A silent sigh escapes my lips as his words linger in the air.

  "This is your chance to truly live for the present."

  I turn my gaze upward. I don’t know why. Maybe to escape the weight of his words, maybe to pretend I’m not really considering what he’s asking of me.

  But something is wrong.

  The sky—no, the smog—is disappearing. Not fading, not drifting, just vanishing. Like someone is peeling away the stained film that has covered this city for decades.

  And beyond it, the stars move.

  Not in their slow, indifferent crawl, but in deliberate, fluid motions. They stretch and coil, breaking apart and reforming like something alive. Like something aware.

  I grip the rooftop railing. “Do you see that?”

  The man across from me nods slowly. His expression tightens. “I was hoping it was just me.”

  I glance at him. The city lights paint his face in shifting neon hues, but it’s not enough to mask the tension in his jaw. He’s not as carefree as he pretends to be.

  “What's your name?” I ask. I don’t know why. Maybe because if the world really is ending, I don’t want to be a stranger in my last moments.

  He hesitates, then smirks, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ony.”

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  I nod. “Ziho.”

  The city below carries on—sirens wail, music blares, people fight, drink, kiss, mourn. A few of them are looking up.

  The sky shifts.

  A glimmer runs through it, subtle but undeniable, like ripples in a reflection. My stomach twists.

  And then the street below flickers.

  I blink, gripping the railing tighter. The streetlights blur—not in motion, but in existence. The road itself seems to stutter, like a film skipping frames.

  Ony stiffens. “Tell me you saw that.”

  I swallow. “I saw it.”

  Another flicker.

  This time, an entire block of buildings shudders and distorts—then resets, as if nothing happened. As if the world itself is trying to correct something.

  A gust of wind rushes past us, but it feels wrong. Not cold, not warm—just empty. Like the breath of something unseen. The scent of rain and exhaust fades, replaced by something harder to define. Something like... the absence of scent itself.

  A feeling settles in my gut, cold and absolute.

  This isn’t just a blackout. This isn’t just some trick of the mind.

  Something fundamental is coming undone.

  Ony lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Shit. This really is the end, isn’t it?”

  I don’t answer.

  Down below, more people are starting to notice. Some point at the sky, some shake their heads, refusing to see. A few still dance, still celebrate, as if they can drown out reality itself.

  Ony leans forward on the railing, staring out at the unraveling city. His voice is quieter now. “I always thought the apocalypse would be louder.”

  I exhale. “Maybe it’s just getting started.”

  He turns to me. His expression is unreadable. “You think there’s still time?”

  I want to say yes.

  I really do.

  Because if there’s still time, then maybe there’s still a choice.

  Still a choice to—