The worst part about waking up wasn't the alarm. It was the sheer audacity of it. That smug, digital chime jolting me out of sleep. I groaned, slapping at my phone blindly until the noise stopped.
I rolled onto my side, rubbing my face as the faint hum of the city drifted through the thin walls. Outside, car horns blared, sirens wailed in the distance, and somewhere below, a guy was already screaming at a parked car. Classic urban ambiance.
With a sigh, I forced myself up, stretching just enough to feel like I wasn't completely failing at being a responsible adult. My feet found the cold hardwood floor, and I shuffled to the kitchen, running a hand through my messy hair as I set up my coffee maker. While the machine grumbled to life, I grabbed my phone and pulled up the new chapter of the webtoon I'd been following.
"Alright, let's see who gets betrayed this week," I muttered, swiping through the pages as the scent of coffee filled the air.
The apartment was small. Painfully small. The kind of small that made you question how much space a human actually needed before they started losing their mind. And yet, it was expensive as hell.
I made decent money, more than the average person even—enough that, in most places, I could probably afford a full-sized apartment, maybe even a house. But this was D.C. If I didn't want a two-hour commute to work, this was my best option unless I wanted to live off ramen noodles and tap water for the rest of my life. Even then, between rent, taxes, and the general cost of existing, my paycheck never seemed to stretch far enough. The walls were thin, the plumbing was questionable, and the heating barely worked in winter. But hey, it was mine, and for now, that was enough.
Fifteen minutes later, armed with caffeine and marginally less groggy, I grabbed my bag and headed out. The commute wasn't bad—just bad enough to make me reconsider all of my life choices. I slid into my car, turned up the radio, and queued up my audiobook. Today's selection: my favorite wizard-for-hire navigating yet another supernatural catastrophe in Chicago.
Traffic crawled, inching forward at a pace that made snails look ambitious. I half-listened to the book playing through my speakers while my eyes flicked between the endless sea of brake lights and the stressed-out drivers around me. A man in a rusted sedan was gripping his steering wheel like it owed him money, while a woman in an SUV was already screaming at someone before the light even turned green. I took a sip of my coffee and muttered, "It's too early for that level of rage, lady."
A truck swerved into my lane without a signal, forcing me to slam on my brakes. "Awesome. Love that for me," I grumbled, flipping my blinker on and merging into another lane. It was the same thing every morning—bad drivers, endless traffic, and the looming question of whether I'd actually make it to work on time.
By the time I rolled into the office parking lot, I had roughly five minutes to look like a functioning member of society. Straightening my collar—or at least the rumpled thing pretending to be a collar—I turned off my phone, grabbed my bag and headed inside.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as I walked past the cubicles, nodding at the usual faces. The same water cooler conversations, the same half-hearted greetings, the same inevitable pile of reports waiting on my desk. Routine. Monotonous. Safe.
I sat down, took a deep breath, and powered on my computer. Another day in the Department of Defense. Another day of screens, data, and an endless chain of officers and contractors like myself shuffling information back and forth—bureaucracy at its most efficient.
My desk was less 'organized chaos' and more 'chaotic despair.' Four monitors blinking notifications like tiny judgmental eyes reminding me I'd never escape inbox hell. Reports trickled in at a steady pace, each one needing review, approval, or forwarding to someone with a fancier title than mine. Half of my job boiled down to playing middleman, ensuring that intelligence, supply chains, and operational details got to the right places without any hiccups.
Then there were the drone feeds—silent, unblinking eyes in the sky that needed babysitting. I clicked through them, scanning the grainy footage of desert landscapes, dense jungles, and the occasional city block, keeping tabs on whatever high-priority targets had made the list this week. A cursor blinked in the corner of one screen, waiting for confirmation on a report that would, in all likelihood, result in someone being permanently removed from the equation. EKIA or, enemy killed in action; was the proper term people used in hushed conversations, but in the end, it all boiled down to pressing a button and sending a command that someone, somewhere, wouldn't be waking up tomorrow. There are movies that dramatize it, but its really not that exciting.
I was mid-conversation with Jenkins from the next cubicle over when my routine took a sharp turn.
"You catch the game last night?" he asked, leaning back in his chair, coffee in hand.
"Nah, missed it," I replied, clicking through my morning reports. "Figured I'd catch the highlights later. Anything worth watching?"
Jenkins scoffed. "Only if you enjoy emotional suffering disguised as sports."
I nodded absentmindedly, already tuning him out as I shifted my focus back to my screen. One of the aircraft I was responsible for was running late on target, and it was only a matter of time before someone higher up started asking uncomfortable questions. Delays like this had a way of snowballing—one missed timing could lead to an entire operation getting bogged down in bureaucratic scrutiny. If I didn't have a clear answer ready, I'd be stuck explaining logistics to people who barely understood how their own systems worked
I pulled up the program I used to monitor flight paths and track transit times for our aircraft, just another box to check before moving on to the next report. One of our planes was already behind schedule, and I needed to verify when it would be on target.
At first, it was just a single blip that caught my eye—a tiny dot and a thin line marking the trajectory of a missile aimed at one of our overseas locations. Nothing unusual. People would be surprised by how often that happened. It would be shot down or land in the ocean somewhere, it was unlikely an alarm would even go off at the base it was targeting...
Then there were two.
Four.
Ten.
Before I could process what I was seeing, the screen became a chaotic mess of crisscrossing lines, multiplying faster than I could track. Not just heading for ours or our allies' installations overseas—everywhere. The program started to lag under the sheer volume of projected impacts, the system struggling to keep up. My pulse kicked up a notch.
I stood up and scanned the office over my cubicle wall. Sarah was in the corner, laughing into the office phone, completely engrossed in whatever conversation she was having. Bob, as expected, was on the opposite side of the room, passionately rehashing his never-ending debate about pineapple on pizza. A few others remained locked into their own routines, chatting about weekend plans.
I sat back down in my chair. No one had seen it yet. No one realized what was happening.
My train of thought shattered when Jenkins called my name again, louder this time, snapping me back to reality. "Hey, you good? I asked if you think we'll ever have a decent season again, or are we doomed forever?" I blinked at him, the weight of what I had just seen making his question feel absurdly distant
"Heh, yeah... doomed." I forced a chuckle, barely registering my own words as I turned my attention back to the monitor. Doomed was right. The speed at which those line-attached dots were moving was anything but reassuring. The sheer number of them cluttered the screen, their trajectories crisscrossing in a chaotic web of destruction.
It was overwhelming. I could hardly see the map beneath the sea of projected flight paths. And yet, was it really surprising? The world had been a powder keg for years, maybe even decades, waiting for the right spark. Economic collapse, constant political tensions, rising military activity. Someone, somewhere, had finally pushed the wrong button, nudged their adversaries just a little too far. Now, the inevitable had arrived.
The big red button had finally been pressed. And there was no coming back from this.
Should I tell them? Would it even matter? Jenkins wouldn't have to worry about next season, and Bob's pizza debates were officially settled.
Should I call my parents? The thought hit like a punch to the gut. What would I even say? "Hey Mom, quick heads-up—civilization's cancelled. Maybe postpone bingo night." Nah. They'd find out soon enough, just like everyone else.
At last, after what felt like an eternity, the atmosphere in the office shifted. The hum of casual conversations faltered, replaced by hushed murmurs and the occasional frantic whisper. Someone else had finally noticed. The word was out.
Fifteen minutes ago, when I first saw it, it had already been too late. But now? Now, reality was catching up, and panic was beginning to set in.
I leaned back in my chair, exhaling slowly as the office around me shifted from ignorance to the first tendrils of fear. There was nothing to do now but wait. No protocols to follow, no safety measures that would make a difference. I was left with nothing but my own thoughts.
Had I lived a good life? I wasn't perfect, but I had tried. I helped when I could, looked out for my friends, and never went out of my way to make someone else's life harder. But was that enough? What did it even mean to be 'good' when none of it mattered in the end?
I wasn't religious. Never saw the point. There was no grand reward waiting for me, no pearly gates to stroll through. Hell, I wasn't even sure if there was an afterlife at all. Maybe I'd just stop existing—lights out, game over. Or maybe I'd get dropped into a fiery pit to atone for every tax I forgot to file on time. Then again, maybe the Hindus had it right, and I was in for another round.
Not that reincarnating on Earth sounded much better. If I came back, it'd probably be in a wasteland, scrounging for canned beans in the ruins of a Walmart. If only I'd been hit by a truck instead—then at least I might have had a shot at an isekai scenario. A fantasy world with swords and magic sounded a hell of a lot better than nuclear Armageddon.
"Oh. That reminds me—the new episode is supposed to come out tomorrow." "Hey, Jenkins, are you caught up on—"
Oh. He's not at his desk.
And also, the world was ending.
Naturally, this would happen on a Friday.
Then, there was a flash of light.