The world didn't end with a bang; it faded away with a whisper of wind—like the eerie howl of a tornado or the sharp rush of a missile slicing through a still sky. One moment, life was just as it always was, with people caught up in their daily routines. The next, everything shattered under a pressure so intense it felt like the sun was pressing down on our heads.
It all kicked off just a week ago when individuals with bizarre abilities—known as Deliveries—started popping up. At first, everyone dismissed them. The media labeled them as frauds, as crazies. But then came Friday. Everything shifted when a man descended from the swirling, dark clouds over Manhattan. He called himself Issac. He didn't even try to hide his power. He summoned missiles as if it were second nature, launching one over the Atlantic and another over the Pacific. The blasts were blinding. Tidal waves surged like towering walls, engulfing coastlines in mere minutes. Panic spread like wildfire. Sirens blared, evacuation orders echoed across every channel, but the underground shelters were already packed to the brim. The Deliveries had been ready. They anticipated the ground to tremble, for more missiles to fall. Nuclear devastation followed like a twisted encore, just moments after the floods. The world as we knew it didn't end with a whimper; it unraveled in a series of escalating disasters. And amidst the chaos, a new breed of human emerged—someone who could stand up to a Delivery. That's where my story truly began.
"Theresa, report to the bunker," a voice crackled from the dim hallway behind me. Master Cony stood there, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Looks like you're getting quite the attention from the boys lately, huh?" His tone was playful, but his eyes were restless.
I narrowed my gaze, trying to decipher his expression. "Master Cony, what's with that look? Did you uncover something?" My voice came out sharper than I intended. He didn't respond, just nodded toward the bunker door, his silence heavier than any words. I stopped trying to guess and slipped inside.
The bunker felt like a grave. The air was thick with the stench of stale urine and hopelessness, a suffocating reminder of too many people crammed into too small a space for far too long. After the floods and the bombs, it was the last refuge. Only Master Cony and I could come and go without losing our breath—our abilities allowed us to endure the toxic air, while the outside world had been twisted by flames and chemicals. It wasn't just perilous; it was unrecognizable. The forests stood as charred skeletons, cars melted into grotesque heaps, and streets had crumbled into gaping holes. Above us, the sky swirled with poison, green and orange gases seeping into every breath we took.
As I wandered through the bunker's cracked corridors, I could feel the walls tremble with each distant explosion. It seemed on the verge of collapse. Then, as I turned a corner, something caught my eye—a soft smile, ethereal and warm, breaking through the darkness. I froze. There, impossibly, stood Issac.
He was cloaked in black, his face mostly hidden in shadow, but his presence was unmistakable—a silent menace that sent chills down my spine. I tried to call for help, but he was too quick, his gloved finger pressing against my lips. I tensed, weighing my options. If I screamed, I'd be dead before the guards even had a chance to respond. So I stayed silent, my heart racing. After a few agonizing seconds, he lifted his finger, his eyes sparkling with a strange thrill.
He spoke softly, his voice smooth like silk. "You know, breaking through your defenses wasn't easy. I waited a long time for you to let your guard down. Tesil kept Cony busy—maybe you didn't realize, but if a Delivery wore a uniform, your barrier spells wouldn't recognize them. She orchestrated this. I dealt with the guards. Then it was just you left. I disguised myself as Cony—gold, not black. If you could see through it, I'd be a goner, but we both know our powers don't work here. So… you might as well give in. And marry me."
He blushed as he said it, which would've been amusing if it weren't so terrifying. I couldn't help but feel a mix of fear and disbelief. "Why are you blushing? Are you feeling okay? Or is there something off in your head, bro?" I couldn't help but smirk as I watched him wrestle with a mix of embarrassment and pride.
He let out a chuckle, the sound bouncing oddly off the bunker walls. "I've got a thing for women with a bit of fire. I know I'm a mess—I probably can't make you happy, but I'll give it my best shot. With all this power, I'll do whatever it takes."
For a brief moment, a strange scent hit me—a faint whiff of decay, like burnt hair and metal. My stomach churned. I glanced up, locking eyes with Issac.
"Is this some kind of joke? Because my heart's racing like I'm about to meet my end. I have a few questions, if you don't mind." I studied him closely. He nodded.
"Where's Cony? And what did you really do to the world? Why?"
The questions spilled out, raw and urgent.
Issac's expression softened. "Don't worry about Cony. He's safe. As for the world… I wish I could explain. I didn't intend for any of this. One moment I was lurking in the shadows, and the next, I woke up to find everything in ruins. It wasn't meant to go down like this." His voice dropped to a near whisper, almost pleading. For some reason, I found myself believing him.
As night descended, the bunker turned chilly. Issac guided me above ground, leading me toward a castle that sparkled gold under the moonlight. As we got closer, I realized it was made of plastic—cheap and flimsy, yet somehow standing tall like a monument to delusion. I hesitated at the entrance, nerves buzzing, but Issac urged me forward.
Inside, the lights flickered on, and thousands of voices erupted in cheers, echoing through the empty halls. I froze, bewildered. Didn't they know who I was? Weren't they scared? A little girl—no older than four—ran up to me, her eyes sparkling. She mouthed, "Mama's here," and my heart skipped a beat. Was this some kind of setup? A trick? I wouldn't fall for it.
Issac squeezed my hand, pulling me closer. Before I could process what was happening, he kissed me——soft, desperate, as if he could will my forgiveness with a touch. "I love you, bae," he whispered, almost shy.
I pulled away, shoving him back, and then dashed for the door. It wasn't out of embarrassment; it was like every fiber of my being was telling me to flee. I didn't notice Issac was right behind me until I saw his shadow loom over the steps.
The world had fallen apart. The few who remained were grasping at whatever hope and power they could find, caught in a web of love and betrayal. And as the wind howled through the desolation, I realized that nothing would ever be the same again.
Sweat dripped down my face, each drop a stark reminder of just how unprepared I was for this level of effort. I had never really been an athlete—not in high school, not at any point in my life. Exercise always seemed like something meant for other people. Now, with my lungs on fire and my muscles screaming, I finally sank down, letting the fatigue wash over me like a heavy blanket.
It still blew my mind that the plants sprouting from the toxin-laden soil weren't toxic at all. That single discovery had turned everything we thought we knew on its head. The world around me felt unrecognizable—broken, desolate, almost like something out of a sci-fi movie. There were no real places to hide anymore, just shadows pretending to offer safety.
But I had come up with a disguise—simple yet clever. Instead of hiding, I opted to mislead. I figured out a way to multiply my image, or at least create the illusion that several versions of me were moving across the landscape. It wasn't flawless, but it bought me some precious time.
Lying on the ground, I gazed up at the sky. It was overcast and dim, yet still held a quiet, unreachable promise. I found myself wondering when—if ever—things would return to how they used to be. And then it hit me: maybe, just maybe, with his help, we could bring the world back. But deep down, I knew that thought was teetering on the edge of fantasy.
"Why didn't you just ask?"
The voice caught me off guard. I turned quickly to see Isaac standing there, his stance relaxed but his eyes sharp.
"How long have you been there?" I asked.
He smiled, a wistful look playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Long enough to admire you," he replied. "Your eyes—they're like gems. The night sky doesn't hold a candle to the light you carry, both inside and out. You're kind, even when the world isn't. Me? I'm just a thug who never had a childhood. I was tossed to the streets and left to fend for myself among rats, selling whatever I could scrounge up. Maybe that's why I want this world to go back to how it was—because I never really got to live in it."
He looked away for a moment, then back at me with an intensity that made it hard to hold his gaze.
"Even if I manage to help fix things, I know I'll still be the one they point fingers at. That's okay. But isn't there something you've been wanting to ask me?"
His words struck a chord deep within me. I paused, feeling a wave of uncertainty wash over me. Could I really say what was on my mind? But I realized I had to—eventually. Whether it was considered off-limits or not didn't matter anymore. I just couldn't face this alone.
"Issac, something's… off," I said, my voice hollow, barely tethered to reality. My face had already betrayed me. Pale. Blank. Empty.
He looked at me—no, through me. "Define 'off,' mistress."
I hesitated. His gaze was too sharp. Like he was trying to extract something from behind my eyes.
"I need your help. If we're going to fix what's broken… I need the power of a Deli—"
Pain.
A spike drilled into my skull, slicing clean through thought. My sentence collapsed mid-word. Something was wrong—forbidden. My vision cracked like glass. And then—
Darkness.
When I came to, I was under the stars again. Everything was exactly where it had been… seconds ago. Or minutes? Or years?
Issac stood behind me.
"Long enough to admire you."
I blinked. No. That was wrong. He'd already said that. Hadn't he?
"What the hell is this?" I whispered.
He kept speaking. Same words. Same cadence. "Your eyes—they're like gems. The night sky doesn't hold a candle to the light you carry…"
He wasn't talking to me. He was reading lines.
"Issac," I said slowly, "do you really think a scripted monologue is going to mess with my head?"
No reaction. Just more dialogue, as if he couldn't hear me.
"…That's why I want the world back. I never really lived in it."
I stood up. This wasn't just déjà vu. It was a loop. A fracture. Something artificial.
Then his tone changed. "I don't want to live."
I froze.
He smiled—too wide, too still—and in his hand, a knife gleamed under starlight. Where had it come from?
"Issac…?"
No answer.
He slit his own throat.
A horrible wet noise. A spray of red. His body spasmed, knees giving out, hands clutching at his neck like he could rewind it all. He couldn't.
He fell.
And then the silence.
I dropped beside him. Breath gone. Mind blank.
Issac wasn't suicidal. Not even close. This wasn't desperation—it was choreography.
I couldn't breathe.
There was something in my throat. Heavy. Crawling. I retched, hands gripping the dirt. No air. No voice. My vision tunneled—
And then—
Darkness, again.
Even in unconsciousness, I saw myself. My body on the ground, mouth agape. Blood. So much blood.
A writhing shape forced its way out of my throat. A bug.
Then the world folded.
"Theresa, report to the bunker," a voice said. Calm. Familiar.
My body obeyed before I even registered the words.
I knew this script. I'd followed it dozens of times. Maybe hundreds.
"Looks like you're getting attention from the boys lately, huh?" Cony said.
I feigned surprise. That was the role.
"Master Cony, what's with that look? Did you uncover something?"
He gestured toward the bunker.
Inside, it was all repetition: the walls, the air, the scent of recycled tension.
I blinked, and Issac was there. At least, that's what my brain tried to tell me. But the way he stood, the way his eyes glinted with a color I didn't recognize—it was all wrong. Like someone else was wearing him, like a costume stretched tight across a mannequin.
"Sorry for the intrusion," he said, voice smooth and slightly off-key. "I arrived ahead of schedule."
Something in my gut twisted. I'd seen soldiers before—this wasn't one. This wasn't even human. I didn't know how I knew, but I did, the way you know you're dreaming while you're falling off a cliff.
"Who are you?" My voice came out thin, wires pulled too tight. "What do you want?"
He didn't answer. Just handed me a sheet of paper. My hands shook as I took it. The paper was covered in writing—scenes from my life. Private moments, snapshots of memory, even the things I'd never said aloud. Words I thought only existed in the silent corners of my mind.
"How—?"
He smiled, an unsettling thing that made my skin crawl. "I'm a god, Theresa."
I laughed, and it sounded like something breaking. "You're just a lunatic with a printer."
The not-Issac didn't flinch. "You're trapped. You just haven't noticed yet."
He didn't move, but a piece of the bunker wall bent inward, crumpling like paper. I looked down at the paper in my hands and saw that the wall was already gone, erased before my eyes.
"What do you want with me?" I asked, voice barely more than a whisper.
He grinned wider, teeth sharp as broken glass. "I picked your world because it amuses me. That's all."
Something inside me snapped. I lunged, grabbing his collar, expecting the resistance of muscle and bone. But he was weightless, hollow. Like grabbing a coat on a hanger.
"You should be afraid," I hissed.
"If I die, everything ends," he said, almost gently. "But don't worry. I always come back."
I let go. He vanished—no sound, no light, just gone.
Issac's face flickered back, like a lightbulb sputtering to life. He was sweating, smirking, eyes wild with a fear he tried to hide. "Breaking through your walls got me warm and bothered, Theresa. Like a Friday night."
It wasn't a line from the script. I knew because I'd read it a thousand times. This was something new, unexpected.
"Don't flirt. I'll end you," I muttered, but the old rhythm was gone. I was improvising now.
A blade flashed—a metallic glint, sharp and hungry. Reflexes took over; I blocked without thinking, my own weapon ringing in my hand. When I spun around, Issac was in the corner, eyes wide, confusion written on his face.
"What the hell? You just attacked me!"
"I've been here the whole time," he said, voice shaking.
I looked down at the paper—the script. Right there: two blades locked in mid-air. Mine, and another, floating, with no hand to wield it.
"Issac," I said carefully, "do you know anything about a god of creation?"
He shook his head, stepping closer. Eyes scanning my face for a lie.
"Did you die, Theresa?" he asked, voice low and trembling.
The question was too sharp, too specific.
"…Why do you ask?"
"I can see souls," Issac said, anger sparking. "Yours is decaying. And it's still stuck inside you."
He looked furious, a storm ready to break.
"If you're working with that thing—"
"I'm not!" I snapped. "I don't even know what's real anymore!"
He snatched the script from my hands, scanning the words. His jaw dropped.
"What the actual fuck is this?"
I shook my head. "I have no idea."
He stared at me, at the script, at nothing at all. Then, almost as if he was asking the weather, he said, "How'd that kiss taste?"
The question hit like a slap. I recoiled, caught between anger and nausea. I couldn't answer. Issac didn't push. He just walked away, leaving me alone with the script and the impossible.