Three months slipped away in a blink of an eye.
Under the relentless efforts of James and his construction team, who worked day and night without rest, the 5-acre base atop the mountain had finally begun to take shape. Solid defensive walls with electric security fences now encircled the rugged terrain.
Watchtowers rose sharply from the perimeter, and within the fortress-like grounds, dormitories, warehouses, greenhouses, livestock pens, a medical zone, and water and power facilities were all now a completed superstructure.
It resembled a fortress slowly awakening from slumber.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the mountains in molten hues of red and gold, Doleia stood on one of the newly built watchtowers.
The wind stirred her hair gently, but her gaze remained steady and cold, surveying the land below with a calm that seemed carved from stone.
Once, her hands had been delicate and soft—famed among acquaintances as "the most beautiful hands to ever play the piano." Now, her palms were roughened, covered with small calluses.
Her warm and naive eyes now had a sharpness lingered in their depths, a quiet restraint forged by relentless will.
The past three months had changed her. Under Marc's brutal training regime, she had undergone a painful rebirth.
Every morning, she awoke early to review theory and practicing on her own.
After lunch, she would throw herself into high-intensity hand-to-hand combat sessions with Marc, followed by firearms and shooting drills.
At night, when exhaustion gnawed at her limbs, she pressed on, practicing basic medical skills and mechanical repairs.
She fell—again and again—but she always gritted her teeth and got back up.
Marc never showed mercy. His punches were fast and punishing; his kicks aimed to bruise."Remember," he said coldly, standing over her more than once as she gasped for air on the ground, "the enemy won't pity you. They never will."
Yet in quieter moments, he would clap her on the shoulder and chuckle gruffly, half in jest:"Kid, give it a few more months, and you might just be tougher than all of us old soldiers."
Doleia would simply lower her gaze to the hardened calluses on her palms and smile without answering.
She understood.
The apocalypse was inevitable—and only those willing to transform completely would have a chance of surviving the coming ruins.
Now, it was time to move to the next phase.
-----
One moonless, wind-lashed night, Doleia sat at the old study desk where she used to bury herself in books.
The soft glow of her laptop screen illuminated her face, casting sharp shadows across her now-composed, determined features.
"Communication—" she thought to herself.
In a world where information networks would collapse in an instant, losing the ability to communicate meant being swallowed by darkness.
Only those who could seize and control information would survive longer—and perhaps even shape the new world to come.
She understood that she needed an independent radio communication system.
No matter how chaotic the outside world became, she and her people had to hear the first whispers of trouble before it arrived at their doorstep.
Doleia launched into action.
She combed through countless online stores and forums, dismissing cheap walkie-talkies and amateur devices.
Instead, she zeroed in on professional-grade equipment typically used for wilderness rescue and expedition missions.
To avoid unnecessary trouble, she registered a new identity—a fake profile portraying herself as an "extreme survival enthusiast"—and contacted suppliers under this new guise.
After careful screening, she narrowed her choice down to a warehouse-style outdoor equipment store located in the outskirts of the city.
She didn't place an online order. Instead, she insisted on picking up the goods in person.
Marc's voice echoed in her mind: Never trust anyone in harsh conditions you haven't tested yourself.
-----
A few days later, dressed casually in a plain T-shirt, jeans, and a low-brimmed baseball cap, Doleia rode quietly in the back seat of her driver's car.
The vehicle rolled to a stop in front of the warehouse.
The iron gate creaked open slowly, revealing a large space cluttered with every imaginable type of survival equipment.
There standing a middle-aged man, eyeing her with a mixture of wariness and eagerness.
Doleia's expression remained impassive. She got straight to the point:
"I need a medium-wave transmitter, a high-gain antenna, a full-band receiver, and portable radios."
The shop owner raised his eyebrows slightly, his guard flickering to life—but when Doleia handed over a precise equipment list and spoke with calm, professional authority, some of his tension eased.
One by one, he brought out the requested items.
Doleia inspected each piece meticulously:
1. The shortwave transmitter: she dismantled part of it to verify the power module.
2. The antenna: she extended it fully, testing its length and material.
3. The walkie-talkies: she manually tuned the frequencies and tested sound clarity.
4. The backup battery packs: she double-checked the port standards and voltage ratings.
Once satisfied, she stacked the equipment neatly beside her.
Seeing the haul she was about to take away, the owner's lips curled into a crafty smile, and he rattled off a price that was outrageously inflated.
Doleia raised one eyebrow, her voice flat but cutting:
"At that price, I might as well go through official channels and get brand-new stocks."
The owner hesitated, about to protest—but Doleia was already lazily glancing around the warehouse, her tone casual but razor-sharp:
"This place... doesn't look like it would pass a fire safety inspection. Poor layout. Improper storage... I wonder what the city inspectors would think if they found out."
Her words, soft and unhurried, struck harder than any shout.
The owner's smile stiffened, his face paling slightly.
This was no naive customer—this young woman knew exactly how the game was played.
After a long, uncomfortable pause, he chuckled awkwardly and slashed the price dramatically.
Deal made, Doleia loaded the heavy boxes into the trunk of the car by herself, dust swirling around her feet as she drove away with her driver without looking back.
-----
Returning to the abandoned warehouse she had rented three months ago for temporary electrical storage, Doleia got to work immediately.
She didn't ask the driver for help.
Piece by piece, she hauled the equipment inside on her own, sweat matting strands of hair to her forehead.
Inside the dusty warehouse, she set up a temporary makeshift communication room.
She connected the devices to her backup solar power system, rigged the high-gain antenna through a hole in the corrugated metal roof, and spent hours fine-tuning the frequency ranges.
Night had fallen completely. The world outside lay cloaked in deep shadow.
Wearing a set of noise-canceling headphones, Doleia sat before the transmitter, breath shallow, fingers slowly spinning the frequency dial.
A whisper of static filled her ears—soft, chaotic, almost like ghostly voices.
Then, amid the noise, a clear signal suddenly pierced through:
"Thank you for tuning in to Coffee FM. We'll see you again tomorrow—goodnight."
Doleia narrowed her eyes slightly, her fingers tapping a slow, thoughtful rhythm against the table.
The radio system... had worked. A small but crucial victory.
She pulled off her headphones and leaned back in the chair, her gaze drifting toward the dim ring of light still flickering at the warehouse's farthest edge.
Her expression remained composed—but deep within her chest, her heart was steady as a war drum.
This was only the beginning.
-----
Beyond the communications system, she knew what must come next:
More weapons.
More ammunition.
More protective gear.
And—most crucial of all—vast stores of food and medical supplies.
Lowering her head once more, Doleia opened a fresh page in her notebook when she was back at her place. The pen scratched decisively across the paper, forming a new list.
Every line she wrote could mean the difference between life and death.