A woman with a clipboard emerged from the shadows of the aisles. "You Bernie’s guy?"

Inside, the warehouse was a cathedral of silver. No flashy graphics. No pictures of happy hikers. Just thousands of #10 cans stacked twenty feet high, labeled in plain, black stencil: PEAS. EGGS. CHICKEN. 25 YEAR SHELF LIFE.

Elias felt a rush of adrenaline. At the big-box stores, six dollars bought you two measly ounces. Here, it bought you a week of life.

She pointed to a corner where several crates sat under a layer of dust. "Mislabeled batch. The printer glitched. They’re all marked 'Mystery Protein.' It’s either turkey or pork, we aren't sure which. Half price. Six dollars a gallon."

He spent every cent of his savings that afternoon. He loaded the car until the rear bumper nearly scraped the pavement. He drove home with a grin, envisioning his basement transformed into a fortress.

Elias jumped. A man in a faded green vest stood by a pallet of bottled water. He looked like he was made of beef jerky and old newspapers—leathery, thin, and surprisingly sharp-eyed.

"I'm just looking for the best price," Elias muttered, embarrassed.

The man, whose name tag read 'Bernie,' leaned in. "You won't find it here. Here, you're paying for the shiny foil and the mountain sunset on the label. You want the deep-cellar prices? You go to the back of the Valley Industrial Park. Look for a warehouse with a faded blue door. No sign. Just a number: 402." Elias hesitated. "Is it... legal?"