Crying.
High. Fragile. Desperate.
Rosalie's eyes flew open.
For a moment, she couldn't breathe.
The sound echoed through her skull, slicing through layers of memory—heat, blood, screaming, betrayal—
Crying again.
Not distant.
Not fading.
Right beside her.
Rosalie jerked upright in bed.
The room was dark except for the faint orange glow of the streetlight outside the window. Familiar curtains. The crack in the ceiling above the closet door. The soft hum of the old refrigerator down the hall.
Her apartment.
Her old apartment.
Her heart slammed violently against her ribs.
No…
Another wail—this one louder.
She turned her head.
Two bassinets sat beside the bed.
Two tiny, red-faced newborns kicking weakly beneath pastel blankets.
Her twins.
Alive.
Rosalie's hands began to shake.
This wasn't possible.
The last thing she remembered was the laboratory—the cold metal restraints biting into her wrists. The fluorescent lights overhead. Her mother refusing to meet her eyes. Lilith crying fake tears. Dean standing silently behind them.
And then—
Darkness.
"Just a dream," Rosalie whispered hoarsely.
It had to be.
She fumbled for her phone on the nightstand, nearly knocking over a half-empty bottle of water. The screen lit up, blinding in the dark.
4:27 a.m.
October 3, 2032.
Her breath caught in her throat.
October 3, 2032.
Exactly five months before the apocalypse began.
Her hands trembled so badly she almost dropped the phone.
"No…" she breathed, staring at the date as if it might change.
It didn't.
Another cry—stronger this time.
Instinct overrode shock.
Rosalie moved automatically, lifting the closer twin into her arms. Warm. Real. Solid. The baby's tiny fist clenched in her shirt.
She broke.
A sob tore out of her chest as she pulled the second twin close, holding both against her like they might disappear if she loosened her grip.
"You're here… you're here…" she whispered through tears.
Alive.
Not lifeless in her arms.
Not cold.
Alive.
She forced herself to breathe and sat back against the headboard, adjusting her shirt to nurse them. The familiar ache, the warmth, the tiny mouths latching—it grounded her.
This wasn't a dream.
If it was, it was cruelly detailed.
As the twins fed, Rosalie stared into the darkness and let the memories come.
The apocalypse hadn't begun with monsters.
It began with heat.
It was still technically winter.
The air had been crisp only days before. Forecasts predicted light snowfall.
Then the temperature began rising.
Slowly at first.
Then violently.
The morning it happened, the news anchors were sweating on live television. Power grids strained. Asphalt softened. People argued in grocery stores.
By noon, it was 35°C.
And climbing.
Thirty-five degrees in winter.
Animals began acting erratically. Birds fell from the sky. Water supplies dried at alarming rates.
By nightfall, the first riots broke out.
Within a week, society fractured.
Rosalie had gathered her seven children and her fiancé, Dean Henderson—twenty-five years old, charming, dependable Dean—and drove to her parents' house.
George and Teresa Cohen.
Late forties. Stubborn. Traditional.
Her younger sister Lilith lived there too.
Twenty-four years old. Beautiful. Emotional.
And Lilith's six-year-old twins—Chloe and Caleb.
Rosalie had believed, back then, that family meant safety.
She had been the strongest among them once the world collapsed.
She was the one who learned how to filter water.
Who rationed supplies.
Who ventured into abandoned stores before looters could strip them clean.
She forged for food under a sun that scorched skin raw.
She defended the house from desperate attackers.
She killed when she had to.
She negotiated when she could.
She led them to safer ground when the city fell completely.
Six years.
Six years of blood, hunger, and exhaustion.
She bore the weight gladly because it was for her children.
For her family.
Only for her children to die.
"An accident," they said.
A supply run gone wrong.
A door left unlocked.
Timing miscalculated.
She had screamed until her voice broke.
She blamed herself for months.
If she had been faster. Stronger. Smarter.
She didn't know the truth until the end.
Until her own family sold her to a base laboratory in exchange for protection and resources.
She still remembered the sound of the metal doors locking behind her.
That was when Lilith finally told her.
Calmly.
Almost kindly.
Dean had been sleeping with her since the first year of Rosalie's relationship.
Before the engagement.
Before the babies.
Chloe and Caleb weren't random men's children.
They were Dean's.
Her fiancé's.
Her partner's.
Her parents had known.
All of them had known.
For years.
Rosalie's jaw tightened as the memory resurfaced.
Six years she fought for them.
Six years she killed for them.
And in the end, they traded her away like damaged goods.
Her children hadn't died in an accident.
They had been sacrificed.
Left vulnerable deliberately.
Because too many mouths were inconvenient.
Because resources were scarce.
Because Rosalie would forgive anything—
Except that.
A soft suckling sound drew her back to the present.
The twins shifted in her arms, small hands curling into her shirt.
Rosalie looked down at them.
Five months.
Five months before the heat began.
Before the riots..
Her tears dried slowly.
In their place, something colder settled.
In her past life, she had protected everyone.
This time—
She would protect only those who deserved it.
And when the temperature rose again…
When 35°C arrived in the dead of winter…
She would be ready.