CHAPTER 296: APOCALYPSE ROMANCE 6

Sasha didn’t move until the echo of their footsteps faded down the hallway. Then she exhaled so hard she nearly collapsed against the counter.

"Holy hell," she whispered. "That was close."

Her hands trembled as she picked up the bag of instant noodles again, stuffing it into her dimensional ring like her life depended on it. Because it did.

She had bought herself time—barely. A week. Maybe less, if the sharks compared notes and decided she was a bigger liability than an asset.

But it didn’t matter.

The apocalypse wasn’t waiting for anyone, least of all her.

Sasha glanced at the shattered door, the soil on the floor, the wrecked drawers and furniture. Then she laughed, a little hysterically.

"Well," she muttered to herself, "at least they didn’t find the car."

And with that, she grabbed her keys, squared her shoulders, and headed out.

There was still a mountain of supplies to hoard, and she would be damned if some overgrown loan shark was going to stop her from surviving the end of the world.

Sasha double-checked the hallway before stepping out. Her ruined apartment door creaked pitifully behind her, looking like the mouth of a toothless old man.

Any nosy neighbor who peeked out would think she’d been raided by the cops—or worse, by relatives looking for unpaid debt.

"Great," she muttered, tugging her hoodie over her curls. "Now everyone thinks I’m a wanted criminal. Technically not wrong, but still rude."

The stairwell smelled like cigarette smoke and damp socks, but Sasha took the steps two at a time. Her heart still hadn’t calmed down. She kept hearing the echo of Baldy’s warning in her ears: One week.

One week to pay. One week to prep. One week to not die before the apocalypse even arrived.

She slipped out into the city night. The streets buzzed with neon signs, traffic horns, and the distant bass of cheap nightclub music.

To anyone else, it was an ordinary Friday evening. But to Sasha, every flashing billboard, every passing car, every clueless pedestrian was like watching ghosts.

They didn’t know. They couldn’t see it coming. But she did. And it made the world feel both hilarious and terrifying.

The alley reeked of piss, stale beer, and secrets sharp enough to get someone killed. Sasha slipped through it quickly, head down, until she reached the back entrance of the hotel.

To anyone tailing her, she looked like a woman too broke or too paranoid to stay at home. Both were true.

Her apartment was a disaster—half-eaten takeout, broken locks, and a landlady with a talent for nosiness.

If she wanted to disappear, a hotel was smarter. And this wasn’t just any hotel.

This place belonged to a certain young master who controlled seventy percent of the city’s illegal guns and explosives. Black market royalty. The kind of man who made warlords shake hands and grin like schoolboys.

Sasha knew because of her nine-to-five. Her company didn’t sell spreadsheets—they catered to "special clients." And when you proofread contracts signed in blood, you picked up details.

At the front desk, the clerk’s face was all polish and charm. Not a flicker when Sasha whispered the code.

"Welcome," he said smoothly, dimples flashing. "You must be Miss Sasha. The boss is waiting for you underground. Please, use the designated elevator."

Straight to hell, express route.

A pair of staff led her to the private lift. Silent, mechanical in their movements, they slid a black card into the slot.

The elevator sank, her ears popping, stomach fluttering. When the ding finally came, she was staring at a scene straight out of a movie.

An underground casino stretched wide, all gold and neon. The air smelled like perfume and bad decisions.

Champagne clinked, dice rolled, women laughed at rich men’s terrible jokes. Fortunes—and lives—disappeared here overnight.

They took her past the tables into a restricted wing. Her heels clicked too loud against the marble until finally she was left alone in an opulent room.

Silence pressed in, and she fidgeted with her fingers, heart racing. This was insane. But the thrill had her veins humming.

The door opened.

A tall figure entered, and her pulse stuttered. He was unfairly attractive—green hair tousled like it had better things to do, amber eyes that seemed to strip the truth out of people, and lips fixed in a dangerous smile.

"Are you Miss Sasha?" His voice was velvet laid over steel.

She tilted her chin, feigning indifference. "And you must be Mr. Alvaro?"

His smile deepened. "Please, just Alvaro."

The name burned her tongue to say. "Then call me Sasha."

"Perfect." He gestured to the chair across from him. "Now that we’re friends, let’s see if we can keep each other alive."

Her laugh came sharper than intended. "Alive? I thought this was just a hotel check-in."

"Depends," he murmured, eyes glinting. "Do you prefer champagne, or Russian roulette?"

Sasha’s pulse misbehaved—those amber eyes carried the shadow of Alaric and the polish of Valerian, all in one smile that could kill.

She forced a cool expression. "I prefer guns and explosives. I already made the deposit. I’m here to collect my order—cash, in full."

With a dramatic tug, she dragged a duffel bag the size of a small country onto the floor. The zipper groaned, folded bills shifting like an orchestra warming up.

Alvaro’s grin widened. He studied the bag with the detachment of a bored art critic. Cash meant little to him; risk was his true currency.

"Right," he said, leaning back, ankle over knee, the picture of someone who never had to run. "You’re either the bravest or the dumbest person I’ve met all week."

"Depends on who’s asking." Her shrug was careless. "Which is, by the way, the most dangerous question I’ve heard in a while."

His chuckle slid down her spine. "Actually, I’m curious about your order. Are you planning to detonate half the city, or redecorate it with controlled chaos?"

Her smile turned innocent, which only made it more dangerous. "Tasteful demolition. Modern aesthetic. We’re calling it ’Selective Acquiescence.’"

Amber eyes flicked between her and the duffel. "Cash is bold. Most prefer credit—less residue."

"Credit keeps you on file," she said automatically. "I don’t like being catalogued. Cash has character."