Early the next morning.
As soon as Miles awoke, he received a detailed renovation proposal from Majesty Construction's design department.
Indeed, money could move mountains.
In a single night, they had completed a comprehensive renovation plan without even visiting Miles' home for an on-site assessment of its structure and layout, just to avoid disturbing the client. That was the care and professionalism of true experts.
Clearly, Guy must have worked through the night to deliver this on time.
The plan began with full metal reinforcement of the villa.
An additional 20 cm composite metal layer would cover the original concrete walls, extending from the second floor above ground to the second floor below. This composite material was dozens of times stronger than the toughest stainless steel. Forget standard weapons—even grenades or explosives would barely scratch it.
Then there were the doors and windows.
The front door would be replaced with the highest-security vault door on the market. Short of military-grade weaponry or a 1,000-ton TNT equivalent blast, this door would remain unscathed for the rest of Miles' life.
The windows, too, would feature reinforced bulletproof glass—dozens of times more resilient than standard bulletproof glass. Even a Barrett sniper rifle fired at close range wouldn't leave a mark.
Moreover...
The plan included an air filtration system, an energy recycling system, 360-degree surveillance, a large backup generator, and a temperature control system—all top-tier specifications.
In short!
As long as no missiles were involved, this fortress would be among the most indestructible in the world.
With this, Miles finally felt at ease.
Later, he drove out of the city, arriving at an abandoned town three hundred kilometers away.
In the early nineties, this had been an industrial town, but national reforms had left it desolate over the years. To outsiders, it was a forsaken place, devoid of life.
However, by chance, Miles had once learned from a business mogul that in recent years, this town had quietly transformed into an underground black market.
Not only for Chicago but also for illicit trades from a dozen nearby cities, all converged here.
And Miles was here for one reason—to buy weapons.
With the Ice Age looming, existing societal order would rapidly deteriorate.
Humanity would regress to a primal state, where all forms of weaponry—cold and hot—would become vital for survival.
Can you imagine?
In the initial days of the zombie apocalypse, a mere kitchen knife could be traded for a pack of biscuits.
And a pack of biscuits could cost two human lives, at minimum.
As the Ice Age descended, resources would dwindle at an alarming rate.
The once-insignificant items would become humanity's most scarce assets.
Upon entering the deserted town, Miles felt a chill down his spine.
It seemed someone had already marked him as a target.
When he reached the town square, Miles raised his hands according to protocol and closed his eyes.
Soon, he heard footsteps approaching. Darkness enveloped his vision as a blindfold was fastened over his eyes, and he was led away by his arms.
After a disorienting walk that lasted several minutes, he finally stopped, and the blindfold was removed.
He found himself in a dimly lit underground facility, its location and layout impossible to discern. Inside were rows of stalls, each vendor masked with black cloth and displaying an array of wares.
There were ancient relics brought up from the depths, white and blue powders, firearms, and even a few stalls where young girls knelt, bound and silent.
Despite his shock, Miles stayed focused on his mission.
He squatted before a stall displaying about a dozen nearly-new handguns.
"How much, my friend?"
In this place, haggling was off-limits; the seller's price was the final word.
And no one dared to overcharge—the black market had strict rules, its own form of governance.
The vendor's voice, muffled and gravelly, replied, "One stack per gun."
"I'll take these five."
Miles selected five of the best-looking handguns and added, "I need plenty of bullets. How many can you provide?"
"Around two thousand rounds. If you want them all, it's one stack…"
Fifty dollars per bullet.
A bit pricey, but given the scarcity, they couldn't be found through normal channels anyway.
Miles knew the items he was purchasing were heavily regulated, and getting caught could lead to severe consequences.
After a moment's hesitation, he frowned slightly. "Not enough. I need more. If you can supply them, money is no issue."
With the apocalypse nearing, two thousand rounds might sound sufficient, but once faced with the mutated zombies immune even to bullets, these wouldn't last nearly long enough.
"Wait here…"
The vendor said nothing more, disappearing momentarily before returning with a man whose face bore a prominent scar.
This man exuded a chilling aura, as though accustomed to violence.
He looked Miles up and down, then said coldly, "How many do you need?"
"At least ten thousand rounds..."
"Ten stacks!"
Miles glanced instinctively toward the entrance, where a guard sat at a table.
Noticing his glance, the scarred man sneered. "No need to look there. Ten thousand rounds aren't easy to come by. If you're buying this much, the price will naturally rise."
Miles didn't hesitate, grinning. "Fine. But you'll need to ensure my safe passage back to the city."
After a pause, the man nodded. "Agreed, but it'll cost you an additional stack."
...
Racing down the deserted highway, Miles' heart was pounding in his chest.
Barely two hundred meters back, he had heard two gunshots ring out.
He knew the extra stack had served its purpose.
Double-crosses were everywhere—if it happened on the legal side, it was even more prevalent here in the underworld.
Miles didn't dare slow down, pressing the gas pedal to the floor and covering three hundred kilometers in an hour.
Only upon reaching the elevated highways of the city did he finally allow himself to relax.
He parked in a secluded spot, opened the trunk, and whispered, "Store."
The five handguns and boxes of ammunition vanished in an instant, stored safely in his mental inventory.
Sighing in relief, Miles leaned back against the car.
Now, he was truly secure. Even if the authorities came looking, they wouldn't find a trace—no one would ever uncover these items.