The city honked itself raw—horns, brakes, the small back-and-forth curse of traffic at noon.
A line of cars stretched down Spadina Avenue, brake lights glowing red like an endless parade of embers.
A man in a faded gray sedan smacked the heel of his hand against the steering wheel.
"Jesus Christ…" he muttered, his voice raspy with irritation. He leaned forward, glaring at the sea of bumpers ahead. "Not moving a inch."
The man's phone, mounted just above the dashboard, flicked its screen awake.
5:42 PM.
He exhaled, long and hard, shaking his head.
Out the window, the sidewalks bustled in sharp contrast to the frozen traffic.
A young couple laughed outside a patio bar, glasses of beer raised. Two kids dragged their mother toward an ice cream shop, squealing with joy. Farther down, a small group of office workers smoked and teased one another, ties already loosened after the day's grind.
Normal life. Loud, messy.
Alive.
Though very few people ever called him that outside of work.
The man rubbed at the crease between his brows. His name was Hanzō Aratake.
To most in Toronto, he was just another guy—forty-one, stressed, always late for dinner. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, muttering:
The corner of his mouth twisted into a faint smirk. With a sigh, he reached down toward the passenger seat, where a small black CD case sat—frayed at the edges, zipper long broken. He flipped it open one-handed, thumb grazing over the sleeves until he found the one disc he always came back to. An old band logo his wife Victoria would roll her eyes at.
A scratched, beat-up album from his teenage years. He slid it into the slot, the old car's stereo whirring with a mechanical groan. A familiar guitar riff cut through the traffic noise, tinny but warm.
"Better," the man said, tapping the wheel in rhythm. "Way better. She would kill me for this hehe."
He tapped the wheel to the rhythm, shoulders loosening as the music filled the stale cabin.
He leaned back, shoulders loosening. Just a man in an old car, drowning out the chaos of the city with music nobody under thirty gave a damn about anymore.
The man's gaze jerked toward the sidewalk.
A woman had dropped her coffee, her hands clutching her chest as she stumbled. She crumpled to the ground, convulsing before lying still. People shouted, rushing to her aid.
"What the—" the man said aloud, more to the city than to anyone in his car.
Across the street, people began looking up, running for dear life. A few pointed at the sky.
The man frowned. "Huh..?"
A vibration rattled the sedan's rearview mirror.
The faint quiver grew sharper, the glass trembling as if struck by invisible hands.
Then—
ERRRRRRRRRRR
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
His music cut off. The car's stereo buzzed with static before a flat.
"Emergency Broadcast System. Attention all residents of Toronto—"
"—Emergency Alert System," a flat, practiced voice said. "This is an emergency alert. This is an earthquake. Expect extreme ground shaking. Drop, cover, and hold on. If you are driving, pull to the side of the road; stop away from bridges, overpasses, and buildings. If you are indoors, take cover under sturdy furniture. Do not use elevators.–"
The robotic voice glitched, cutting in and out with static. "Seismic disturbance detected. Estimated magnitude—eleven point two—"
"Eleven?" The man muttered, eyes widening. "That's not—"
The broadcast continued, voice taut with urgency. "All citizens are advised to remain calm. Move to open areas away from buildings. Avoid elevators, bridges, and glass structures. This is not a dril—"
The man's chest tightened. A cold prickle ran down his spine.
A sound like the roar of a thousand jet engines erupted beneath the city. The earth lurched. Cars rattled violently, alarms blaring in dissonant chorus.
"Oh God—oh God—" he breathed.
The lane in front of him shuddered as if the street itself were flexing.
The man's grip tightened on the wheel. His sedan shook, tires squealing against the pavement as though the ground itself were trying to swallow it whole.
People poured out of their vehicles, doors slamming, voices shrieking.
"RUN!!"
The man fumbled with his seatbelt. His chest rose and fell rapidly, panic fighting reason. His ears rang as the screams of thousands layered together, drowning even the blaring horns.
Then it came—the sound that would burn itself into his memory forever.
A deafening groan of metal and concrete splitting apart.
The man's head snapped up.
A skyscraper, one of Toronto's glass titans, began to tilt.
Slow at first.
Then faster.
Windows shattered like gunfire, glittering shards raining down. Dark silhouettes of people leapt from the upper floors in desperation. Their screams tore through the choking noise, ending abruptly in the crush of chaos below.
"NO, NO, NO—" the man yelled, scrambling.
The building collapsed with a violence no human mind could properly process. It came down like the hand of a god, pulverizing streets, sending a tidal wave of dust and debris exploding outward.
The shockwave hit the man's car before he even thought to move.
The sedan flipped, tumbling down the street like a toy.
"AHHHGRRHH!!"
The man's car rocked violently and was thrown as if by an unseen hand—metal grinding on metal, a sickening, rolling crush. The world flipped. His head hit the roof. The airbag exploded.
Sound became a separate thing: a racket edged with screaming and the collapsing echo of masonry. He clung to the seat as his world rolled and then slammed.
Then silence.
Not true silence, but the eerie kind—broken only by ringing in the ears, by the faint rattle of settling rubble.
The man's chest heaved, shallow. His seatbelt strained against his collarbone. His vision blurred, blood dripping from his temple into his left eye.
If he hadn't finished unclipping the buckle a second before…
He would have been crushed. Killed. It's still a miracle he wasn't killed regardless.
"Agh..still here," he whispered hoarsely.
His hands trembled, clawing at the air.
A panic attack seized him, chest heaving so violently he couldn't breathe. He slapped his palms against the ceiling—now the floor—of the car, his voice breaking:
"Fuck! Fuck! I'm still here—Jesus—"
Air. He needed air.
His eyes darted to the shattered window. Dust, thick and brown, pressed against the frame like a living thing. He coughed hard, lungs burning, throat raw. Every breath was like inhaling ash.
"Shit—shit—shit!" he coughed, lungs burning with grit.
He blinked up at the sky and then into a copper-gray wall of dust pushed by the collapse. The interior light made the shattered glass glitter like a field of obelisks. He tasted blood and metal.
He forced his fingers under the seatbelt, tearing at the latch. "Come on…come on…" His hands were clumsy, numb. He worked the belt free and pushed the door with a shriek of buckled metal until it gave.
The car tore and groaned as he scrambled through the broken window, cutting his arm on something sharp. A warm trickle slid down his temple, and the sight of his own face in a shard—smeared, streaked—made his breath catch.
Screams cut through the haze. People crying. Pleading. Choking.
"Call 9-1-1!" the hardhat man barked. "Someone—check the woman on the corner! Help the kid—see if anyone's trapped under that van!"
A woman staggered past, one shoe filled with dust. "My brother's in the building—please, someone—" Her voice disappeared as she was swallowed by the crowd.
They were in a canyon of not-knowing.
Cars were crumpled on each other like toys. Sirens—somewhere—howled faded and faint, as if the city's voice had been muffled by rubble.
Then—abrupt silence.
The man froze. The silence was worse than the noise. He could hear his own pulse hammering in his ears.
He crawled out into the suffocating gray, coughing violently. His knees struck broken asphalt. His palms met glass and blood. He tried to stand, staggered, nearly tripped over something soft. He looked down.
A man's fallen body, wedding band still on his finger.
"Oh…oh..shit." the man staggered backward, bile burning his throat. His chest tightened again, panic clawing at his mind.
He stumbled forward, coughing hard, yanking his shirt up over his mouth. His vision swam.
"Reinhardt… Ostred… Victoria…" His voice cracked as he stumbled forward, shielding his mouth with his sleeve. His thoughts were no longer about himself—only about them.
He ran.
Through bodies half-buried in dust, through the echoing void where Toronto had once been alive.
The city had fallen into the mouth of hell.
* * *
"This—this is the Canadian Broadcasting Service. Reports are coming in that Toronto has suffered the largest earthquake in history. Officials are estimating a magnitude of eleven point three. For reference…"
The anchor swallowed, her French-Canadian accent curling around the words. "The last earthquake of remotely comparable scale occurred May 22, 1960, in the Biobío region of Chile. Magnitude nine point five. This—" her voice cracked, just slightly, "—is larger."
"Please, listeners—shelter now. Stay away from glass. Emergency services are overwhelmed…"
Victoria Aratake sat frozen on the couch, the remote slack in one hand.
Her face was pale beyond the television's glow; the sound from the set filled the apartment like an omen.
She watched the reporter's hands flail at video feed—buildings collapsing into clouds of dust, people running like ants—her breath coming shallow and quick.
"Fifteen minutes ago," the anchor continued, "a tower on University Avenue collapsed. Casualties are… catastrophic. We're just receiving word now that another high-rise has gone down near Yonge and Bloor. Emergency crews from the United States have already mobilized to cross the border to assist. Citizens are urged—"
"Oh my god…Hanzo..." Victoria whispered, as though saying the number would pin it down, stop it from unraveling. Tears slicked down her cheeks without sound. She pressed her fingers to her lips and tried to breathe.
A small, barefoot dust-up of feet skittered across the hallway.
A twelve-year-old Reinhardt bounded in, hair black and lank at his ears, cheeks flushed from running. He skidded to a stop and announced, breathlessly, "Everything's secure, Mom. I checked the windows—boards are fine. I locked the balcony door too!"
Victoria blinked at him through her tears, nodding rapidly. She forced a trembling smile, though her hand still clutched at her mouth. "Good boy… you're—" her voice broke, "you're good."
Victoria managed a brittle nod, grabbed at the boy and hugged him like a lifeline.
"Thank God," she said into his shoulder, voice shaking. Her fingers trembled as she stroked his hair. "Your father—do you know where he is?"
"He's still out," Reinhardt said before he had time to think. Panic sharpened his voice into brittle fragments. "He left for work early. I—" He swallowed. "I don't know."
"Where's your brother?" Victoria asked suddenly, her voice weak.
Reinhardt's lips pressed tight. "In his room."
Victoria nodded again, tears slipping faster now. Her throat made a small, animal sound. "Go wake Ostred," she told him. "Make sure he's ready. We'll leave if we have to."
Reinhardt sprinted down the narrow hallway. He burst into his older brother's room without warning.
Ostred sat on the edge of his bed, a black jacket slung over one shoulder, a half-packed duffel at his feet. He looked up slowly, expression hardening into that impassive mask he wore when he didn't want to be known. "What?" he said sharply.
"What are you doing?" Reinhardt demanded.
Ostred snapped, "What does it look like? I'm grabbing what I can. This building's going to fall apart if this keeps up. When does Canada even get earthquakes like this? This is not—" He stopped, jaw tightening.
Then softer, for Reinhardt only. "Dad's car's probably wrecked. Don't sit there like a child."
Reinhardt's jaw went hard. "Dad still hasn't called."
For a second, Ostred's tough face cracked. "And what the fuck am I supposed to do about that? Stand here and wait like we're in a movie? Pack or get out. Your choice."
He shoved another shirt into the duffel. The floor rattled underfoot, a low tremor like a beast shifting its weight.
"I'm not waiting!" Reinhardt shot back, startling himself at the edge of hysteria. "You can't just—go fuck yourself," he spat, voice trembling.
Ostred's head snapped up. "What did you just say?"
But Reinhardt was already gone, feet pounding down the hallway.
"Reinhardt!"
Victoria rushed at him, scooping him up, hands brushing his hair back. Her eyes darted to the cracked window. Dust hung outside, the city shrouded in haze.
"We need to get out," she whispered, voice shaking.
Reinhardt coughed. "I packed already. Ostred's…still packing"
Victoria exhaled through her nose, fighting panic. She nodded. "Go back and tell him it's time."
A thunderous boom shook the walls.
Glass decorations shattered, shards spraying across the floor. Victoria cried out, her face slashed by glass.
Reinhardt shielded his head with his arm, blood welling from a shallow cut.
"Mom! You okay?!" Reinhardt's small arms clutched her as she staggered.
Victoria's breath shuddered, crimson trailing her cheek. "I'm fine, I'm fine—"
The apartment shook harder. A scream tore from her throat. "We have to go!"
"Mom!" Ostred rushed in, dropping to her side as if he could hutch the wound in with his body. "Are you—are you okay?"
"I'm okay," Victoria coughed, waving him off. "Took you long enough. Take your brother. Downstairs. Now!"
The hallway filled with noise: voices, thumps, the clatter of other doors opening. People flooded into the corridor carrying small packs and pillows, children clinging to legs. A woman's wail split the air.
It was chaos. A city of millions unraveling into madness in minutes.