Chapter 5
"Baldwin is a boy, the backbone of the Wade family. If he doesn't make it, our line ends here.
"You're a girl, and once you're married, you're part of another family. When that time comes, as his sister, you have to look out for your brother, even if it means giving up your own share. That's just how it is," Stephen said.
Baldwin, his mouth slick with grease, looked up and mumbled, "Yeah, Mona. I'm the heir of the family. Of course, I get it all."
The atmosphere froze for a few seconds, as if everyone was holding their breath.
The only sounds in the room were chewing and fork tapping against bowls.
Mona's fingers tightened around her spoon, her knuckles turning pale. It was the same twisted logic as in her previous life.
Because he was the family's root, he could take even her flesh; because she was just a girl, she was born to be sacrificed.
She thought that after living another life, hearing these words would make her angry, or at least resentful.
But right now, all she felt was a bone-deep sense of absurdity and emptiness.
The acid in her stomach faded away, replaced by an absolute, icy coldness.
She looked up at the three people in front of her—her blood relatives.
The light reflected off their greasy lips, making them look like beasts devouring their prey.
"I see," Mona said quietly.
She lowered her head, scooped up a spoonful of soup that had long gone cold, and put it in her mouth.
The soup was fresh, but she couldn't taste anything at all.
The last bit of hesitation—the urge to pull them back—was like a candle flickering in the wind. After those words, it was snuffed out for good.
This meal wasn't a goodbye—it was a wake.
A wake for the Mona who once foolishly longed for family, only to be torn apart by them in the end.
Twenty-four hours left until the apocalypse.
The sky was an eerie shade of gray, with clouds hanging so low they looked like they might press down on the city's skyline.
The air was so stifling it felt like you could barely breathe, and not even the leaves by the roadside stirred, as if holding their breath before the storm.
Mona rolled a silver Rimowa suitcase into the entryway of the model apartment.
The suitcase was light—inside were just a few old clothes and some documents meant for disguise.
"Mom, the company's sending me abroad for a big contract—it's about the last payment on the villa," Mona said as she changed her shoes, talking to Astrid, who was glued to the TV. "It's a closed negotiation, so I'll have to turn in my phone. I might be out of touch for a few days. Just stay home and don't wander off."
"Go ahead, go! Making money's the most important thing!" Astrid didn't even look up, her eyes fixed on the family drama on TV. "And remember to bring Baldwin those duty-free cigarettes."
"Got it," Mona said.
She pushed the door open and took one last look at this house, with all its empty show of wealth.
Baldwin was still making a racket in his room, gaming away, while Stephen's snores rumbled from the bedroom.
The door closed with a soft click behind her.
That quiet sound cut her off from this family, leaving them in two completely separate worlds.
She slid into the unremarkable SUV and fired up the engine. The car pulled out of the upscale neighborhood and merged into the busy traffic.
At a red light, she pulled out her phone and swiped quickly across the screen.
She tapped on "Dad," "Mom," and "Baldwin," blocked, erased—gone from her contacts for good.
It all happened in one fluid motion, not a single pause.
After finishing everything, Mona pried out the SIM card, lowered the window, and casually flicked it into the sewer gap beside her—no hesitation, no second thoughts.
Driving west, she left the city's fake glamour in the rearview, trading it for the bleak emptiness of the countryside.
By the time she reached the bunker, dusk was settling in.
Mona drove straight into the outermost camouflaged warehouse.
She didn't hesitate—slipping on her welding mask, she grabbed the industrial torch she had ready.
She welded the outermost entrance shut from the inside, sealing off the doorway disguised as an abandoned iron gate, bit by bit.
Molten iron dripped from the welding rod, hardening into black scars on the floor. Every weld was a seal, closing off her past for good.
After sealing everything off, she pushed through three thick blast doors and stepped into the underground central control room.
The temperature was kept at a constant 75 degrees, and the air was crisp and dry, thoroughly filtered. Mona shrugged off her coat, caked in dust, and headed straight for the bank of flickering monitors.
The wall of monitors displayed thirty-six live feeds, covering every nook and cranny of the city.
Streets were jammed with cars, commuters hustling to catch the evening subway, couples holding hands outside the mall, and street vendors shouting about their hot dogs.
Everything looked so normal—so normal it was suffocating.
Mona walked over to the wine cabinet and took out the 1982 Château Lafite Rothschild that had been breathing for half an hour.
She poured the dark red wine into a stemmed glass, the liquid swirling and casting a blood-red glow beneath the lights.
Holding the glass, she settled into the ergonomic leather chair and took a gentle sip.
The tannins melted across her tongue, leaving behind a touch of bitterness and a lingering aftertaste.
"Cheers," Mona murmured.