Hangzhou, 2022
The morning in Hangzhou carried its usual trace of humidity; a light mist drifted over the narrow streets, while a fine drizzle clung to the windowpanes, leaving behind pale streaks.
From afar came the sound of wheels grinding against the road—tired buses dragging themselves along their daily routes, street vendors shouting their usual offers, and the smell of breakfast foods drifting from stalls scattered across the alleys.
In a small apartment on the edge of the city, Liu Shao stood in the middle of accumulated chaos: books scattered across his desk, half-solved exam sheets, leftover coffee cups from sleepless nights, and a coat carelessly hanging off the back of a chair.
The room seemed to mirror his state—half awake, half confused, stuck somewhere between wanting to escape responsibility and trying to keep up with life.
Still, he hurried to dress; he threw on a faded gray shirt without bothering to iron it, then grabbed his heavy coat.
As he struggled into it, his voice rose above the laughter of his friends gathered at the door.
"Come on, guys—we'll be late as always!" he said, tying his shoes and checking the time: nine a.m.
His friend Chen Yue laughed, tousling his messy hair.
"You're the one who's always late, so don't try to twist the facts."
They exchanged looks filled with teasing familiarity—little moments like these gave them a sense of comfort in a world moving faster than they could keep up with.
But the simple moment broke when Liu Shao glanced at his phone and saw the battery nearly dead.
He cursed under his breath.
"Damn it… almost out of charge. Just a minute."
He quickly plugged the phone into the socket—and that's when his eyes caught something he'd never seen before.
A strange app icon sat in the corner of the screen, a dark violet color, oddly mesmerizing. Its name: END.exe.
He frowned, muttering,
"What the hell is this? A virus? Or one of your stupid pranks?"
But his friends didn't even look; they were too busy arguing about who would pay for coffee today.
Liu Shao hesitated. His mind told him to delete it immediately—but his heart—or rather, his curiosity—was stronger.
For him, curiosity had always been more like a curse; he couldn't leave something mysterious alone without touching it. So, with one small tap, he opened the program.
A blank white page appeared, containing only one sentence:
"How do you see the end of this world?"
Beneath it, a text box waited for his answer.
He sighed, exasperated.
"Is this one of those old scam tricks?"
Still, in a tone of playful mockery, he typed:
"Everything ends with the sudden explosion of the sun. No pain, just an eternal sleep."
He hit Send, then ignored it.
Minutes later, while he was laughing with his friends, the phone lit up again in the empty room. On the black screen appeared a thin green bar:
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But Liu Shao didn't see it. He was already sitting by the café window, chatting with Chen Yue about their upcoming exams.
The café they went to wasn't far, resting at a quiet crossroads, surrounded by tall trees that cast rippling shadows across the sidewalks.
The building was old-fashioned, with dark wooden walls worn by time. Inside, the scent of strong roasted coffee mingled with the hush of soft classical music—drawing in passersby even before they noticed the swinging wooden door.
Liu Shao flipped through a notebook crammed with notes and diagrams.
"This madness will never end… I swear this virology course will kill me before any real infection does. That bastard professor thinks we're global lab researchers, not just university students!"
Chen Yue laughed, propping his head lazily on one hand.
"At least you memorize half of what he says. Me? Whenever he starts explaining protein structures or virus replication mechanisms, it's like I'm reading an alien language."
Liu Shao exhaled sharply, flipping a page filled with Latin terms.
"Sometimes I feel like these names will crawl out of the paper and chase me. Remember last exam, when they asked about the replication stages of the influenza virus?"
Chen Yue raised his brows in mock disgust.
"Don't remind me! I spent days dreaming of microscopic creatures running after me carrying biology textbooks."
In truth, Chen Yue wasn't really stupid—quite the opposite. He had a sharp mind, but hid it behind chronic laziness. He couldn't stand sitting for hours memorizing hundreds of pages of details. But when something actually sparked his interest, his curiosity burned bright.
He could, for example, come up with an odd but brilliant idea for combating a disease, or link a scientific article he'd skimmed with a light novel about an imaginary virus. In those moments, he seemed like the smartest one in the lecture hall.
But when exams loomed, his brain instantly retreated to its comfort zone: the foods he craved, the books he loved, and the stories he read until dawn.
There was also the problem of his "energy-saving mode"—which kicked in whenever his energy dropped below 95%.
Liu Shao laughed at the thought, then smiled to break the tension.
"Let's make a pact. If we fail this course, we'll found an association called: The Living Victims of Virology."
Chen Yue burst out laughing so loudly some customers glanced their way.
"Perfect idea! And our motto: We're not doctors yet, but we're already patients."
They shared a pure laugh, uncaring about the exams—until Liu Shao wiped sweat from his brow and murmured,
"Do you feel hot? It's not summer yet…"
Chen Yue didn't care much, still joking.
"Hot? Nah. Probably just because you won't stop eating chili peppers. You're basically walking around with a volcano in your stomach!"
Liu Shao smiled, but uneasily.
His fingers trembled slightly as he held the cup, his heartbeat quickening faster than usual.
He lifted his eyes to the sky. Around the sun's disk shimmered faint, unfamiliar rings of light. Perhaps a trick of the eye… but unlike anything he had ever seen.
He stared for a while, trying to convince himself it was just an illusion, maybe sunlight reflecting on the glass, or exhaustion from too many sleepless nights.
But…
Was he foolish? Paranoid? Overthinking? Or maybe all at once?
Because he started remembering that strange app.
"Explosion of the sun… Eternal sleep…"
Why did it feel like his words had leapt from the screen into the sky?
And deep inside, for the first time in a long while, a thin thread of unease crept into his heart.
Meanwhile, back in the darkened room, away from the laughter, the phone lit up again by itself. The green bar grew clearer, accompanied by new words:
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