Chapter 1: The Day the World Ended
Ethan died believing he had been wrong about everything.
The sky above the ruined city was no longer blue. It was a cracked, bleeding red, torn open by invisible wounds that never closed. Ash drifted down like dirty snow, settling on collapsed buildings and broken corpses alike. Somewhere in the distance, something roared—low, distorted, and inhuman—its voice shaking the bones of the earth.
Ethan barely heard it.
His strength was already gone.
He knelt on the shattered asphalt, one hand pressed against his back. Warmth leaked between his fingers, spreading fast. His breath came out ragged, every inhale burning like shattered glass in his chest.
Behind him, footsteps hesitated.
He didn't need to turn around.
He already knew.
"Ethan…" The voice trembled. Soft. Familiar.
Lena.
He smiled weakly. Even now, he wanted to believe. Wanted to think she was scared, that she was calling his name because she cared, because she needed him.
He had protected her for months. Fought monsters for her. Gave her food when he was starving. Stood in front of her when death came knocking again and again.
"Don't be afraid," he rasped. "Run when I tell you to."
There was a pause.
Too long.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Pain exploded through his body.
The dagger slid deeper, cold and precise, piercing flesh already torn by battle. Ethan's body jerked forward, his hand slamming against the ground as blood poured freely now. His vision blurred, the world tilting sideways.
He heard her breathing behind him—fast, uneven.
"I can't survive like this anymore," Lena said. Her voice steadied as she spoke, as if each word gave her strength. "They said they'd protect me. I just… I just need to let you go."
Ethan's fingers curled slowly.
So that was it.
Not rage. Not hatred.
Just convenience.
He laughed—quietly, weakly. It hurt, but he couldn't stop. The sound surprised even her.
"You chose well," he said hoarsely. "I was… always the wrong choice."
She didn't reply.
Footsteps retreated. Fast. Desperate.
Ethan collapsed fully onto the ground, his cheek pressed against cracked stone slick with blood. The roar from earlier came closer now. Heavy. Hungry.
He didn't try to move.
His strength was gone. His world already finished.
As darkness crept into the edges of his vision, one thought burned clearer than anything else.
If I could go back…
I would never be this weak again.
The monster's shadow fell over him.
Then everything went black.
—
Ethan woke up choking on air.
He bolted upright, his body drenched in sweat, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. His lungs burned as if he had just surfaced from deep water. For a moment, the smell of blood and ash still clung to his senses.
Then it faded.
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
Sunlight streamed through thin curtains, painting warm lines across familiar walls. A cheap desk sat against the corner. A half-empty water bottle rested beside his bed. The steady hum of a fan filled the air.
Ethan stared at his hands.
They weren't shaking from exhaustion. They weren't scarred or calloused from months of killing.
They were whole.
"No…" he whispered.
He scrambled for his phone, nearly knocking it off the bed as he unlocked the screen.
June 12th.
The year hit him harder than the date.
Six months.
The apocalypse hadn't started yet.
His breath caught, and for a long moment, Ethan could only sit there, staring at the glowing screen as his mind struggled to catch up with reality. Memories flooded in—cities falling, monsters hunting in packs, people turning on each other without hesitation.
And Lena's face.
Calm. Determined.
Cold.
A sharp pain flared in his head, forcing a low grunt from his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, teeth clenched, as something unfamiliar stirred deep within him—not pain exactly, but pressure, like something waking up after a long sleep.
A presence.
Not a voice. Not yet.
Just awareness.
Ethan slowly opened his eyes.
The room looked the same, but he didn't feel the same.
His heartbeat steadied. His breathing calmed. The fear that should have overwhelmed him simply… wasn't there.
In its place was something colder.
Clearer.
"So it's real," he murmured.
Outside his window, the world carried on as if nothing was wrong. Cars passed. People talked. Life moved forward, blind to what was coming.
Ethan stood up and walked to the glass, resting his palm against it.
Six months.
Six months to prepare.
Six months to change everything.
This time, he wouldn't be a shield for someone else's survival.
This time, he would survive—for himself.
And when the world finally ended again—
Ethan's reflection stared back at him, eyes dark and steady.
He would be standing at the top of it.