Chapter?1 (Joshua’s POV)

  06:45 – Iron?Elbow Gym, Upper Manhattan

  Marcos’ focus?mitt exploded against my cheekbone a second time.

  “Guard’s slippin’, Reeve. Again—teep, cross, elbow!”

  I tasted copper, reset, and let the combo fly: the teep blasted the pad back, the cross followed like a piston, and the slicing elbow landed with a wet THUCK that echoed through the heavy?bag bay. Marcos grunted approval.

  “Better. Remember—here it’s sweat, on the other side it’s arterial spray.”

  I pictured Anna in the otherworld—shoulders trembling from fatigue yet still squared to the window. Every drill in this gym, every bruise, counted as compound interest on keeping her alive.

  08:15 – Battery Park Pier

  The RAV4’s rear suspension sagged under two Kohler 20?kW gensets, six rice drums, a pallet of Mountain House, and a custom crate housing my new war?hammer—Swedish 4?lb head, tungsten beak, Kevlar?wrapped hickory haft. A gull shrieked overhead; diesel from the ferry mingled with coffee from a vendor cart.

  Supplies were piling up faster than my paranoia. The wall contract was moving—foundation rebar delivered yesterday—but stone meant nothing without guns watching it. Today I shopped for professionals. Three PMCs, three very different flavors of liability.

  1) Grey Apex Solutions – Red Hook

  A prefab office smelled of stale dip and CLP. The “strategic director” adjusted his drop?leg holster like he wanted me to notice.

  “Ten contractors, four months, 1.1?million. Ammo extra. Drones extra.”

  “Medic?” I asked.

  “Bronze?tier add?on.”

  I walked out before he could mention platinum?tier air?conditioning for their barracks tent.

  2) Orion Sentinel Group – Long Island City

  Glass co?workspace, espresso bar, CrossFit posters. The CEO’s beard looked algorithmic.

  “$630?K all?in,” he said, sliding me a tri?fold brochure. “Subcontractors from our vetted global partner network.”

  I googled vetted partner network on the sidewalk: four wrongful?death suits pending. Hard pass.

  3) Vigilant Resolve / Group?VI – Port Newark

  I almost missed their gate—just a “Logistics” stencil on weathered steel. Inside, a matte?black MRAP slept between drone racks. Colonel (ret.) Malcolm Shaw greeted me with a handshake like rebar. No pistol on his hip. Didn’t need one.

  We pored over a digital topo of my block. I detailed the incoming ten?foot garden?wall fa?ade, the inner six?foot kill ring, the blank spots a crane crew would open in the chain?link. Shaw listened, asked two questions, and produced a line?item proposal:

  Component Qty NotesTier?1 Operators (Delta/DEVGRU vets) 24?/?7 static rotational Night Rover Team + K9219:00?07:00Tether?charged FLIR drones26?hr loiter each Embedded CLS Medic 1 Trauma kits included QRF on 30?min standby (MRAP)—Hangar at Port Newark

  Retainer (50?%): $263,500

  Balance net?30: $263,500

  Ammo & consumables: $48?K cap

  Insurance & NYPD liaison fees: $37?K

  My personal reserve after bulk?food orders sat at $1.452?M. This contract plus the looming $390?K Gate toll would still leave a cushion. I signed, wired the retainer, and walked back into cold sunlight feeling like I’d just strapped a Claymore to my credit score—but at least someone trustworthy would guard my walls and interests from interested Partys on this side of the gate.

  13:50 – FDR Drive, north?bound

  Text from Chase Private Client: Wire cleared. I allowed one exhale before traffic forced me to slam brakes behind a taxi. Every red taillight felt like the metronome inside the Gate room: tick?tick, eight days.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  I turned onto 125th, engines groaning under the generator weight. City crews in neon vests traced spray?paint lines on the asphalt—utilities marked for my crane staging. Their easy laughter sounded obscene against the memory of roamer shrieks.

  18:00 – Riverside HEMA Studio

  Coach Valentina tossed me a federschwert.

  “Half?sword thrusts to the cervical spine. Imagine the target drools formaldehyde.”

  Sweat blurred my vision. Parry, bind, drive the thumb over the ricasso and spear forward. My wrists burned but Valentina barked, “Again!”

  Between sets she studied my face. “You counting down?”

  “Nope,” I said.

  “Then cut faster.”

  22:20 – Cottage Basement

  Inventory pass #19:

  Dry staples: 40,000?lb

  Freeze?dried: 2,400 servings

  Canned protein: 18 pallets

  Medical cases: 48

  Ammo: 50?K rounds

  Generators: 2 (test?run 15?min, oil clean)

  Gate cart: reinforced axle, 1200 ?lb rating, Electic assist motor.

  The new hammer hung on a peg above Dad’s drafting desk. I flipped open the leather ledger, rewrote the countdown:

  D?8: Group?VI site recon

  D?7: Crane pad soil test

  D?6: Shotcrete mock?up

  D?5: Solar pump install

  D?4: Final Muay Thai gauntlet

  D?3: Pack Gate load & vacuum?seal cash

  D?2: Sleep (mandatory)

  D?1: Wait, pray, sharpen

  I closed the book. Eight days on this side equaled eight nights of Anna sleeping with one eye open. The wall wouldn’t pour itself, but it also wouldn’t watch back her while I was gone. My knee bounced.

  I climbed to the kitchen, brewed instant coffee, and stared at the copper door—dark, inert. In eight dawns it would erupt in fractal fire, demanding its tithe. Each time, the stakes grew heavier: first pearls, then cash, now a diamond necklace expensive enough to buy a Brooklyn brownstone. What toll would it levy next?

  “Hold on,” I whispered into the stillness, my fingers tightening around the steaming mug. “I’m bringing actual weapons this time.”

  Outside, a winter wind rattled plywood over the parlor windows. I imagined Shaw’s operators there in two days, PVS optics scanning rooftops. I pictured Anna on the far side, counting arrows. The coffee tasted burnt but human.

  Eight days. Tick.

  Chapter 2 — Cash, Carbon, and Concrete (Day ?7)

  (Readers: the following sub?chapters chronicle each remaining day before Gate activation—permits, material deliveries, and training notes condensed for clarity.)

  Day??7 – Permit Tsunami

  07:30 — Department of Buildings e?Filing portal finally accepted AEC OMNI’s 118?page structural packet. Filing fee $5,150 plus $0.39?/?ft2 surcharge posted to Copper Horizon Holdings.

  09:10 — NYC DEP approved well retrofit & rubble?core seepage basin ($2,575).

  13:45 — LPC hearing: I presented 3?D render of “garden wall” with ivy pockets. Commissioner Zhao nodded once. Certificate of No Effect printed fifteen minutes later ($1,100).

  17:00 — DOT OCMC street?opening permit secured for four crane nights ($1,200 + $360 restoration bond).

  Soft?cost burn: $12,535. Worth every unsexy penny.

  Day??6 – Soil & Steel

  07:00 — Geotech rig cored four holes; load capacity met 450?psf spec.

  12:00 — Rebar cages delivered (Grade?60 #8), 13 tons.

  14:00 — Solar well pump kit arrived: Grundfos SQFlex 25?3, rated 15?gpm at my static head. Panel array 1.4?kW. I grinned—clean water on tap for Anna in days.

  Day??5 – Concrete Baptism

  Shotcrete crew sprayed a 10′×10′ test panel: 24″ slump, 4,800?psi in 48?hrs. The grey slab steamed in February air like fresh bread. I carved “AC” into the corner—Anna’s initials—before the surface cured.

  Night: HEMA sparring. Valentina bruised my forearm; I thanked her.

  Day??4 – Muscle & Money

  Final Muay Thai gauntlet: Marcos fed me forty knees to the belly pad. “Clock’s done,” he announced. “Now keep it beating.”

  I wired the second half to Group?VI. Shaw texted: OPORD finalized. Site live D?2.

  Day??3 – The Load

  I vacuum?sealed $400?K in hundreds—four bricks labeled TOLL. Then I packed the Gate cart:

  Level Item Weight Deck 2×Kohler diesel filters, 1×portable water heater, 6×coffee cans68?lbMidAntibiotic kits, 10?lb rice bags (10), Mylar bivvies (4)92?lbCrestSoap bars (60), feminine hygiene boxes (30), instant?coffee sticks (400)45?lb

  Total: 205?lb—within sled spec. Cart groaned but held.

  Day??2 – Quiet

  I forced eight hours of sleep, woke only to the hum of the solar array inverter running a test cycle. I dreamed of Anna’s smile when hot water finally poured from the cottage faucet.

  Day??1 – Stillness

  Shaw’s operators manned the perimeter—nods exchanged, no questions. A crane boom lurked above the lot like a steel exclamation mark. Concrete trucks queued for dawn.

  I sat by the copper door, hammer across my knees, listening for the first fractal chime. Seven hours. Six. Five…

  My knee bounced. But the plan—the money, the guns, the wall—was in motion. All that remained was to step through and deliver hope in person.

  Outside, the city howled with sirens. Inside, copper slept—waiting to wake in iridescent fire and demand its toll.

  “24 hours,” I whispered, palm on cool metal. “Hold on, Anna. I’m almost done.”