Frozen Vengeance: The Last Meal

chapter 6

 Buyer's Market

Ronnie called back at nine the next morning, sounding significantly more awake and significantly more confused. "Okay, I talked to the Ferrer family lawyer. They'll sell — but Rafi, we're talking three hundred and forty million, and that's before renovation. Are you seriously telling me you can move on this today?"

"Draw up the paperwork," Rafi said, already dressed and standing in his hotel room, watching morning traffic crawl along Ortigas Avenue below. "I'll wire the deposit within the hour."

"A deposit of what, exactly?"

"Fifty million."

Ronnie arrived at the Ferrer estate with two lawyers, a folder thick enough to make the purchase look more complicated than it actually was, and an expression that never quite settled between disbelief and concern.

"Three hundred forty million," Ronnie repeated as they stood outside the gate. "Cash."

"Correct."

"You realize I knew you when you were borrowing my motorcycle because your car was in the shop."

"I remember."

"And now you're buying this."

Rafi looked through the gate at the old house.

"I need the land."

Ronnie studied him.

"You're not going to tell me where the money came from, are you?"

"No."

"Fine."

There was no accusation in Ronnie's voice. That was one reason Rafi trusted him.

The lawyers reviewed the deed. The Ferrer family had owned the property for generations but had struggled to agree on a buyer. Rafi knew why. In his memory, the estate had been considered inconveniently large, expensive to maintain, and vulnerable to the political and social changes that had begun reshaping the village.

In ninety days, none of those concerns would matter.

The location was perfect.

High ground.

Secure perimeter.

Enough room for storage.

Close enough to the city for supplies but far enough from the densest commercial areas to avoid the first wave of panic.

The silence on the other end lasted long enough that Rafi checked to see if the call had dropped.

"Rafi," Ronnie finally said, voice careful, "did something happen? Last I heard you were going through an annulment and your wife's family basically bled you dry for years. Where is this coming from?"

"Let's just say I got lucky," Rafi said, and left it at that.

He spent the morning at the PCSO claims office instead, walking through a process he'd rehearsed in his head a hundred times without ever actually experiencing it — verification, documentation, a nervous young claims officer who kept glancing at him like she expected the ticket to be revealed as a hoax at any moment.

After taxes and the mandatory charitable allocation, the final transfer landed at just under three hundred and ten million pesos.

Three different banks reached out within days, once word inevitably leaked from someone in the claims office who'd recognized a good gossip opportunity when they saw one. Rafi settled on the branch nearest his new property, mostly for convenience, and found himself assigned a relationship manager named Grace Fernandez — sharp, professionally warm, visibly intrigued by a new client whose account had gone from six figures to nine practically overnight.

"We can set you up with a dedicated wealth advisory team," Grace said, sliding a folder of investment packages across her desk during their first meeting. "Given the volatility in equities lately, I'd actually recommend diversifying into—"

"I have my own plan," Rafi said, not unkindly. "But I'll need your help moving large amounts quickly over the next two months. Multiple transactions. Some of it might look unusual."

Grace studied him for a moment, the professional curiosity in her expression sharpening into something more personal. "Dinner sometime? Strictly to discuss portfolio strategy, of course."

The claims office was less dramatic than Rafi had imagined.

There were forms.

Identity checks.

Security procedures.

Repeated verification of the tickets.

A claims officer asked him the same question three different ways.

"You're certain these tickets belong to you?"

"Yes."

"Nobody else has access?"

"No."

"Have you informed anyone?"

Rafi almost smiled.

"No."

He had learned that information was another kind of currency.

By the time the funds were transferred, he had already created a private schedule for every peso.

The first portion would purchase the property.

The second would fund renovations.

The third would be divided among food, water, fuel, medicine, equipment, and contingency reserves.

The rest would be invested.

He knew which companies were about to surge. He knew which markets would collapse. He knew which commodities would become impossible to obtain once the freeze disrupted transportation.

He did not intend to become rich merely for the sake of being rich.

He intended to turn money into time.

Time was what survival required.

"I appreciate it," Rafi said, "but I need to keep this purely professional for now. I'll need you available on short notice, though — can I have a direct line?"

She slid her card across the desk without missing a beat, mild disappointment covered smoothly by practiced composure. "Anytime, Mr. Villaroman."

He had eighty-nine days left, and a memory full of investments that would surge before the world stopped caring about stock prices entirely — a semiconductor company about to announce a breakthrough, a mining stock about to spike before the freeze made extraction impossible, three separate real estate plays that would triple in value during the panic-buying weeks before the collapse, when people with money suddenly, desperately wanted physical assets they could touch.

Two months to turn three hundred million into something closer to two billion.

Then one final month to convert every peso of it into the only currency that would actually matter once the sky came down — food, fuel, medicine, and whatever else his dimensional space could hold.

The Ferrer estate deed transferred into his name six days later. News of the sale price — three hundred and forty million pesos, paid in full, no financing — hit the village group chats within forty-eight hours.

By the following morning, half of Dasmariñas Village knew exactly who had bought the old Ferrer lot on Mahogany Street.

The other half found out from Mrs. Padernal, who made it her personal mission to inform them.

Grace Fernandez entered his life two days later.

She was intelligent, observant, and far too good at reading people. Rafi noticed the way she studied his answers instead of merely listening to them.

"Most clients with your new liquidity ask us to build a portfolio immediately," she said.

"I'm not most clients."

"I noticed."

He almost smiled.

She slid another document across the desk.

"We can arrange private banking, international transfers, asset protection—"

"I need speed more than prestige."

"How much speed?"

"Enough that if I call you at eight in the morning, you can move a large amount before lunch."

Grace raised an eyebrow.

"That's a very specific requirement."

"I have a deadline."

She leaned back.

"Business?"

"Something like that."

He did not tell her that his deadline was the end of the world.

That afternoon, the Ferrer estate became his.

When the transfer was complete, Rafi stood alone in the empty property.

The house was old. The walls needed work. The garden had become overgrown.

But beneath the imperfections, he could see the structure of a fortress.

For the first time, the apocalypse did not feel like an approaching nightmare.

It felt like a project with a deadline.