The news hadn't broken yet. People still smiled in coffee shops and argued over petty deadlines. Julyah Anderson watched them from behind dark sunglasses, her expression unreadable, a ghost among the living.
Two weeks. That was all the time left before the first sky broke.
The meteor shower would come without warning, officially, at least. But she'd already seen it in her dream. Fire streaking across the sky. Cities lit up like matches. The beginning of the end.
Julyah had no intention of dying with the rest of them.
She moved in silence, starting with her assets. Everything in the city, condominiums, bonds, stocks, vehicles—was liquidated under the guidance of a discreet financial consultant paid handsomely for his silence. She converted most of it into untraceable gold bars, then split the rest across several accounts under different names.
When the consultant raised an eyebrow at her choices, she simply replied, "Family paranoia. We're all a little eccentric."
He didn't ask again.
She stopped answering texts, ignoring the concerned messages piling up in her inbox. Friends. Former classmates. Curious exes sniffing around after the funeral. She offered no explanations, only silence. It was easier this way. No one would be left to follow her trail.
Using aliases and burner phones, Julyah began to acquire the tools she'd need to survive.
First came the vehicles:
An RV, customized and reinforced for off-grid living, solar panels, water filtration, even a satellite uplink.
An all-terrain 4x4 truck with hidden compartments and enhanced suspension.
A sleek motorcycle she could easily abandon or carry with the truck if roads were blocked.
Each purchase was made in a different city, under different names, through private sellers who asked no questions so long as the cash was clean.
Next came the weapons. She had never touched a gun before, not seriously, but something in her blood told her she would need to learn fast. Through a combination of licensed purchases and darker channels, she acquired:
A pair of compact 9mm pistols A shotgun with custom modifications A tactical rifle with night optics Knives. Lots of knives.
She trained at private ranges, claiming she wanted to feel "empowered" after losing her family. The instructors didn't argue. They liked her precision, her quiet focus. One even joked, "You've got the makings of a ghost operative."
She smiled, but her eyes didn't.
The last purchases were mundane to most—but vital to her:
Medical kits, surgical tools, solar chargers, cold storage packs.
Pallets of freeze-dried food.
Clothing with thermal linings.
Water barrels.
Fuel reserves.
Every supply was divided into go-bags and stashed across hidden storage units at the outskirts of town.
At night, she reviewed hand-drawn maps, scribbled out routes, and memorized code names. The bracelet pulsed faintly against her wrist, warm some nights, cold others. It never came off.
Sometimes she heard his name on the news, Adrian Blackwood.
Former special forces. Decorated. Stoic. Dangerous.
Now an independent candidate gaining momentum for his brutal honesty and survivalist platforms.
No one else saw what was coming, but Julyah knew he did.
He was already preparing, even if he wouldn't say so outright.
She would find him before it was too late.
But first, she had to vanish.
Twelve days left.
Then eleven.
Then ten.
The sky still looked normal. The world still spun.
But every breath Julyah took tasted like ash.
And every second felt like the countdown to a war no one else knew was coming.