The bank smelled of disinfectant and old money — two things that never survived the end of the world. Joseph Gates stood in line, eyes flicking to the digital clock above the counter. Twenty days left. The number pulsed in his mind like a heartbeat.

He’d been here once before, in another lifetime. Same gray tiles, same bored clerk tapping her nails against the desk. But last time, he didn’t know what was coming. Last time, he died screaming under a sky of fire and whispering ghosts.

Now, he smiled.

“Next,” the clerk said.

He stepped forward, placing his ID and application on the counter. “Personal loan,” he said, voice calm. “Three million.”

The woman raised a brow. “Purpose of the loan?”

He almost laughed. *To bribe the dead.* Instead, he said, “Investment. Long-term security.”

She nodded mechanically, typing into her screen. The sound of keys was oddly comforting — the rhythm of a world that still pretended it had a future.

When she asked about collateral, Joseph listed everything: his car, his small apartment, the remainder of his savings. She didn’t notice his hands trembling — not from fear, but from the memory of flames.

*This time, I’ll be ready.*

As she processed the paperwork, his gaze drifted to the glass doors. Outside, the city gleamed in the afternoon sun, beautiful and doomed. He knew that within weeks, those same towers would turn black with ash. The ATMs would spit smoke instead of cash. The streets would echo with the low, hungry moans of the Returned — the dead bound by the Rules.

The loan was approved. A transfer confirmation blinked on the screen: **3,000,000 USD deposited.**

“Congratulations, Mr. Gates,” the clerk said without looking up.

He took the receipt and whispered, “Yeah. Congratulations.”

By sunset, he had already exchanged the money for stacks of golden paper printed with ancient symbols — **Mingbi**, each sheet soft as skin, shining faintly under the light. The old shopkeeper wrapped them carefully, as though they were relics.

“Burn clean,” the man warned, his accent heavy. “Smoke carries worth. Smoke carries truth.”

Joseph nodded, feeling the strange weight of his purchase. Each note was a promise — an investment in death itself.

That night, he stood behind his apartment, wind crawling through the alley. He built a small fire pit, feeding the flames with the golden sheets one by one. Smoke curled upward, silver-gray, vanishing into the stars.

He whispered his name to the fire. Then again, louder.  

“Joseph Gates. Remember me.”

The last flame licked the air and went out. The ashes glowed faintly, like breathing embers. Somewhere beyond the veil, something answered — not in words, but in presence.

A faint sound brushed the edge of his mind: coins clinking, soft laughter, a whisper from the other side.

*Welcome back, investor.*