The next day, Doleia awoke in bed, slowly blinking her eyes open and stretching lazily.
As her surroundings came into focus, a sudden realization struck her—this wasn't her room. The décor was somewhat similar to her bedroom, but the space was clearly smaller. She frowned, narrowing her eyes as she scanned the room, trying to recall where she had been the night before.
"Did I go to a bar? Drank too much? Is this a hotel?" she murmured to herself.
She had to admit, though—the design of this place suited her perfectly. The layout, the color palette, the way everything was arranged—spot on, right in line with her aesthetic.
Just as she was about to get out of bed and explore the room further, a thought flashed through her mind:
"I should ask the front desk for the designer's contact info later… If my rooms in my shelter could look like this, I'd probably wake up feeling ten times better every day."
But the moment the thought formed, it was as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over her. Her body tensed, and her eyes widened.
"—Wait a minute. Didn't I go to bed after sending James the sketch of the shelter's blueprints last night? I didn't go to a bar. I didn't drink."
"Then what is this place—?"
"It couldn't be..... The shelter?!""
She sprang up, stumbling toward the nearest window and flinging the curtains aside. What greeted her eyes were water tanks, a training ground, a greenhouse, a cafeteria... all of it matching the blueprint sketch she had sent to James the night before—down to the last detail.
Her mind went blank with a deafening buzz. She turned, trying to steady herself, only to catch sight of the tall floor-to-ceiling window across the room.
She walked toward it slowly and pulled the curtain open.
Her pupils contracted sharply—
"The city… it's fallen..."
Far in the distance, the city skyline was veiled in a thick, gray haze. Buildings were shattered, black smoke curled skyward, and flames from burning cars flickered like stubborn ghosts between the towers.
She stared in stunned silence, her voice barely audible:
"No way… Did I time travel again?"
She lifted a hand to press on her ankle—No pain. It was healed?She couldn't believe it. And yet… this wasn't the first time something like this had happened.
She stood frozen. Then came a sudden, piercing headache.
Gripping her head, waves of confusion and dread surged through her.
"What should I do now… What's the next step…"
Cold sweat trickled down her temple. She swayed on her feet, trying to stay upright, when a voice echoed faintly from beyond the door:
"…Miss… should… now…"
Her ears were ringing—she couldn't make out the words. She shook her head, trying to clear the fog.
"Miss, Miss, it's time to wake up."
She jolted—
The butler?
He's here too?
Leaning on the wall, she made her way to the door, hand trembling as she turned the knob, the door opened slowly, and—
"Dad…..?"
No—
Not her dad.
It was the monster from that night.
"H-How is this possible?! Dad, you—weren't you already—"
She staggered backward, panic overtaking her just like that night on the celebration. She twisted her ankle, fell to the ground.
That familiar and terrifying face lunged toward her—
-----
She woke with a gasp.
Silence settled around her once more, broken only by her ragged breathing and the frantic pounding of her heart, and—
The butler's voice:
"Miss, can you hear me? It's time for lunch."
She inhaled deeply, forcing herself to calm down. Her voice came out hoarse but composed:
"I hear you—I'll be down shortly."
She lowered her gaze to her ankle, gently pressing on it. The bandage was still there. It ached faintly, but was much better than yesterday.
"So… it was just a dream?" she whispered.
"Dad can't… can't mutate twice…"
But in her eyes, there was a sharpness—a wariness—that hadn't been there before.
She pulled a few tissues from the nightstand to wipe the sweat from her forehead, took a deep breath to steady herself, then got up to wash.
Unlike usual, she deliberately changed into a stylish athletic outfit and tied her hair into a neat bun she was quite satisfied with. After giving it a little shake to make sure it was secure, she headed downstairs toward the dining table.
Even though she knew it had only been a dream, seeing her father already seated and waiting for her made her exhale in quiet relief.
"Thank goodness… everything's fine."
She took her usual seat, waiting—as always—for her grandfather to give the signal to begin eating.
-----
After the meal, her grandfather clearly noticed something different about her outfit today.
"Little Doleia, you look quite spirited today. Got something planned?"
She glanced down at her sportswear and casually replied, "Oh, I have an appointment with Uncle Marc at one. He's going to teach me some self-defense."
Her dad frowned slightly after hearing their conversation, concern in his voice. "Didn't you just hurt your ankle? Isn't it too soon to start training?"
Doleia quickly reassured him, "Don't worry, Dad. I'll be careful. I won't push myself too hard."
Hearing her promise, he finally relaxed. "Alright then… as long as you know your limits. Oh, right, why didn't the driver tell me he was taking you?"
Doleia froze mid-wiping her mouth, her eyes widening. "Oh no—I forgot to tell him!"
She turned, looking at her grandfather anxiously, worried the driver might have been assigned to something else today.
But her grandfather simply chuckled and gave her a reassuring look. "It's alright, he's free today. I'll give him a call—he'll be ready in ten minutes."
"Thanks, Grandpa!" She beamed at him gratefully before hurrying upstairs to pack a few things she might need.
Watching his granddaughter disappear up the stairs, her grandfather let out a sigh and muttered, "Might be time to get her a car…"
-----
Upstairs, Doleia glanced at the pair of boxing gloves in the corner, hesitated, then ultimately decided to leave them. She only packed a towel, water, her wallet, and a fresh change of clothes before heading down to the car.
——Ding-dong. Ding-dong.
Standing at the front door, she typed out a message: "Hi, Uncle Marc. I'm at your place."
Before she could even hit send, the door opened.
"Come on in," Marc said from the doorway.
Doleia instinctively turned to glance behind her—the dog that had scared her half to death earlier was now lying at the entrance. Though it had barked fiercely before, it hadn't chased her, only watched her warily.
Now, seeing its owner, it calmly settled down again.
She let out a silent breath of relief. "Good thing it didn't come after me. My ankle would've gotten wrecked again."
She stepped quickly inside and was led into what looked like a mini tactical room.
The space was filled with more than just standard gym gear—there were sandbags, range, tactical maps, walkie-talkies, backup batteries, even a few real firearms and military certificates mounted on the wall.
"No doubt about it… definitely a veteran," she thought, impressed. "With a setup like this, he'd definitely survive the apocalypse."
Marc looked at her, his tone calm but laced with concern. "Welcome to my training room. But judging by the way you walked in… your foot's injured, is it? You sure you can train today?"
Doleia rubbed her nose sheepishly and smiled. "It's fine, Uncle Marc. It's much better now, really."
Marc didn't press the issue, though he silently admired her grit.
After more than one hours of basic training, it was clear to him that she was pushing herself hard. Her foot was far from recovered. He finally suggested she take a day to rest.
But she shook her head firmly. "No need, Uncle Marc. I can keep going."
She knew she didn't have much time. If she didn't train now, she might not even survive later.
Seeing he was about to speak again, she quickly added, "How about… I practice shooting today? It doesn't really involve much footwork, right?"
Marc glanced at her and didn't try to stop her again. He simply nodded and said, "We'll focus on basic firearm handling today. But you must promise to follow my instructions—no pushing yourself too hard."
"Got it!" Doleia nodded firmly, eyes unwavering.
Marc retrieved a pistol from the wall-mounted gun rack and checked it carefully before handing it to her.
"This is a Glock 17, 9mm. Standard model for beginners. We'll start with disassembling and reassembling, holding, loading, and unloading. You need to get used to it before you start firing."
She accepted it with both hands—heavier than she expected.
Step by step, she followed Marc's instructions: how to release the magazine, how to check if the chamber was empty, how to grip the gun properly, and how to manage recoil. Marc demonstrated each motion, his voice steady: "Every move must be smooth. Repetition is key. In real danger, you won't get a second chance."
When it came to loading the magazine, Doleia struggled a little at first. It took her a few tries to align the track properly. Marc didn't rush her or offer help. He just stood nearby and said calmly, "You've got this. Keep going."
She bit her lip and continued trying.
An hour later, Marc finally gave a nod.
"Let's try the real thing now."
They moved to the indoor range behind the house. Doleia put on her earmuffs and goggles, taking a deep breath in front of the target. Marc adjusted her stance behind her.
"Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, body leaning forward. Don't be afraid of the recoil."
She nodded, raised the gun—
Bang!—
The first shot missed, hitting the edge of the target.
"Don't rush. Steady your breathing. It's not about speed—it's about precision," Marc said calmly.
She readjusted and fired again—
Bang, bang, bang!—
Three shots in a row. None hit dead center, but all landed within the target's core area.
Marc watched her closely, a rare hint of pride in his expression. "For your first time, that's impressive control."
She wiped the sweat from her forehead and smiled, relaxed. "I need to learn faster. Next time, it won't be just paper targets I'm aiming at."
-----
By the time the training ended, the sun had already begun to set. The light filtered through the half-open blinds of the training room, casting dappled shadows on the floor.
Marc glanced at the time. "It's about time. We should go have dinner. That's enough for today. Same time, same place tomorrow. We'll continue."
Doleia was about to speak again, her brows furrowed. "I can still—"
"No." Marc's tone was as firm as ever. "Training is about consistency and recovery. You did well today, but you need to give your body time to adapt. Otherwise, you won't even be able to lift a gun tomorrow."
She opened her mouth, but eventually relented, nodding. "Alright... See you tomorrow."
She walked to the door and called the driver. Ten minutes later, the car pulled up smoothly in front of Marc's house.
Not long after getting into the car, the light through the window illuminated her profile as she lowered her head to wipe the sweat with her towel. Her phone vibrated, and a message from James popped up:
"Good evening, miss. Our team finished ahead of schedule today. When are you free? We can meet to discuss the details."
She looked at the message for a couple of seconds, then quickly replied:
"Are you free now?"
Less than a minute later, James responded with a simple "Of course" and a list of café recommendations. She glanced through them and picked one she'd heard of but never been to—
Café de Souveraine
A French-style café with light golden walls, elegant wrought-iron doors, and cool wall sconces. The name meant "The Queen's Choice," and it was one of the local elite's preferred meeting spots.
She lightly curled the corners of her lips and put away the towel, then turned to the driver in the front seat.
"We're not going home. Head to Café de Souveraine instead. I'll send you the location."
The driver glanced at her through the rearview mirror and nodded. "Okay, miss."
She sent the location and sat back in her seat. The evening sky outside began to turn a soft orange-red as the setting sun painted it with gentle hues. She closed her eyes for a moment, mentally going over the project list she was about to discuss.