Chapter Three

"This is impossible! Chris, get out here! You have no right to monopolize this air conditioning!"

Outside the half-foot-thick hydraulic steel door of the penthouse, Catherine's roar was hoarse, as if sanded down due to extreme dehydration.

I leaned back on the Italian calfskin sofa, swirling the Macallan whiskey in my hand with spherical ice cubes. The crisp "clinking" of the ice cubes against the glass sounded particularly pleasant in this -10 degree Celsius air-conditioned room.

I pressed the button on the intercom on the desktop, pressed the monitor speaker to my lips, and, too lazy to waste a single complete sentence, retorted with the most standard Miami street swear words:

"Listen to me, you piece of shit. If you dare knock on my door again with your manicured, filthy hands, I'll electrify the security bars and roast you into a perfectly cooked BBQ. Now, with your damn slow-living theory, go back to your oven and rot and stink!"

"Buzz—"

I immediately cut off the communication. On the monitor, Catherine recoiled as if electrocuted, cursing viciously as she dragged her sweat-soaked body like a lost dog, desperately climbing the stairs back to her old, air-conditioned apartment.

Half a glass of whiskey down her throat, the doorbell suddenly rang twice with a tactical rhythm.

The person didn't bang on the door, nor did they shout angrily.

I cautiously put down my glass, my left hand instinctively resting on the Glock pistol at my waist, and pulled up the corridor security camera footage. In the video stood a tall, white man wearing a black FEMA (Federal Emergency Management Agency) tactical vest. Most bizarrely, in this sweltering 140-degree Fahrenheit corridor, a thin layer of frost had formed on his shoulders.

"Open the door, man. I'm not here to rob you, we're the same kind of people." The man looked directly at the camera, his tone relaxed, and opened his bulletproof gloves.

The next second, a terrifyingly sharp, ghostly blue ice spike materialized in his palm!

I raised an eyebrow. This was an official agent who had awakened a frost mutation. In the apocalypse, the sense of smell among superhumans was often sharper than that of hunting dogs.

I deactivated the access control. With a heavy hydraulic thud, the solid steel door swung open.

“Luke. FEMA Miami Special Operations Team.” He walked in, taking a deep, satisfying breath of the -10 degree Celsius air, and extended his right hand to me. “Your place is a miracle. The entire building’s electrical grid burned through, but this place is like the Arctic Circle.”

“Chris. Former Navy SEAL.” I shook his hand. In that instant, he felt the raging lightning lurking in my palm, and I felt his biting cold.

Smart people don’t need words.

“The official system is down, I’m a free man now.” Luke withdrew his hand and shrugged. “I need a completely safe haven, and you need an official identity to legally clean up your big mess and an extreme cold-weather system. Shall we cooperate?”

“As long as you don’t touch my strategic reserves, deal.”

I pulled a three-pound M9 tomahawk steak from a nearby heavy industrial freezer. "Consider this a welcome dinner for our allies. I'll provide the power and ingredients; you take charge of the setup."

Luke snapped his fingers, causing the already frigid room temperature to plummet further, locking in the beef's freshness at its perfect state.

A few minutes later, the electric grill glowed red-hot under the precise power output of [High-Voltage Thunderstorm]. The butter sizzled violently the moment it touched the steak on the hot iron plate. The exquisite aroma of garlic, rosemary, and top-grade butter was a divine treat in this wasteland city, baked into a living hell. Just

as we were enjoying our medium-rare, bloody steaks, my spare phone screen lit up. Although

Miami's high-voltage power grid had collapsed, the diesel base stations in the affluent areas were still barely functioning, making the internet the last lifeline for those on the verge of collapse.

I opened TikTok and, unsurprisingly, saw Catherine's live stream in the local trending list.

The old apartment in the video had been baked by the sun into a near-140-degree Fahrenheit (60°C) inferno. Catherine stripped down to just a lace lingerie set. Her supposedly "pure and alluring makeup" had long since melted away with the sticky sweat, her black eyeliner smeared across her face, making her look like a cheap clown.

"Family... the high temperature is just the universe testing our souls... we need to slow our breathing and feel our bodies... dehydrated..."

Her lips were cracked and bleeding from extreme dehydration, her voice barely audible, yet she still tried to maintain her liberal "high-temperature meditation" persona.

But online, people were already experiencing the horror of the apocalypse firsthand; who the hell had time to listen to

her talk about cosmic energy? The comments section was filled with inhuman insults:

【Are you crazy, you filthy bitch? Your eyelashes are practically smeared with sweat into your nostrils, and you're still trying to be seductive?】

【If you really enjoy the heat so much, why don't you go out and use asphalt as a face mask?】

【Stop talking nonsense, have your silicone implants melted by the heat? Get off the show already!】

Seeing the obscene comments, Catherine broke down. She screamed and smashed the scorching hot lights, completely cutting off the live stream.

This idiot had clearly reached her physical limit. If she didn't drink water to cool down, her kidneys would soon fail.

I opened the building's WhatsApp survivor support group.

Sure enough, Catherine was frantically sending SOS signals in the group.

Coincidentally, a former Black veteran named Gary downstairs posted a photo in the group—a bathtub full of clear tap water he had filled before the power outage.

[Gary]: Anyone with canned food and antibiotics, come exchange for water. No exchanges, no disturbances.

Desperate to survive, Catherine seemed to grasp at a straw, immediately sending a voice message in the group, even attaching a revealing selfie of herself wearing lace lingerie.

【Catherine (Room 304)】: “Oh, Gary~ You know I’m out of supplies right now. But if you let me into your room, I can keep you company for a very ‘private and relaxing’ time. Just two bottles of water, I’ll do anything…”

Luke and I were cutting our bloody steaks, our eyes filled with mocking disdain.

Half a minute later, Gary’s reply in the group chat ignited everyone’s nerves:

【Gary】: Fuck off, Catherine! After two hours in 140-degree heat without air conditioning, you must smell worse than a dead skunk that’s been baking in the sun for three days! Keep your STDs away from my clean water source, you bitch!

The group chat erupted in gloating laughter.

In the old apartment, Catherine looked at the merciless humiliation on the screen, turning all her despair and shame into a frenzied hatred and resentment towards me.

Since pretending to be a socialite didn’t work, she had to find a real vicious dog.

Just like in her previous life, she trembled as she dialed Hector's satellite phone, preparing to let the wolf into her home.

And this was exactly what I wanted.