SORRY MISS CEO, YOUR BILLIONS ARE USELESS!

The last thing Rangga Siregar remembered before the world ended was the stench of piss from the second-floor drainpipe and a bank balance that was only enough for a plate of Nasi Padang with a single potato fritter The boarding house inherited from his late grandfather—“Kos Pusako”—was more of an architectural miracle than a building, mostly because it was a mystery how the two-story wooden shack hadn't collapsed in a stiff breeze yet. Rangga had just finished tightening the last bolt on a leaky faucet when the first scream shattered the quiet of a Jakarta afternoon.

It wasn’t a normal scream. It was raspy, wet, and ended with the sound of bones being crunched.

Rangga peered out from his dusty louvered window. Down below, on the cracked asphalt, Pak Amrin Tanjung—the neighbor who usually just sat on his porch smoking—was sprinting like an Olympic athlete. Behind him, three men were in hot pursuit.

Wait, they weren't just running. They were crawling, scaling car hoods, and leaping at speeds that defied the laws of physics. Their skin was deathly pale, and their mouths were smeared with a thick black sludge. One of them lunged at Pak Amrin’s back, shredding his batik shirt and starting to eat his shoulder alive.

Blood sprayed across the pavement.

Rangga froze. The wrench slipped from his hand, clattering onto the wooden floor.

Am I sleep-deprived? Or was that potato fritter laced with formaldehyde? he thought blankly.

Then, a neon-green rectangular panel flickered into existence in the center of his vision, pulsing in sync with the adrenaline pumping through his heart.[HOST STATUS: BROKE, HELPLESS, 99.9% LIKELY TO BECOME ZOMBIE CHOW]

[REBOOTING… PUSAKO FORTRESS SYSTEM ACTIVATED.]

"What the hell is this?" Rangga rubbed his eyes. A mechanical voice, heavy with a thick Sumatran accent, suddenly echoed inside his skull. It sounded like a village elder scolding his grandson for breaking the rules, but through an autotune filter.

"Good Lord, this boarding house of yours is a total wreck, kid!" the system barked, ignoring Rangga’s panic. "No time! The apocalypse is at the doorstep. Initiating Emergency Renovation Protocol. Hold your breath, Host!"

Before Rangga could ask a single question, the building shook violently. The rotting wood on his bedroom walls peeled away, replaced by thick layers of titanium steel that crept along like liquid silver. The shattered louvered windows were sealed by obsidian-coated ballistic glass. The floor creaked, solidifying into cold, reinforced concrete.

In less than ten seconds, the rickety "Kos Pusako" had transformed into a monolithic black cube-shaped bunker looming amidst the chaos.

Rangga slumped to the floor, gasping for air. The smell of piss had been replaced by the sterile scent of an ozone air filter. In front of him, a holographic screen floated, displaying a 360-degree CCTV feed of the outside.The street had turned into a sea of blood. Hundreds—no, thousands—of those black-mouthed people were flooding the road, drawn by the sound of the building’s transformation.

"Welcome to Pusako Fortress, Level 1," the AI grumbled. "Current facilities: Steel Walls, Clean Water, and Maximum Confusion. Your job now is to survive. And find some tenants, because this system needs energy from human interaction."

"Tenants?!" Rangga yelled at the empty air. "There’s a zombie apocalypse out there, and you’re telling me to look for boarders?!"

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Violent pounding echoed from the main door downstairs. The ten-centimeter-thick steel door vibrated.

Rangga swallowed hard. He stepped toward the hologram and zoomed in on the front camera.

There, right in front of the bunker entrance, stood a woman.

   She was wearing a bone-white suit now stained with fresh blood splatters. Her black hair, usually tied in a neat bun, was a mess, sticking to her pale cheeks. In her right hand, she gripped a gold pistol, its barrel still smoking.

Even in her disheveled state, her aura pierced through the screen. It was the hawk-like gaze of someone used to deciding the life or death of thousands with a snap of her fingers.

Zahara Nasution.

Rangga recognized her from Forbes covers and underground crime news. Zahara was the CEO of the Nusantara Syndicate—a lethal combination of a trillion-rupiah investment firm and a high-level mafia outfit. Rumor had it she once drowned a business rival in Jakarta Bay using a concrete mold.

Now, the "Ice Queen" was leaning against Rangga’s steel door, staring straight into the CCTV lens as if she could see into his soul.

Behind Zahara, about fifty meters away, the wave of zombies began to notice her. They turned in unison, staring at her like she was a fresh cut of wagyu beef.

[TIMER: 00:45 UNTIL PHYSICAL CONTACT WITH ZOMBIES]

   Zahara hammered the steel door with the butt of her pistol. "Whoever is inside! Open the door!" Her voice was cold and authoritative, even as she panted for breath. "Open this door right now, and I’ll give you five hundred million! Cash! Tomorrow!"

Rangga went silent, his eyes fixed on the screen.

"One billion!" Zahara screamed again, glancing back. The black tide began to sprint toward her. "Five billion! Ten billion! Open the damn door, you prick!"

"Tempting offer, Host," the Pusako System buzzed. "Unfortunately, paper money out there is currently worth less than toilet paper. This system does not accept dead currency."

Rangga pressed the intercom button. His voice, amplified by the bunker’s external speakers, sounded deep and calm, contrasting with the panic outside.

"Your money’s no good here, Ms. Nasution." Zahara flinched. She looked up at the speaker, her eyes narrowing as her mafia-bred temper flared, despite death being only thirty meters away. "Do you have any idea who I am? Open this door or I’ll make sure you die a slower death than getting bitten by those mindless things!"

"Threats don’t work here either," Rangga replied casually, folding his arms.

[TIMER: 00:20]

The lead zombie, a massive man with a half-shattered jaw, was closing the gap.

"Then what do you want?!" Zahara shrieked, her mask of composure finally cracking. She aimed her gold pistol forward, blowing the head off the closest zombie, but ten more took its place. She was almost out of bullets. "What do you want?! Gold? Stocks? Name it!"

Rangga stared at the arrogant woman. In the old world, let alone speaking to her, Rangga wouldn't have even been allowed to breathe the same air as Zahara. But the old world had ended ten minutes ago. In this new world, Rangga was king.

"This is a boarding house. Obviously, I need rent," Rangga said.

"Then name your price, damn it!" Zahara cocked her gun again, tears of desperation welling in her sharp eyes.

[TIMER: 00:08]

"Rent at Pusako Fortress isn't paid in cash," Rangga said softly, making sure every syllable was clear over the encroaching growls. "It’s paid in labor."

"What do you mean...?"

"First condition: You mop the entire first floor every single morning."

Zahara froze. Mopping? A CEO with thousands of servants being told to mop?

[TIMER: 00:05]

"Second condition," Rangga continued, his voice unwavering. "You do my laundry. Including my underwear. By hand."

Zahara turned toward the CCTV, her jaw dropping. The rage exploding in her eyes was enough to burn down a whole neighborhood. "You’re telling me... to wash your underwear?! I will kill you! I swear I’ll skin you—"

[TIMER: 00:02]

Three zombies lunged at Zahara, claws outstretched, black teeth ready to tear into her neck.

"Deal or die, Ms. Nasution. Time’s up," Rangga said coldly.

Zahara closed her eyes, throwing her trillion-dollar pride into the abyss.

"FINE! DAMN IT, I AGREE!" she shrieked.

[RENTAL CONTRACT APPROVED. STATUS: HOUSEWIFE / LEVEL 1 DRUDGE]

Just as a zombie’s claw came within a centimeter of Zahara’s face, the steel floor beneath her feet slid open. Zahara tumbled into a brightly lit sterilization corridor, and the steel hatch above her slammed shut with a deafening CLANK, severing the arms of the zombies chasing her.

In the control room, Rangga let out a long breath, wiping cold sweat from his forehead.

"Well," Rangga muttered, staring at the screen showing Zahara coughing on the floor of the sterilization bay. "At least I won't have to scrub the toilet myself tomorrow."