Reborn With Infinite Supplies System in Apocalypse

Chapter 1 - I Died Hungry

I did not die screaming.

I died counting my breaths.

The room smelled like rusted metal and damp concrete, the kind of smell that crawled into your lungs and stayed there. My back pressed against a cold wall. My legs refused to straighten. My fingers trembled as if they no longer belonged to me. Hunger was not a feeling anymore. It was a condition, a sickness that ate everything else first. Pride. Hope. Thought.

They had taken my bag an hour ago. Maybe two. Time had stopped making sense when the pain settled into my bones.

“You should have shared,” someone said earlier. I remembered the voice more than the face. A boy I once helped barricade a stairwell. A boy who had sworn we would survive together.

I laughed then. Or maybe I tried to.

There was nothing heroic about the way they beat me. No dramatic last stand. No brave sacrifice. Just fists, boots, and the sound of my ribs cracking like cheap wood. Someone apologised while doing it. That part stayed with me. The apology was worse than the violence.

They left me because I was useless. Because I had nothing left to give.

Because I was hungry.

I pressed my forehead to my knees and focused on breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. My stomach cramped so hard I gagged, but nothing came up. There had been nothing inside me for days. Water had run out yesterday. Food before that. I remembered the last thing I ate. Half a protein bar, divided into four pieces, eaten slowly like a ritual. I remembered thinking it would be enough.

It was not.

My thoughts drifted, slow and sticky. Faces floated up, then sank. The girl who traded her necklace for a can of soup. The man who promised protection vanished the next night. The screams outside when the barricade failed. The smell of blood mixed with rot. The sound of teeth clicking together in the dark.

I wondered if this was what the end felt like for everyone. Quiet. Small. Embarrassingly weak.

My hands curled into fists. Anger sparked, thin and sharp, cutting through the fog. I was angry at them. In the world. At myself. I had believed that being decent mattered. That fairness would be remembered. That kindness would come back around when things were at their worst.

I had been wrong.

The anger did not save me. It burned too fast, leaving nothing behind.

My vision blurred. The edges of the room softened. The pain faded, not because it lessened, but because my body stopped reporting it. That scared me more than the pain ever had.

So this is it, I thought.

This is how I die.

Hungry. Forgotten. Disposable.

Regret came next. Regret was heavier than hunger. I regretted trusting the wrong people. Regretted giving away food I should have kept. Regretted not running when I still could. Regretted believing that survival had rules beyond power.

If I had another chance, I would not be kind first.

I would not be fair first.

I would not give anything away without a price.

The darkness crept in like a tide. My breathing slowed. My heart fluttered, then steadied, then slowed again. Each beat felt optional, as if my body was asking whether it was worth continuing.

It was not.

The last thing I felt was cold spreading from my fingertips inward. The last thing I thought was simple and bitter.

I died hungry.

The world went black.

Then it screamed.

Sirens tore through the darkness, sharp and sudden, so loud they felt physical. My eyes snapped open. I sucked in a breath that burned my throat and filled my lungs too fast. My heart slammed against my ribs, strong, panicked, alive.

Alive.

I sat up so abruptly that dizziness washed over me. The room was bright. Too bright. White light reflected off polished floors. Windows stretched along one wall, intact, clean, unbroken. Outside, the city stood whole, unaware, breathing in an ordinary morning.

Sirens wailed in the distance, not emergency sirens, but the kind used for drills. The kind used before things went wrong.

My hands were whole. No blood. No swelling. No shaking from weakness. I pressed my palm to my stomach.

It was empty, but not hollow. Not burning. Not eating itself.

A clock on the wall read 8:47 a.m.

I knew that time.

My breath caught. Memory slammed into place, sharp and undeniable.

Fifteen minutes.

That was how long it took after the sirens for everything to collapse. Fifteen minutes before the first screams. Before the first bite. Before the first barricade.

Before I died.

“No,” I whispered.

The word sounded strange in my mouth. Stronger than it had any right to be.

I stood, legs steady beneath me, and staggered toward the window. Cars moved below. People walked. Laughed. Looked at their phones. None of them knew. None of them remembered.

But I did.

My reflection stared back from the glass. Younger. Cleaner. Unbroken. My eyes were the same, though. I recognised them instantly. Eyes that had watched hope rot.

A low hum filled the air behind me. Not a sound exactly. More like pressure, like the world holding its breath.

A presence settled into my awareness, calm and absolute.

Rebirth confirmed.

The words did not come from the room. They came from inside my head, clear and unmistakable, as if they had always been there, waiting.

Timeline reset.

I staggered back, pulse roaring in my ears. My mouth opened, but no sound came out.

This was not a dream. Dreams did not feel like this. Dreams did not carry the weight of memory so perfectly.

Rebirth.

I laughed then, a short, broken sound that surprised me. It cut off just as quickly, swallowed by something colder and sharper.

If this were a second life, I would not waste it.

If this were a gift, I would decide its price.

Outside, the sirens grew louder. The clock ticked forward.

Fourteen minutes remained.