Apocalypse Rebirth: Making Billions With My Fortune-Telling Skill

​The convoy moved toward the secluded lower compound on the edge of the estate. The heavy steel doors groaned open, revealing a dark, damp subterranean holding sector that smelled strongly of rust, iron, and rotting sewage.

​Four chairs were bolted to the cold concrete floor.

​Tied securely to the metal frames were Eleanor, Clara, Johan, and the Gabriel family head, Victor. They were beaten, bruised, and thoroughly stripped of their arrogant aristocratic mm mm pride.

The guards had deliberately left Eleanor’s thigh wound untreated, letting the festering infection burn with raw pain, occasionally splashing it with harsh saltwater to keep her awake. Thick cloth gags were stuffed into their mouths, cutting off their muffled, desperate whines.

​Xavier, Alexander, Samuel, and Dr. Oliver Baxter stood near the wall, watching the scene with silent, detached expressions.

​Nat stepped forward, tilting his head as he looked sideways at the surgeon. ”Does your saintly doctor instinct kick in when you see trash like them bleeding out, doc? Dying to jump in and stitch them up?”

​Oliver pushed the thin silver rim of his glasses up his nose with a single finger, his expression flat and thoroughly unbothered by the foul sight. ”It is not my concern if I have not been commissioned to treat them. I am a surgeon, Nat Collins, not a charitable saint.”

​Nat burst into a loud, dark laugh, clapping his hand against his knee. ”Right, right! Excellent answer. You pass. I’ve dealt with far too many bullheaded doctors who think they’re divine saviors just because they hold a scalpel.”

​”Ethical intervention without compensation or clinical necessity is an inefficient allocation of medical resources,” Oliver added precise as a textbook, tapping his tablet.

​April did not listen to their chatter and walked to the center of the room, her footsteps echoing sharply against the concrete, with Emily trailing right behind her.

​The moment the four bound captives lifted their bloodied, tear-stained faces and locked eyes on the two identical women standing before them, their eyes bulged in absolute, horror-stricken shock.

​Eleanor began to thrash violently against her ropes, muffled, frantic screams tearing against her gag as she stared at April—the abandoned twin she had stolen twenty-six years ago—standing side-by-side with Emily, backed by the most terrifying figures in the entire country.

​April folded her arms, her eyes icy and unblinking as she glanced at her sister.

​”The floor is yours, Emily,” April said flatly. ”Say whatever you want.”

​Nat stepped over to the wall console and signaled the guard. With four sharp yanks, the thick cloth gags were ripped from the captives’ mouths.

​The moment their jaws were freed, the damp subterranean room erupted into a chaotic, desperate chorus of screams, sobs, and frantic bargaining.

​”Emily! Emily, my daughter! Look at me!” Victor Gabriel wept, his bloodshot eyes wide with manic, terrified hope as he strained against his heavy iron bonds. ”I am your father! You know I never wanted any of this for you! It was Eleanor! She controlled everything! If you let me go, we can start over—a new life, just you and me! I’ll give you everything! Please, Emily!”

​”You ungrateful little bastard!” Eleanor choked out, her face contorted in agony as the festering wound on her thigh burned under the salt-crusted bandages. She spat blood onto the cold concrete, her eyes burning with raw, poisonous venom. ”I should have strangled you in your cradle alongside your mother! You are nothing! A worthless, pathetic parasite!”

​Beside her, Johan was hyperventilating, his bruised face pale with sheer terror as he looked between Emily and the looming forms of Nat and Xavier. ”Emily, baby, please! I’m your husband! You can’t let them do this to me! I was forced into it! Clara seduced me—she made me do it! You loved me, Emily! Right? You can’t just throw away our marriage! Tell them to let me go!”

​”Shut up, Johan! You sniveling coward!” Clara shrieked, her tangled brown hair hanging over her bloodied face as she glared at the twin sisters. Even in chains, her spite was absolute, her voice dripping with unyielding, arrogant hatred. ”Look at you two—a pair of cheap, worthless street rats playing dress-up! You think having these men around makes you royals?! You’re still just servants!”

​Standing in the center of the cold room, Emily took the full force of their screeching, vile noise.

​Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her breath hitched, her body instinctively wanting to shrink back, to cower in the dark attic as she had done for twenty-six years.

​Beside her, April remained completely unmoving—an unshakeable iron pillar. She didn’t offer a gentle word, nor did she shield her sister from the sound. She simply let the ocean of toxicity crash over Emily, giving her the space to face the reality of who these people truly were.

​Emily’s hands fell to her sides, her fingers curling slowly into two tight, white-knuckled fists.

​She dug her fingernails so hard into her palms that the sharp, stinging pain broke through her terror, anchoring her to the ground.

She felt the sudden, scorching burn of pure, unadulterated spite ignite deep within her chest. It washed over the cold embers of her fear, burning away every lingering trace of hesitation, every foolish shred of sentimentality.

​These weren’t her family. They were monsters—vultures who had bled her mother dry and treated her life like dirt.

​When the wave of begging, blaming, and cursing finally began to slow down into ragged gasps, Clara glared at Emily’s silent, unblinking posture and spat onto the floor.

​”Speak, you bitch!” Clara snarled, her voice raspy and sharp. ”Say something!”

​Silence settled over the cellar, heavy and suffocating.

”Do you think because you’ve gotten some backers, you can ignore us?! Huh?!”

​Beside the door, Nat leaned back with a dark, predatory smirk, while Xavier kept his eyes fixed entirely on April’s side. Oliver Baxter stood quietly behind his thin glasses, his stylus resting against his screen as he observed the psychological turning point.

​Emily took a deep, steadying breath, filling her lungs with the damp subterranean air. She let it out slowly, her trembling shoulders relaxing as her brown eyes cleared into an impenetrable, razor-sharp calm.

​She ignored Eleanor’s glare, bypassed Johan’s pathetic whimpers, and didn’t even spare Clara a single glance.

​Instead, Emily slowly lifted her gaze, locking her eyes straight onto her father.

​”Did you know...” Emily whispered, her voice quiet, steady, and terrifyingly cold in the silent room. ”...Mother died yesterday?”