The distance between Len Fang's home and the cemetery was not that far—a fact that had made his earlier journey convenient. With just some streets and a few turns away, one would be easily able to navigate their way from the cemetery to Len Fang's apartment without much difficulty.
The apartment door opened for the youth as he proceeded to take calm steps inside, after opening the door with the keys he had found inside his pocket—keys that felt both familiar and strange in his hand, objects from a life he had lived and yet was living again.
The smell of the apartment instantly hit him the moment he crossed the threshold, the acrid smell of normalcy and the mundane bringing back memories flooding back to this fellow in an overwhelming wave.
Although Len Fang had long since hated to live a normal and average life, despised the soul-crushing monotony of it all, that did not mean he could also not have a sense of understanding and remembrance for once was what his daily life had been.
He remembered back then, in this very apartment, when he used to constantly hate on his stupid job—the long hours, the poor pay, the disrespectful management—and used to dream of being like those big shots he'd see on television or in magazines, driving sport cars and enjoying his life without worrying about money.
In truth, money did guarantee a lot, like protection and wealth and security—things that seemed like distant fantasies to someone in his position. And for someone like Len Fang who had always been a person thrust into burden and faced with constant misfortune from childhood onward, the hope of fortune ever finding him had been very slim indeed.
Almost non-existent, really.
Len Fang brought his mind away from the lingering thoughts of what had been and what might have been, forcibly redirecting his focus unto his need to prepare for what was coming.
Nostalgia was a luxury he couldn't afford right now.
The apartment is small, cramped even, with the size of the entire thing being roughly the size of two normal bedrooms combined. Here in this place, it is not the best living situation—far from it, actually—but it is home and he will have to make due with what he has.
He instantly began walking through the apartment with purpose, the floorboards creaking with each step he took—a sound he had long grown accustomed to but now noticed with new awareness—as the apartment lights began to come on one by one, each switch illuminating the view for him to see clearly.
He made his way to his room, navigating the familiar path automatically, and his eyes caught sight of the rope wrapped up in a sealed plastic bag on his desk—the same rope he had intended to use to end himself, just after coming home from the cemetery.
The sight of it made him pause for a heartbeat.
He let out a small sound of knowingness, a bitter acknowledgment of how close he had come to never experiencing any of this, before walking towards his small and half-dead wardrobe which seemed to want to crash downward in pain and suffering, its hinges protesting loudly.
He pulled open the door and reached inside, bringing out a small black bag from it—a duffel bag he used for occasional travel.
He instantly took the bag out and began making his way to the kitchen, his movements efficient and deliberate, to which he began taking all weaponry he could find—knives of various sizes, forks that could serve as stabbing implements, a meat cleaver, even a heavy rolling pin that could function as a club, and more.
He made sure to ransack the kitchen thoroughly, taking whatever is useful without sentiment or hesitation, as well as gathering some amount of food and water he was sure would be needed in the immediate aftermath—canned goods that wouldn't spoil, bottles of water, anything with a long shelf life.
Before then he began making his way towards his irrelevant sitting room, barely glancing at the worn furniture, and reaching behind his chair to bring out another black bag he kept stored there, before proceeding to put it unto the chair for easy access.
His mind crossed over to the thought of informing his colleagues and even friends to warn them of the incoming calamity and problem, to try to save more lives beyond just Marel.
But as soon as the thought came, it left just as quickly.
"I won't put myself at risk. I need to be smart!" He spoke out loud to the empty apartment, his eyes flashing with cold resolve.
He then began making sure to check everywhere in his apartment is secure and free from harm, testing the locks on the windows and door, looking for any potential weak points that monsters might exploit.
One might ask, quite reasonably: Why doesn't he inform his colleagues and save more lives, or even go to the authorities with what he knows?
Well, the answer to that question is multifaceted but ultimately practical.
Firstly, they most likely won't believe him—that's just the simple truth of it.
A twenty-four-year-old youth, willingly walking into a police station claiming "the world ends tomorrow" would accomplish nothing except getting themselves institutionalized or dismissed as mentally unstable.
Without concrete proof of future events—which he can't provide before the apocalypse actually begins, since everything he knows is based on memories that haven't happened yet in this timeline—any warning would sound like the ravings of a doomsday preacher or a delusional paranoid.
He would waste precious hours being questioned or evaluated by psychiatrists while the clock ticks down relentlessly to humanity's end, hours he needs for preparation and gathering supplies.
Also, and perhaps more importantly, he simply would not want to risk the butterfly effect from such a huge act, especially having lived through the apocalypse once already and understanding how delicate the chain of events could be.
He would plan and try to survive using specific knowledge of events, locations, and timing that he remembered clearly from his first time through.
Alerting the authorities could trigger massive evacuations, military deployments, or widespread panic that fundamentally alters how the apocalypse unfolds in ways he cannot predict.
The fear of changing too much too soon might erase Len Fang's hard-won advantages—the safe zones he remembered discovering, the survival strategies that had worked through trial and error, the allies he knew where to find and when—and it could leave him just as helpless as everyone else in this new timeline, stripped of his only edge.
Better to use his knowledge quietly, save those he could reach directly, and adapt as needed.
Soon enough, after what felt like both hours and minutes simultaneously, Len Fang was done with all that he could do at this moment in time.
The bags were packed. The apartment was secured. The weapons were ready.
The only thing left to do now is to wait for his brother Marel to arrive from his distant college, and then explain everything to him—the apocalypse, the regression, the monsters that would come—and force him to understand the danger, no matter how insane it all sounds.
Len Fang sat down on his worn couch, surrounded by his hastily packed supplies, and waited.
The night stretched on, and tomorrow would bring the end of the world.
But this time, he would be ready.