Noon.
The sunlight rippled as if the sky itself were trembling.
The clear blue above shivered, like a glass sheet struck by an unseen hand.
For a fraction of a second, the entire city seemed to switch off—then back on again.
And then, a scream split the world.
It wasn't sound. It was a wave.
A blade that bypassed eardrums, skin, and bone, and slashed straight through the nerves.
"Arghhhhhh!"
People collapsed everywhere—
in crosswalks, in classrooms, in salons, in crowded buses, even in hospitals.
Cars froze in the middle of intersections, their horns sputtering and falling silent.
Elevator doors opened to reveal a heap of bodies inside.
Only animals moved freely—birds wheeled above, stray dogs sniffed the fallen and wandered on.
Only humanity was broken.
I staggered, clutching my head, tasting blood in my mouth.
The world dimmed, then went quiet, as though everything had been sucked into a single void.
When I regained focus, almost no one around me was moving.
With trembling fingers, I pulled out my phone.
I called my younger brother.
No answer. The line didn't connect.
Instead, my eyes locked on the last message he'd sent the night before:
— Bro, come home tonight. It's Mom's birthday.
Then my phone buzzed.
A hospital number.
"Are you the guardian?"
"Yes! Yes, what about my brother? Is he there?"
"…You should come quickly."
My chest collapsed inward.
I didn't need more words to understand.
I ran.
Across the bridge, through frozen traffic, past toppled bikes and overturned strollers.
The hospital lobby was chaos.
People clung to doctors, screaming, begging. Others sat like husks, eyes empty.
At the reception desk, I gave my brother's name.
The nurse checked the monitor, then looked up with weary, bloodshot eyes.
"…Please go down to the morgue."
The basement air was damp and cold.
The hallway echoed with sobbing, curses, whispered prayers.
When my name was called, a cart rolled forward.
A body under a white sheet.
My hands moved before I realized.
I pulled the sheet back.
Pale skin.
A face that looked as if it were only sleeping.
His message replayed in my mind.
— Bro, come home tonight. It's Mom's birthday.
My shoulders trembled.
But I forced a smile.
A brittle, broken smile.
"Hey… what are you doing here? You'll catch a cold sleeping like this."
"I'm here now. Let's go home. Mom's waiting—it's her birthday, remember?"
I spoke as if nothing were wrong, my voice too bright, too casual.
As though pretending hard enough could undo this.
But when my hand brushed his cold cheek, the smile shattered.
"…Why aren't you answering? Get up."
"Please. Please get up!"
The cry tore from me, raw and violent.
Nurses rushed to hold me back.
I fought them, grabbing for the sheet again.
"Get up! Let's go home, please!"
My knees buckled.
The floor rushed up, cold and merciless beneath my hands.
The last trace of my forced calm crumbled.
All that remained was raw, unrestrained grief.
When I staggered outside, the city was eerily silent.
Apartment windows darkened one by one.
Then a voice fell from the sky.
"Survivors, congratulations. You have passed."
"Now the test begins."
Each word drove into my bones like a nail.
To survive felt less like salvation, more like punishment.
I raised my head.
The sky split open, a thin black seam glowing faintly.
Symbols—equations I couldn't comprehend—flared across the rift, then faded.
I understood.
This wasn't revelation.
It was the second judgment, foretold.