The melody hums, steady and unbroken, as if the device itself were listening.

  A pause lingers between them, the kind that only exists when words must be weighed before being spoken.

  The one holding the device speaks first.

  "Do you think it was cruel?"

  His companion does not answer immediately. The question is not one of morality, but of necessity.

  "To warn them?" the friend finally responds.

  A slow nod.

  "Would it have been better to let them live without knowing?"

  For a moment, there is only the distant wail of sirens, the ever-present sound of a city running out of time.

  His friend finally speaks. "This way, they were given a choice. A choice to—" the other finishes: "To look at the abyss and decide how to meet it."

  The one holding the device nods slightly, his grip tightening around the sphere. "I know. Without firing the prototype, Hart would have never believed the world was doomed." His voice is calm, almost thoughtful. "The anomaly was real enough—he was right about that. The world was breaking. But only in theory."

  His friend tilts his head. "And we made sure he saw it as inevitable."

  "We made sure he panicked."

  Hart had been desperate. The anomaly—the impossible rift that had twisted the sky just days ago—had shattered his certainty. He had spent his final hours designing a device to mend the breach, believing the universe itself was unraveling. But it wasn’t—not truly. The damage had been contained, a wound, not a death sentence.

  Except Hart hadn’t known that.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  And they hadn’t corrected him.

  "He thought he was saving the world," the device holder continues. "But combined with the prototype, his solution became the end itself. He built the missing half of what we needed."

  His friend breathes out a quiet laugh, low and almost fond. "And in doing so, he ensured its end."

  A soundless rupture splits the earth. Not a tremor, not a quake—just a severance.

  It carves through the city in a jagged line, stretching from the base of the corporate tower, winding through empty streets, reaching toward two distant rooftops. When it arrives, it does not shake or tear. It simply unravels. The street below vanishes, leaving a hollow void between them.

  Ziho steps back. Ony stays still.

  The abyss does not pull, does not roar. It is not a presence, but an absence, a missing piece of the world. The city’s glow flickers against its edges, but the darkness swallows all reflection.

  For a moment, nothing moves. The sirens have faded. The wind does not stir.

  Then Ony speaks.

  "Ziho."

  Ziho blinks, the name settling over him like something distant, something almost forgotten. He slowly pulls his gaze from the abyss—then stops.

  A flash ignites the sky. The top half of the corporate tower shatters in a burst of fire and metal, its glass skin peeling away like embers caught in the wind. Smoke billows upward, but before it can spread, the air itself distorts, swallowing the debris into the nothingness creeping at the edges of the world.

  Beyond the ruined skyline, streaks of red and blue weave through the streets—cop cars, armored SWAT trucks, a desperate convoy racing toward the tower. Ziho follows their path, watching as more and more of them flood the roads, all heading in the same direction.

  “They’re trying to save their own,” he mutters. The precious executives. The untouchable elite. For a second, the thought lingers—maybe they know something the rest of the world doesn’t. Maybe there’s an escape. A hidden bunker. A way out.

  Then, above them, the sky burns.

  A meteor, massive and soundless, descends in slow motion, its surface wreathed in flames that do not flicker, only consume. It doesn’t belong here. It doesn’t belong anywhere. Ziho exhales sharply, his grip tightening on the railing.

  "Well," he says, his voice dry, almost detached. "This is looking mighty painful and scary, Ony. I think our best shot is to die quickly by jumping off after all."

  Ony doesn’t answer right away. His eyes trace the sky, the tower, the creeping void below. Then, finally, he shakes his head.

  “We never know what will happen for certain.” His voice is steady, not arguing, just stating a fact.

  A pause stretches between them, longer than before.

  Then Ony speaks again, softer.

  “…And I think it’s beautiful.”

  Ziho looks at him. Ony’s face is calm—not peaceful, not resigned, but something else entirely. Something unreadable.

  “I get it if you jump,” Ony says, still watching the unraveling world. “But I’m staying. I want to see it all.”