There was a pause on the other end. Then Lauren's voice came back, louder, sharper.

"Ray, have you lost your mind? Just wait till I get home. I'll deal with you then!"

Ray's tone stayed level, almost cold.

"Go to the courthouse. Now. I have all the necessary documents and paperwork with me."

"Ray—" Lauren shouted again, but then her voice steadied. "Don't be impulsive. Divorce isn't something you can just announce. What about Michael?"

Michael—his son.

At least, that's what he had believed. The truth was uglier: the boy was nothing but a bastard.

Ray gave a short, bitter laugh. "How long are you planning to keep lying to me? Michael isn't my son. He's the illegitimate child you had with Zac Sanders. You rushed to marry me because you were already pregnant with Michael."

"You—how do you know that?" Lauren's voice trembled.

"Doesn't matter how. Go to the courthouse right now, or I'll storm into your hospital and expose your affair with Zac in front of everyone. Let's see how that ends for you."

He knew she would fold.

And she did. After a few seconds of silence, she said, "Fine. I'll meet you there."

Back then, she had married him in a hurry to hide the scandal of a pregnancy before marriage and protect Zac's reputation. And, as a bonus, bring home someone easy to control, a man who would do all the housework for free. A housekeeper who even handed over his entire paycheck every month.

Now that Michael was three, the risk of public shame was gone. The only loss was the steady income her "housekeeper" had provided.

Ray took the subway to the courthouse. To his surprise, Lauren was already waiting outside.

She was twenty-seven, around five-foot-three, with a pretty, sweet face and wide eyes. Her ponytail swung lightly behind her. A solid seven out of ten in looks, though her body was unremarkable—flat-chested, thin shoulders.

She stared at him, uncertain, shaken by the fact that he somehow knew the truth. She had no idea it was something she herself had told him once—just before he died in their previous life. She hadn't cared about keeping secrets from a dying man.

"Ray," she began, "divorce isn't that simple. There's property, child custody—so many things to work out."

She was still trying to coax him back. Once he was home, the whole family could pressure him again. He was their servant—had been, and always would be.

"I'll walk away with nothing," Ray said. "The kid's yours. I won't pay a single cent in support."

By law, he could demand half the marital assets. With a DNA test, he could even sue for damages. But he didn't have time for that.

He needed the divorce finalized today—before he won the lottery. If the ticket was cashed while he was still married, her family would never let go of the prize. He couldn't afford that risk.

He didn't need money now. He would take it back a thousandfold when the world ended.

Lauren had no response. She followed him into the courthouse in silence.

They took a number and waited. There weren't many people that day, so it was soon their turn. The mediator gave a perfunctory smile.

"You're still young, and you have a child together—"

"The child isn't mine," Ray said flatly.

The mediator blinked, closed the folder, and nodded. "Alright then. Let's focus on the marital property. How do you propose to split it?"

"I don't want a thing."

With the paternity issue off the table, there was no child support to argue about, and without any assets to fight over, the process was swift. In under thirty minutes, the paper that had once bound them was nullified, replaced by another that set them free.

As Ray stepped back outside, a wave of dizzying liberation washed over him. He was finally done with the Gantt family and their endless drama.

He didn't look back at Lauren as he walked away. She, on the other hand, glared after him, her face twisted with resentment.

She'd lost her free housekeeper—and his 5-thousand-dollar monthly salary.

'You think you can just walk away? Not a chance,' she thought.

Pulling out her phone, she dialed the police. "I'd like to report an assault… Yes, my dad was attacked. The suspect's name is Ray Morley…"

…

Ray left the courthouse, had lunch, and by two o'clock he was at the nearby lottery shop. He gave the clerk a set of numbers and spent 100 dollars on fifty tickets—the maximum that could win him the 50-million-dollar jackpot.

Each ticket had a timestamp. The surveillance footage from the courthouse would prove he was already divorced before the purchase. This was post-marital income, legally his alone.

Except he now had no money left. That 100 dollars had been all his pocket change.

No matter—he still had credit.

He booked a hotel on his phone, called a cab, and checked in with his ID. The suite cost 150 dollars a night. The old him would've hesitated, but now?

Money meant nothing.

In the quiet of the room, he began testing the properties of his dimensional space.

First discovery: due to the size of the spatial gate, an item could be stored only if its height and width didn't exceed five meters, though its length could be infinite. Weight didn't matter—he just had to touch it and focus.

Second: living creatures couldn't be stored. He'd tested it by stealing the fish tank from the rest area downstairs. When he tried to store it, nothing happened. But when he opened the spatial gate and pushed it through, the tank appeared inside—and the fish were dead when he brought it back out.

"So it can't hold living things. Unless they go in willingly," he murmured. "Used right, it could be a perfect trap."

Third: he could open the portal anywhere within two meters of himself, in any direction. It couldn't appear inside solid objects like walls, and it closed automatically when he moved—but could reopen instantly.

Fourth: whatever went in kept its exact state. A cup of hot tea came out still steaming an hour later; an ice cube came out frozen solid.

"Perfect for storing food," he muttered.

But the most important discovery was that it preserved motion. If he threw a brick inside midair, when he released it, it came flying out at the same speed and angle.

Arrows, bullets, falling debris—anything could become a weapon.

All he needed was to load his "ammunition" and practice aiming.

'Tomorrow, once I claim the prize, I'll buy a house,' he thought. 'Invest in stocks, start renovations, turn it into a shelter.'

That evening, he treated himself to a fine restaurant and ordered the most expensive dishes on the menu.

The joy of spending freely—it felt intoxicating.

Before, he'd lived on 100 dollars a month, saving every bit for his wife and son.

And for what?

He'd been nothing but a pitiful fool.

Now he would spend lavishly, without restraint. Tomorrow he'd be rich—and when the apocalypse came, he would be the wealthiest man alive.

Except then, wealth would no longer be measured in money, but in food, clothing, and power.