The world didn't conclude in flames. It ended during breakfast and rush hour, on a clear, mundane Tuesday.
People made their way to work. Others remained tucked under covers, scrolling through screens, or complaining about the weather. School buses carried children to their destinations. Morning show anchors beamed at viewers, joking about celebrity splits and flu epidemics.
Then someone dropped—on the live broadcast.
A hesitation. Bewilderment. The transmission interrupted. It resumed with a different viewpoint, an unfamiliar presenter, a regretful acknowledgment. Then interference.
In a distant metropolis, a journalist fell quiet mid-report. A government official collapsed during a broadcasted address. The images circulated more rapidly than explanations emerged.
Within moments, the clamor started.
Sirens. Panic. Footage displaying people dropping in malls, convulsing in traffic jams, disappearing behind locked doorways. Some tried fleeing the city. Others sealed themselves within.
The atmosphere grew thick with dread—then motionless.
Authorities didn't respond. They stalled.
And subsequently... disappeared.
Online platforms were flooded with final communications. Crisis lines rang unanswered. Aircraft ascended, plummeted, vanished.
For several hours, humanity cried out.
And then, silence—not the kind you notice, but the kind you feel.
No one comprehended its nature. An infection? An assault? A transmission? No discernible pattern, adversary, or motive existed. Just individuals—countless individuals—ceased responding. Absent.
And beneath the hush, somewhere underneath everyday existence, something had already completed its objective.
But certain people anticipated this.
Beneath an ordinary residence in a wealthy neighborhood—far from the crumbling city hubs—lay a doorway that nobody noticed. Beneath it, there was only steel and quiet. A shelter constructed not merely for survival, but for vigilance.
It was here that Jason Wright regained consciousness.
The ceiling panels glowed with artificial daylight, programmed to mimic the sunrise he could no longer see. His quarters were compact, the surfaces excessively polished, excessively colorless. He couldn't determine the hour. Down here, time vanished—only obligation remained.
He rose gradually, massaging his visage. His throat felt parched.
Another morning. Another responsibility. Another silence.
Forty days. Forty days since the world went silent above them.
He swung his legs over the edge of the narrow bed, toes meeting the cool composite flooring.
The bathroom connected to sleeping quarters through a short, functional corridor. Jason could see the soft gleam of chrome fixtures reflecting the artificial daylight as he approached. Like everything in the bunker, it was designed for efficiency rather than comfort—clean lines, durable materials and nothing wasted. He'd grown accustomed to the sterile functionality of it all, though sometimes, uninvited, his mind drifted to their old home's bathroom. The soft blue rug. A window with real sunlight. That room had seemed alive. This one just… existed.
Jason moved through his routine with mechanical precision—teeth, face, hair. The motions were so ingrained he could perform them without thought, which was exactly what he preferred. The mirror hung above the sink, but he kept his eyes lowered, focusing on the drain, the faucet, anything but his own reflection.
Clean clothes waited in the drawer, identical to yesterday's. Black t-shirt. Gray pants. He dressed quickly, movements economical.
At exactly seven, he proceeded along the hallway. The facility's design was intentionally sparse—embedded lights traced the corridors, strengthened entryways positioned at even spaces and ventilation systems buzzed continuously. All components are fresh, immaculate, sheltered from the disorder that had devoured the surface world.
The dining area was the largest communal space, centered around a rectangular table that could seat ten. Four places were set, as they had been every morning since the collapse.
His mother, Elaine, was already there, methodically arranging utensils that didn't need arranging. Her movements were small and controlled, her posture rigid. She looked up as he entered, offering a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Good morning, Jason."
"Morning, Mom."
Lily entered next, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She slumped into her chair across from Jason, shoulders curled forward. The twins exchanged a glance—a private language developed over eighteen years.
Richard arrived last, tablet in hand. He took his place at the head of the table without looking up, scrolling through data that had become his obsession.
"Still not enough" he muttered, eyes on the screen. "Might need to tweak the sequence again."
Marissa set down a dish containing rehydrated eggs in the table's middle. "I used the good coffee beans today" she announced with forced cheerfulness. "Figured we deserved it."
"How considerate, dear," Elaine remarked, extending her hand toward the coffee pot.
They passed dishes in silence. Forks scraped against plates. Someone cleared their throat. The ventilation system hummed.
"I think I found another book in the storage yesterday," Lily said, pushing her eggs around her plate. "Some old sci-fi novel. Might be worth reading."
Jason nodded but kept eating. The food tasted like... something between chalk and cardboard."Even the fucking food has no taste since we've been stuck here" he thought."Forty days and not a single damn flavor."
"That's nice, dear," Elaine said. She dabbed her mouth with a napkin, then refolded it precisely. "Perhaps we could all take turns with it. Like a little book club."
Marissa smiled too brightly. "I'd like that. Been a while since I read anything that wasn't a manual."
Jason sensed the burden of their efforts at ordinariness. The cautious sidestepping of everything that existed beyond their ceiling. Everything taken from them. Everything potentially gone forever.
"I patched up that drip in the water purification system," he mentioned, doing his part in the pretense.
"Great," Marissa responded with a nod, her expression brightening slightly. "That's helpful. We can't afford to waste a drop these days."
Richard's fingers moved across his tablet screen, eyes never lifting. His fork occasionally found his mouth without him seeming to notice the action.
"Richard?" Elaine's voice carried a hint of tension. "More coffee?"
"Hmm? No." He tapped something on the screen. "Need to check the auxiliary systems today. Power fluctuations overnight."
The conversation withered. They finished eating in the same silence they'd begun with. Marissa collected plates. Elaine wiped down the already clean table. Lily disappeared with a mumbled excuse. Richard left without a word, his chair slightly askew.
Jason remained seated, watching the empty spaces where his family had been. The overhead light flickered once—a brief interruption in the constant artificial day—before steadying again. He stared at it long after the flicker had passed.