The cold slammed into Raven the moment she stepped onto the sidewalk outside her parents' apartment.
The streets of Manhattan looked gutted. Traffic lights blinked uselessly over intersections empty of cars. Only a scattering of masked pedestrians moved along the sidewalks, their eyes hollow, their steps mechanical. No one made eye contact. Everyone hurried as if distance alone could save them.
She pulled her jacket tighter, ignoring the lazy glance of the doorman who barely even registered her existence. That had always been her role in this family: the one nobody looked at unless they needed something to kick.
It didn’t matter now. They’d already lost, and they didn’t even know it yet.
Her boots crunched through dirty slush. A siren wailed somewhere distant, followed by the low rumble of heavy vehicles. Raven glanced down a side street and caught the flash of military green—an armored National Guard truck rolling past with soldiers perched in the back, rifles slung, their faces hidden behind masks and mirrored goggles.
Preparing for "emergency responses," the news said. Preparing for slaughter, Raven thought.
The air stank of bleach, wet concrete, and panic barely hidden under surgical masks. Every few blocks she passed stores already shuttering early, their windows papered over with signs: "Masks Required." "Out of Stock." "Closed Until Further Notice."
The city was dying. It just hadn’t realized it yet.
Raven walked faster, head down, hands shoved deep into her sleeves. Her mind wasn’t on the streets. It was clawing backward, dragging up memories she didn’t want but couldn’t push away.
It had only taken a few weeks after the Collapse began. A few weeks of the apartment's shelves emptying, of the imported wine running out, of Jason’s bratty whining growing louder each day. Then came the moment Raven had always known, deep down, was inevitable.
Her family sold her.
They traded her to the Red Blood Raiders—a gang that controlled several blocks uptown—for food, water, and enough guns to buy themselves another month of safety. William Salvatore had smiled when he made the deal. Brandon had stood behind him, arms crossed, daring her to protest. Clarissa pretended not to hear the terms. Victoria just poured herself another glass of expensive champagne and didn’t look up from her seat.
Raven clenched her fists inside her sleeves until her nails bit into her palms. They’d sold her like she was nothing. Not a daughter. Not even a servant. Just a spare piece of meat.
And the worst part was, it hadn't even been the end of it. It wasn't the last time she crossed paths with them. That was the thing about rot—it always finds ways to cling to you, no matter how deep you bury it.
They had food stashes, of course. William had been smart enough to store away survival stockpiles all over the city, hidden behind fake companies and abandoned properties. Legal shipments. Illegal caches. Guns and ammo stacked in basements under fake grocery stores and old warehouses. He loved mocking apocalypse preppers, loved sneering about “paranoid fools,” but he had no problem cashing their checks and stockpiling gear for them.
The conman thought he was untouchable.
Soon, Raven thought coldly, she’d show him how wrong he was. The conman was about to be conned.
She ducked down a narrower street, avoiding a line of soldiers setting up a checkpoint ahead. Sandbags were piled waist-high. Razor wire unspooled like vines across the pavement. Medical tents sprouted along the sidewalks like tumors.
The people still believed this was just a pandemic.
COVID-19, they called it. Flatten the curve. Wear your mask. Wash your hands.
All lies.
The virus had been real enough at first, but it was just the start. A pretext. A convenient excuse while the real monster germinated beneath the surface.
The government wasn't trying to protect anyone.
They were buying time. Locking down the streets. Building walls. Preparing to survive while everyone else drowned.
Raven pulled her jacket tighter against the wind and kept moving.
Up ahead, she spotted what she was looking for: a small car dealership crammed between a pharmacy and a shuttered clothing boutique. Its lights were off. A hastily scribbled CLOSED sign hung crookedly in the door. Through the glass, she could see neat rows of vehicles lined up under the showroom lights—waiting, untouched, abandoned.
A perfect target.
She slowed, memorizing the layout. She didn’t need a luxury model or an electric toy. She needed something simple, sturdy, gas-powered. Something she could drive straight into the apocalypse and not worry about hacking or battery charges or surveillance systems.
Tomorrow, maybe even tonight, she’d come back and take what she needed.
One car to start.
Then the groceries. The weapons. The survival kits her dear old dad had stockpiled for himself. She’d rob him blind before he even knew she existed again.
And when the world fell into fire and blood?
Then she would deal with the family who had tried to erase her.
Every insult.
Every slap.
Every smirk and dismissal.
Every whispered humiliation at family gatherings.
She would repay them all, with interest.
A slap for every insult.
A scar for every blow.
A reckoning so complete even Jason’s smug little smirk would be wiped from memory.
Ten days.
Ten days to build her Sanctuary into a fortress.
Ten days to gather everything she needed to crush the Salvatores under her boot.
Ten days to become something they could never control again.
The wind howled down the empty avenue, carrying the sharp, chemical stink of bleach and fear. Raven tilted her head back, tasting it on her tongue, savoring the moment.
They thought they had buried her.
They thought tossing her to the Red Blood Raiders was the end of the story.
But they had just created their own executioner.
She smiled faintly, a thin, cold smile that never reached her eyes, as she disappeared into the dying city, already thinking about which lock she would break first or better yet how to squander her families money.
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