Early morning, before dawn, Doleia pulled on her training jacket and headed to the gazebo in the garden to begin her practice. The rigorous routine of recent days had disciplined her body clock—even while others are still sleeping, she walked briskly toward her destination, fully alert.
In the afternoon, Doleia arrived to Marc's house as usual. True to form, the day's training consisted of another brutal round of physical conditioning and weapons drills.
Sweat trickled down her temples, her wrists ached from overuse, yet she clenched her teeth and pushed through to the end.
When the session concluded, Marc did something rare—he smiled faintly. Picking up the water glass she always emptied after training, he walked back toward the house.
Just as she assumed he was merely going to wash it like always, Marc returned carrying a long black case and presented it to her with solemnity.
"Remember what I promised you three months ago?" His voice was low and deliberate.
Doleia paused, then nodded. Of course she remembered—how could she forget? She'd been waiting eagerly for this gun.
"I think it's time." he said while handing her a black case.
She carefully took it in both hands and opened it—
Inside lay a silver-gray pistol, its design clean and sharp, the grip engraved with fine patterns—and barely visible, the initial "D."
It was clear Marc had put real thought into selecting this weapon, even personalizing it.
Now, it belonged solely to her.
Her fingertips brushed lightly over the gun's surface, emotions swirling inside her.
Three months ago, she couldn't even defend herself. Now, she could disassemble firearms with ease and react swiftly in combat. What had changed wasn't just her skill—it was the unshakable calm and resilience honed into her very bones.
Holding the pistol, she stood and bowed deeply to Marc, her gratitude earnest.
"Thank you, Marc," she said, raising her head.
Marc patted her shoulder, his tone cool yet carrying a rare warmth: "Don't thank me. Remember—on the battlefield, survival depends on no one but yourself."
-----
As evening approached, training wrapped up. Doleia wiped away sweat on her eyebrows and casually remarked to the driver already waiting at Marc's gate: "Take me to Cassidy's place on the way. I need to discuss something with her."
The driver didn't suspect a thing. After all, Doleia had visited this so-called friend Cassidy three months prior.
She would never let outsiders catch wind of her plans. To avoid raising suspicion, she lied: "Just going over some company transition documents for after my coming-of-age ceremony." She couldn't risk her grandfather finding out and worrying.
The driver nodded and reminded her. "Seatbelts on," he said before turning the car toward Cassidy's garage.
-----
The garage was tucked away on a quieter street near downtown—ordinary on the outside, but its basement was a well-known hub for private custom work, familiar only to those with specific needs.
The moment she walked down the stairs to the basement, Cassidy recognized her and smirked. "Well, well. Three months and I almost didn't recognize you. You've got this quiet intensity now—like a young leopard sheathing its claws."
Doleia smiled but didn't explain.
The training had changed her, and even her grandfather and father had noticed—though they assumed it was simply maturity setting in. She let them believe it was the discipline of training that made her calmer, and they accepted it without probing further, even relieved she'd grown tougher.
"Where's my car?"
Cassidy jerked her chin towards her custom resembled vehicle.
Cassidy led her to a matte-black car, its exterior deliberately understated, and rapped her knuckles against the hood. "This isn't your average ride. You said you wanted something 'fast, tough, and spacious.' Don't worry—I added some extras."
She left it at that, listing only the basics: extended range, off-road capability, reinforced undercarriage. She didn't mention the bulletproof glass, anti-EMP shielding, or blast-resistant doors—but Doleia already knew.
Cassidy exhaled dramatically. "Normally, this wouldn't take so long. But you paid double—had to give your baby some upgrades. Otherwise, I'd lose sleep over it."
"I'm busy, so that's all the intro you get. Figure out the rest yourself."
Doleia's brows lifted slightly. Who knew Cassidy—with that attitude—had such professional integrity? No wonder Marc recommended her.
After a test drive, the steady feedback from the steering wheel settled her nerves.
Once the paperwork was done, Doleia casually told her driver: "Cassidy and I still have details to go over. This might take a while. Head back first—I'll call another car later."
The driver, unsuspecting, nodded politely and left.
-----
Once the surroundings quieted down, Doleia thanked Cassidy, got into her new car, pulled up the navigation, and set her next destination—a large weapons store downtown.
The plan had long taken shape in her mind: today, she would begin her final sprint of preparing weapons for the apocalypse.
The car sped through the streets, neon lights flickering across her impassive face through the window.
By the time she arrived at the weapons store, it was already 8.24p.m., a time when foot traffic was sparse. The clerk, eyeing her youth, responded with mild disinterest. "What are you looking for?"
Without a word, Doleia handed over the temporary permit she'd prepared in advance, her gaze sweeping across the arsenal behind the counter—shotguns, handguns, tactical knives, even lightweight crossbows.
But soon, she hit a snag.
Some firearms required a six-week waiting period, and specialty ammunition needed additional permits. Even if she ordered now, the apocalypse would have already erupted by then, and the world would be roamed by zombies.
Her heart sank slightly. She took a deep breath, tucked the permit away, and said flatly, "Never mind."
Under the clerk's disdainful stare, she turned and walked back to the car.
She decided quick. Her next decision of destination on the GPS: the black market.
Following cryptic clues from online forums, she drove through a maze of derelict alleys until she found an unmarked iron door behind a crumbling warehouse. No signs, just a dim, swaying bulb.
Doleia pulled on a black face mask, concealing half her features. For extra caution, she even wore light-colored contacts— there's no way she'd risk being recognized as the granddaughter of a corporate titan shopping for illegal arms.
Pushing the door open, she was met with thick tobacco smoke. The room was shadowy, figures murmuring in the gloom.
The shelves were lined with every imaginable weapon—cleavers, curved blades, pistols, sniper rifles, even illegally modified explosives. Prices were steep, but the quality was unmistakably superior comparing to legal channels.
Gloved hands steady, she moved between the racks with cold precision, weighing each weapon, inspecting mechanisms.
No room for error.
Then, in a corner, she spotted it—a compact pistol, exquisitely crafted. The grip fit perfectly in her hand, balanced yet deadly. It felt something like it's been made for her.
Just as she was about to pay, a bony arm shot out and slapped down on the barrel.
Doleia paused, following the arm to its owner—a lanky blond boy, maybe seventeen, pale with a smirk.
"This one's mine," he said.
She narrowed her eyes. "I picked it first."
He shrugged, feigning indifference. "Black market rules—highest bidder wins. Want it? Show me your wallet."
Then, to the clerk, he flicked his chin. "Five million. Wrap it up."
At that number, the clerk didn't hesitate, already pulling out a case.
The gun's actual price was a fraction of that—this was pure profit.
The boy watched, then sneered, launching into some introduction Doleia couldn't care less about.
"The name's Vinn Maddox. My old man runs Maddox Group. Cross me, and I'll make sure you and your family starve. No one in this business will touch you."
Doleia felt a sense of familiarity upon hearing the name Maddox Group and began searching her memory for information about the company.
It came to her—they were her grandfather's business rivals, the kind that loved poaching his clients. Though they were a fairly capable corporation, they still lost to her grandfather's company every single time.
A laugh, which she'd been struggling to hold back, accidentally escaped her lips.
Vinn's face twisted. Normal people would definitely not react like after hearing what he said.
But Doleia couldn't be bothered to waste words on him. She cut straight to the chase as if she hadn't heard a single word of his threats.
"1.5 billion," she said coolly. "This gun, and everything on that shelf."
The clerk's eyes lit up like fireworks. "Right away, ma'am!"
Fifteen billion—a number he'd never see again in his life.
Vinn's shove caught her off-guard—his palm struck her shoulder with a sharp smack, the force just enough to make her stagger half a step back.
Doleia's breath hitched. "He actually touched me... "
Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her gloves. For a split second, her mind flashed to Marc's drills: "Never throw the first punch. Make them regret theirs."
The smirk on Vinn's face faltered when she didn't flinch. His Adam's apple bobbed—a tell.
She struck.
Her left hand shot out, seizing his wrist in a vise grip—the same move Marc had drilled into her until her muscles screamed.
Vinn's shove caught her off-guard—his palm struck her shoulder with a sharp smack, the force just enough to make her stagger half a step back.
Doleia's breath hitched. He actually touched me.
Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her gloves. For a split second, her mind flashed to Marc's drills: "Never throw the first punch. Make them regret theirs."
The smirk on Vinn's face faltered when she didn't flinch.
His Adam's apple bobbed—a tell.
She struck.
Her left hand shot out, seizing his wrist in a vise grip—the same move Marc had drilled into her until her muscles screamed.
Vinn yelped, his free hand swinging wildly toward her face.
She ducked, her ponytail whipping over her shoulder as his fist grazed empty air.
The crowd's murmurs spiked into jeers.
"Ooooh, Maddox Jr.'s got spirit!" someone cackled.
Vinn's pale cheeks flushed crimson. He lunged again, all elbows and knees—untrained, but vicious.
Doleia pivoted, her boot scraping grit across the concrete floor. She let him overextend, then yanked his arm downward, using his momentum to slam his chest into her rising knee.
A wet oof escaped him.
His phone he is holding clattered to the ground. She hooked her foot around it, flicking it toward the clerk's counter—out of reach.
Vinn wheezed, clutching his ribs where her elbow had landed earlier. His glare burned, but his voice cracked: "You—you bxtch—"
Doleia stepped into his space, close enough to smell his sour breath. Her voice dropped, a blade wrapped in silk: "Walk away. Or next time, I break more than your pride."
Vinn scrambled up and took his phone on the counter, face red, snarling. "Mark my words—next time I see you, you're dead!"
Doleia just gave him a frosty glance and strode to the counter.
Transaction complete. The clerk helped haul the heavy gear to her car, and she drove off.
-----
The streets were empty by now. Instead of heading home, she parked in a deserted mall lot—closed for the night, safe to retrieve tomorrow.
After tucking the car into a shadowed corner, she activated its hidden defense systems where she found while arranging the boxes in her car—multi-layered locks, anti-tampering, GPS jammers.
Some of Cassidy's last-minute upgrades. Handy.
Satisfied, she shouldered a light pack and walked home.
The night air stung the bruise on her cheek, sharpening her focus.
At home, her family noticed immediately.
Her grandfather frowned at her face. "Little Doleia, what happened to your face?"
She shrugged. "Uncle Marc was teaching me self-defense. I took a bad fall."
Then, preemptively: "But he patched me up. Don't worry."
He sighed, ruffling her hair. "Please take care of yourself and don't push yourself too hard... "
She nodded, but her eyes drifted past him, to the city outside—a city on borrowed time.
That night, Doleia sat on her bed, phone in hand, scrolling through her checklist.
Marc had given her tomorrow off. Fine.
Time to finalize the remaining tasks:
—Food. Medicine. Armor.
The clock was ticking, and she must keep moving.