The news came during anatomy lab.
Julyah Anderson had just removed her gloves, the faint scent of antiseptic still clinging to her skin, when her phone buzzed against the steel tray beside her. She expected a reminder or maybe another spam message. Instead, the screen displayed a single notification from the airline hotline.
One click.
One blink.
One silent scream that never escaped her lips.
Flight 609 from Geneva to Toronto has gone down over the Atlantic. No survivors.
Her parents, Dr. Marcus Anderson and philanthropist Helena Cruz-Anderson, had been on that flight. They were returning from a global medical conference, proud of their daughter's nearing graduation from medical school. Julyah had spoken to them just three days ago.
The next time she saw them, it was through closed caskets and a haze of white roses.
The funeral was a blur of gray skies, whispered condolences, and rain that soaked through her shoes. People called her graceful, composed, so strong for someone so young. But no one noticed how her hands trembled beneath her sleeves. No one realized her gaze never settled, always shifting just slightly past their faces.
She was 23. Pretty, in a quiet way, almond-shaped eyes framed by long lashes, soft lips that rarely raised their voice, and thick, dark hair usually pinned into a modest bun beneath her lab coat. A gentle presence. Timid. Known more for her compassion and diligence than her voice in class discussions.
Now, her life had been reduced to a last will and testament.
The lawyer's office confirmed it all:
Her parents had left her everything. Not just their names and philanthropic titles, but their empire.
$47.8 million in liquid assets and offshore accounts Anderson Medical Holdings, including controlling interest in three hospitals A ten-bedroom luxury villa deep in the Selkirk Mountains, accessible only by private road or helicopter Several trust funds, long-term investments, and real estate across four countries And an heirloom bracelet, passed down through generations, with her mother's handwritten note:
"This bracelet once saved our ancestors. It will protect you too."
She wore it now. Cold and strangely heavy against her wrist, like it knew what was coming.
That night, Julyah fell asleep in her childhood bedroom, once filled with warmth, now echoing with silence. And in her dreams, the world shattered.
She dreamed of fire and ash.
Of cities drowning beneath walls of water.
Of mountains crumbling under blackened skies.
She dreamed of hunger so deep it gnawed through her bones, of bartering away the heirloom bracelet for a single crust of stale bread.
And then—something impossible.
The bracelet responded. Within it, a hidden world unfurled. A magical space that opened at her will. Inside: endless shelves of food, clean water that never ran dry, seeds that never rotted, and preserves that remained untouched by time. A sanctuary.
And in that dream, there was him.
Adrian Blackwood.
Older than her. Late thirties, maybe. Hardened from war and burdened with leadership. He wore tactical gear laced with wear, a scar trailing along his jaw, and eyes like sharpened steel—calculating, unyielding. But it was his presence she remembered most. How he stood before her, arms steady, back unbroken, even when the world crumbled around them.
He was the one who found her.
The one who kept her alive when her body failed her.
The one who shielded her with everything he had, right to her final breath.
She didn't know him. Not really. Not in this world.
But her soul recognized his.
She woke gasping in her dorm, drenched in sweat, the bracelet burning hot against her wrist.
"Adrian…" she whispered into the darkness.
The next day, she dropped out of university.
With only one semester left, her professors were shocked. Her classmates whispered in stunned disbelief as she signed the withdrawal forms without hesitation.
"Are you sure?" her favorite professor asked gently. "You're at the finish line, Julyah."
But she didn't waver.
"Yes, sir. I'm sure."
Because now, she knew the truth:
There were two weeks left before the world ended.
And she wasn't going to waste a second.
Adrian Blackwood, 35 years old, ex-military, now a rising political figure known for blunt honesty and an iron will—was out there somewhere. Maybe shaking hands on television. Maybe preparing for the next election. Maybe already suspecting the storm that was coming.
She had twelve days to prepare. To gather everything she could. To stockpile, research, plan.
And on the thirteenth, she would vanish, driving into the mountains with everything she owned, toward the secluded villa no one remembered existed.
Two days before the apocalypse, she would disappear from the world.
This time, she would not go hungry.
This time, she would not be helpless.
This time, she would be ready.