The first reports arrived from the East with the sun. It was not a violent, instantaneous catastrophe, but an insidious cessation of life. Across major Asian cities, individuals collapsed in perfect silence, not from panic, but from an overwhelming, systemic failure. Initial analyses speculated on a novel neurogenic pathogen, yet the speed of propagation defied all known biological vectors. Within four hours, the wave had consumed the continent, following a precise, geographic curve.
The global understanding shifted as the disaster moved into the Middle East and Europe. It was not a contagion. It was the light. The wave of death followed the solar terminator , the moving line separating day from night, with lethal exactitude. Direct, unfiltered exposure to the sun's radiation—the entire spectrum, not merely the UV band—caused catastrophic, immediate failure at the cellular level.
In North Africa, the shadows were already lengthening into blue twilight. The final, fragmented broadcast from military command was less a decree and more a desperate tactical instruction: "Avoid all direct light. Proceed westward, maintaining pace with the night, or seek secure underground shelters. We are entering a phase of forced nocturnal existence."
Selim, the father, a former military logistics pilot, processed the information with the detached clarity of a man confronting an absolute variable. He had a private darkness already consuming him—a hidden Stage I malignancy—but this global extinction event rendered his personal ailment meaningless. His focus became purely operational: they must outrun the dawn.
Leila, his wife, a woman defined by her quiet, pragmatic strength, stared at the collapsing sky. "Selim, what is the viable endgame? How long can we evade the planet's rotation?"
"The endgame is sustained motion," he stated, securing heavy-grade blackout material. "The night is currently our only sanctuary. We must adhere to the velocity of the dark." He owned a short-haul turboprop, stored at a nearby private airfield—their single, fragile advantage.
Hind, seven years old, clutched her worn backpack, the only personal item she had secured. Inside, nestled against her water bottle, was a tiny, trembling tabby kitten, a warm secret she kept from the vast coldness of the world.
Firas, Selim's young, hyper-competent assistant, arrived at the perimeter just as the last vestige of light faded. He noted the slight, wet catch in Selim's breath, a sound that carried the weight of a secret illness.
"Firas, the aircraft. We need fuel contingency for three major legs. No ambient lights. We depart in fifteen minutes," Selim ordered, his voice controlled, eliminating all emotional residue.
Leila watched Firas, her silent gaze communicating the depth of her anxiety for her husband.