Dohyun stood by the window for another five minutes, the morning sun doing nothing to warm the ice that had formed in his chest. He was hyper-aware of everything: the rumble of the bus, the cheerful jingle from the convenience store across the street, the precise moment a delivery scooter stopped outside his building. All of it was noise, distracting him from the central, terrifying truth.
He had six months.
He turned away from the false calm of the street, the adrenaline forcing a ruthless clarity. Sentimentality was a disease that had killed him once; he wouldn't let it happen again.
The first step was to secure untraceable capital.
He powered on his desktop. His hand hovered over the keyboard. Every transaction, every large withdrawal, would leave a paper trail—something the government or even Hyuk-jin's gang could trace later. He needed to be quick, decisive, and silent.
He opened his brokerage account. It held a meager three million won—his tuition savings. He scrolled through the list of his small stock holdings. He had no future memory of a lottery win or a specific market crash, but he did remember the initial, chaotic surge of people panic-buying guns and medical supplies in the first two weeks of the apocalypse.
Guns. That was his focus.
He quickly liquidated his stocks, transferring the total three million won to his main bank account. Next, he opened a separate online trading account. He took a deep breath and transferred one million won into it. This was his risk fund.
He needed to find companies that would suddenly become valuable. In the apocalypse, things like mining operations for raw steel, pharmaceutical giants (especially those specializing in antibiotics and antivirals), and security/alarm services would skyrocket before collapsing entirely.
He quickly bought a speculative amount of stock in a small, obscure local security firm. It was a gamble, but he didn't have time to wait for the market.
Now, for the main goal: Cash.
He looked at his tuition fund again. He was supposed to be a university student. If he emptied it, his parents would notice instantly.
Parents. A fresh wave of guilt and pain hit him. He had to save them, but he couldn't tell them. Their lives depended on their ignorance. They would think he was insane.
He opened a private chat with his mother, the last time stamp showing a chat from yesterday afternoon. He typed out a message, deleting and retyping several times until it sounded casual enough.
Dohyun: Hey, Mom. Listen, my friend Seungho's studying abroad in the US, and he's selling his laptop. Super high-spec for his engineering courses. It's a huge discount, only 3.5 million won, and I can flip it for 5 million next month. I'm thinking of using my tuition savings. Just the deposit. Can I? I'll replace it before the next semester.
A blatant lie. But his parents were obsessed with his education and always encouraged "good investments."
He minimized the chat window and started to scour the internet. He wasn't looking for laptops. He was looking for black markets, discreet private sellers, and obscure survivalist forums. He was looking for the tools of survival that South Korea didn't allow: guns, body armor, military-grade communication equipment.
He found an old, heavily encrypted forum for "collectors of historical artifacts." He knew from his past life that this was a thinly veiled front for weapons trafficking. He posted a simple, coded message:
User: NomadKR
Request: Seeking a heavy, reliable 'historical artifact' for preservation. Caliber preferred: 5.56 or 7.62. Also require robust 'protective plating' (Level IV). Immediate cash transaction. Discreet location required.
He knew that the caliber references would weed out the amateurs. Now, he had to wait for a reply, and that waiting was agony.
The second problem: The Safe House.
He lived in a small, dense apartment complex—a death trap when the infected started flowing through the narrow streets. He needed isolation and reinforced barriers.
He opened a map of Seoul and Gyeonggi Province. The closer to the city, the quicker the infection would spread. He scanned the outer suburbs, looking for old, forgotten infrastructure.
An abandoned warehouse? Too large, too exposed.
An old factory basement? Too prone to flooding.
Then, his gaze locked onto a small, isolated area of the map near the northern mountains: a cluster of old, disused Civil Defense Bunkers from the mid-20th century. Built to withstand bombs, they had thick concrete walls, heavy blast doors, and often, their own sealed ventilation and water systems. Most were now forgotten or owned by defunct companies.
He typed in an address and started digging through property records. He found one, registered to a shell company that hadn't filed taxes in ten years. It was technically up for auction due to back taxes.
Asking Price: 50 million won (USD $37,000).
It was a steal, but a mountain of cash he didn't have yet. His bank account held a paltry 2.5 million won after the stock purchase.
Focus, Dohyun. One step at a time.
He slammed the laptop shut. He couldn't afford to waste a second more inside. He needed to be physically moving, gathering the most essential, small items that wouldn't raise suspicion.
First priority: Antibiotics.
He grabbed his keys and wallet. He didn't even bother changing out of his sweats. As he reached for the doorknob, his phone buzzed.
It was a text from an unsaved number.
Min-ji: Hey! Are we still on for dinner tonight? I haven't seen you all week! Miss you, baby. ❤️
Dohyun stared at the message. The same saccharine, fake affection that had masked the knife she was preparing to plunge into his back. The hatred was a physical sensation, tightening his stomach into a hard knot.
He fought the urge to smash the phone. He had to play the part. He needed his enemies to be complacent, to believe he was still the same naive fool.
He typed back:
Dohyun: Of course. See you at 7. Can't wait.
He pocketed the phone, the lie a bitter taste in his mouth. Six months. He wouldn't just survive the apocalypse; he would survive Min-ji, Hyuk-jin, and the bitter cruelty of his own fate.
He opened the apartment door and stepped out into the bright, unsuspecting morning. The countdown had truly begun.