The moment I was pushed off the rooftop by my best friend and boyfriend to feed the zombies, I bound to the universe-level storage space.
Three months before I was reborn in the apocalypse, I sneered and cleared out all my inheritance and hoarded tens of billions of supplies.
When the iceberg soldier king next door broke open my door and asked, "What's in your belly?" I showed the mountains of hairy tripes in the space: "Do you want the ingredients for the hot pot together?"
Later, I became the chief material officer of the National Special Intelligence Service, and the person who harmed me in my previous life was crying outside the door and begging me to give him expired bread.
