lights activated row by row — clean, orderly, untouched.
But Amy wasn't here for the main space.
Crossing to the far wall, she passed her hand along the lower edge of the tool panel until it caught on a small ridge — nearly invisible. A second biometric panel revealed itself, this one older, mechanical. Her fingerprint still worked. The wall slid open with a soft clack, revealing a narrower tunnel and a secondary lift.
This was her grandfather's hidden workshop. Off the books. Off the grid.
And there it was.
The Midnight Linx.
Its matte body gleamed with a dormant menace — sleek, wide-framed, armored without looking like it. Built for load, silence, and speed. It looked more like a transport prototype than a car, which it technically was — a one-off design her grandfather had once built "just in case."
Amy ran her fingers along the side, pressing another recessed switch. The lights blinked to life in sequence. The system recognized her immediately.
"Status: Fully operational. Battery level: 93%. Tires: optimal. Storage seal: intact," the onboard AI reported through a subtle interior glow.
Perfect.
She slid into the driver's seat. The interior was nothing like the Ghost — this wasn't a car made to impress, it was made to function. Space behind her opened like a vault. Reinforced. Room enough to load everything she needed without ever going home.
And she wouldn't need to — not with her Item Box.
She loaded a few foldable crates in the back, slid into the seat, and headed out.
She smiled slightly to herself as the lift carried her and the Linx back up into daylight. It was time to start stockpiling.
First stop: food. Only food.
…
She hit the city supermarkets one by one, staying no more than twenty minutes in each.
In a neat rhythm, she bought:
— Cans of beans, corn, tomatoes, tuna, fruit.
— Flour, pasta, rice, oats.
— Oil, sugar, powdered milk.
— Salt, spices, vinegar.
— Crackers, cookies, protein bars.
Not hoarding, but not shy either. Just enough to raise a brow only if someone looked at all her receipts — which they wouldn't.
The trunk filled fast.
But Amy didn't stop.
Each time it neared capacity, she ducked into a quiet spot — an alley, a rooftop garage, even once the edge of a public park — and activated her skill silently.
[Item Box – Activated]
A shimmer less blink. The groceries disappeared from the vehicle, one crate at a time.
No one noticed.
…
By mid-afternoon, she was tired. Her fingers smelled like dried fish and plastic wrap. Her stomach hadn't quite forgiven her for the convenience store sandwich she called lunch. But the route continued.
She didn't race through it. She let the hours pass like she was just any other citizen, running errands before a long weekend.
And still, beneath the calm surface, she moved with purpose. Every item she touched was chosen with intent. She remembered what the shelves had looked like three weeks into the collapse. She remembered the hunger.
Today, she laid the first stone against that future.
…
The sun was dipping westward when she pulled into her grandmother's property again.
The Midnight Linx had nothing left in the trunk, but the Item Box had cataloged and stored over twenty-five crates of non-perishables, sorted by category, expiry date, and volume.
Amy parked. Slid the door shut. Locked everything behind her.
And only then did she sit on the old porch step, watching the quiet land beyond the fence.
Tomorrow would be harder.
Tomorrow meant distance.
But today, she'd done what she could.
And it was enough.
…
Wednesday Morning
The air was cooler when Ametrine drove out — early enough that even the roads still yawned. The Midnight Linx whispered across the morning haze, past industrial zones, out through winding backroads, until city signals gave way to patchy reception and old-world silence.
This wasn't a short trip.
It wasn't meant to be.
She wasn't here to raid shelves. She came to build a network. To leave no pattern. To keep the questions from ever being asked.
Her first stop was a farmers' market, forty kilometers from the city border. Old stalls, shaded canopies, handwritten signs — the kind of place where receipts were optional and cash preferred.
Amy wore a soft hoodie and nondescript glasses. She didn't need anyone remembering her face.