Reborn Before Doomsday: The Ruthless CEO's Regret

The smell of old paper and dust filled Chloe Gates's lungs.

She gasped, a sharp, ragged intake of air that was too loud in the dead quiet of the public library. Her body jerked upright, a violent motion that sent her lukewarm coffee sloshing over the side of the mug. It spilled across the polished surface of the mahogany table.

A few patrons at nearby tables looked up, their faces etched with annoyance.

Chloe ignored them.

Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. Her breath came in short, painful bursts. She fumbled for her phone, her fingers clumsy and slick with sweat. The screen lit up, illuminating a date that made the air freeze in her throat.

October 25th.

One day. She was one day before it all ended.

The confirmation didn't bring relief. It brought a cold, suffocating dread that was horribly familiar. This wasn't a dream. This was real.

As if on cue, a notification banner slid down from the top of the screen. National Weather Service: A severe storm warning has been issued for the tri-state area.

Chloe's vision tunneled. A storm. They called it a storm. She knew it was the gentle whisper before a global scream.

Her gaze drifted to the large window. Outside, people hurried along the sidewalk, their laughter a faint, carefree sound through the thick glass. The peaceful, idyllic scene was a brutal contrast to the images seared into her memory: New York City streets choked with rubble and desperate people, a man bludgeoning another for half a loaf of stale bread.

Her fingernails dug into her palms, the sharp crescents grounding her.

On a television mounted near the ceiling, a news anchor with a plastic smile was joking about the coming weather. "Looks like a good weekend to stock up on beer and board games, folks."

A bitter, humorless smile twisted Chloe's lips. The ignorance was staggering. It was tragic.

A couple of people nearby groaned, complaining that the storm warning would ruin their weekend plans. The chasm between their reality and hers was so vast it felt like a physical weight on her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs.

Then, the pain hit.

A vicious cramp seized her stomach, a phantom agony from a future that was now her past. The severe ulcer she'd developed from years of starvation felt like it had traveled back in time with her. She doubled over, a strangled gasp escaping her lips.

The memory was vivid, visceral. Her, on her knees in the frozen wasteland of what was once Central Park, gnawing on tree bark so rotten it turned to mush in her mouth. The desperation. The gnawing, endless hunger.

Her body began to tremble, an uncontrollable tremor starting in her hands and spreading through her entire frame. She bit down hard on her lower lip, the coppery taste of blood a sharp, metallic shock that pulled her back from the edge of the memory.

Not again.

The vow was silent but absolute, forged in the fires of a future she would not allow to happen. She would never be hungry again. She would never be weak again. She would never let anyone else hold the power of life and death over her.

A calm, detached voice echoed from the library's PA system. "Attention. The library will be closing in fifteen minutes for scheduled system maintenance."

Groans of frustration rippled through the room. Chloe didn't join in. She straightened up, her movements suddenly sharp and efficient. She unzipped her backpack.

Her eyes fell on the stack of meticulously organized notes from her afternoon of reviewing reports. Late nights. Stress. A life that no longer existed. Without a moment of hesitation, she swept the entire pile off the table and into a nearby recycling bin.

The rustle of paper was the sound of her past being discarded.

She took her things. She stood up and slung her backpack over her shoulder.

As she walked toward the exit, her brain kicked into overdrive, a supercomputer calculating variables and probabilities. She mentally tallied her assets: the trust fund her parents had left her, checking accounts, emergency savings. Every liquid dollar she could access.

She knew that in less than twenty-four hours, the U.S. dollar would be worth less than the paper it was printed on. Every cent had to be converted into something tangible. Something real.

Her pace quickened. A list began to form in her mind, a procurement document that would soon span hundreds of items. Food. Water. Fuel. Medicine. Weapons.

The cramp in her stomach twisted again, harder this time, accompanied by a low, embarrassing growl. It was her body's primal scream for energy. The sensation, once a source of terror, was now a motivator. It sharpened her focus.

She remembered a single bar of chocolate starting a riot that left three people dead. Now, just outside these doors, supermarkets were overflowing with it, mountains of calories that people took for granted.

The heavy glass door of the library swung open, and a blast of cool, damp wind hit her face. It felt like a promise.

She merged into the stream of people flowing down the wide front hallway, but in her mind, she was already separate. They were the unprepared. The future refugees. She was a survivor.

Her eyes locked onto a hot dog stand visible through the glass doors, steam rising from the cart in the cooling air. The rich, greasy smell of grilled meat and onions hit her like a physical blow. Her throat worked, swallowing hard against the sudden rush of saliva.

Junk food. The stuff she'd once dismissed as garbage was now the most beautiful sight in the world. It was life. It was fuel.

She patted her flat stomach. The first step of her plan was simple, primal, and non-negotiable.

She was going to eat. And then, she was going to buy the world.

Her gaze shifted to the sprawling commercial district just a few blocks away. Her stride became purposeful, infused with the grim determination of someone who had walked through death and come out the other side.

A gust of wind swirled through the open doors, kicking up a flurry of autumn leaves from the entryway. She zipped up her jacket, the sound sharp and final in the charged air. The hunt was about to begin.