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Location: Earth – South Africa – Johannesburg
Year: 2026
Date: February 12th
Time: 6:27 AM
POV: Third Person
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Damian stood alone in an endless void, darkness stretching out in every direction. There was no sound, no light, no warmth—only the suffocating cold of the abyss. It was silent, hauntingly so, like the world itself had stopped breathing.
Then, from the darkness, a figure emerged. Its shape was human, but its form was twisted, distorted, like a reflection in shattered glass. Its body seemed to bend and break at impossible angles, limbs elongated and crooked, its presence a grotesque parody of humanity.
Its face was blank, featureless, a smooth void where eyes, nose, and mouth should be. Yet, Damian could feel its gaze, cold and piercing, crawling over his skin. It was as if the creature could see through him, into the deepest recesses of his soul.
A voice echoed from the darkness, low and ancient, reverberating through the void. It spoke in a language he could not understand, each word heavy with power, shaking the very fabric of reality. The air grew cold, the darkness pressing in, suffocating, crushing.
The figure raised its arm, its fingers long and skeletal, pointing directly at Damian. Shadows coiled around its form, swirling like living serpents, their hissing whispers merging with the ancient voice. The ground beneath Damian trembled, cracks forming in the darkness, spreading like spiderwebs.
Suddenly, the ground shattered, fragments of darkness crumbling away, revealing a blinding light below. Damian fell, his body weightless, the void swallowing him whole. He spiraled downward, the light growing closer, brighter, until it engulfed him, burning away the darkness.
His eyes snapped open, his heart pounding in his chest. He was in his room, drenched in cold sweat, his body trembling. The vividness of the dream clung to him, its cold fingers lingering on his skin. It felt real. Too real. Like he was still falling.
The world was quiet. A little too quiet. As if the earth itself was holding its breath, waiting for something inevitable. A heavy, ominous silence blanketed the morning, broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the occasional bark of a neighborhood dog. The sky hung low, draped in thick, grey clouds that seemed to press down on the world, squeezing out the light. There was a heaviness in the air, an unspoken tension that gnawed at the edges of reality.
Damian Derulo lay sprawled on his neatly made bed, tangled in his sheets, eyes shut tight as if warding off the day. His room was immaculate—everything had its place. The bookshelf by his desk was organized alphabetically, each title carefully positioned without a crease or blemish. Novels and webcomics lined the shelves, their colorful spines a stark contrast to the monotony of his life. He was an avid reader, a lover of stories that transported him far from the mundane existence he found himself trapped in. A small-time fanfiction writer too, his laptop sat closed on the desk, its screen dark, preserving the half-finished chapter of his latest escapism piece. Writing was his refuge, his outlet for emotions he couldn't quite express.
His room reflected his mind—neat, orderly, but stifling. It was a sanctuary and a prison all at once. Posters of fictional worlds adorned the walls, a collection of characters who had become his silent companions. They watched over him, their painted smiles frozen in time, offering comfort that reality could not. His bed was pressed neatly against the far wall, sheets crisp and unwrinkled except for the portion he currently occupied. Everything was in its rightful place, untouched, unmoved. Just the way he liked it.
But beneath the perfect order, there was a darkness that crept at the edges of his consciousness. A hollow ache that refused to leave. He hated it. He hated everything. The world. The people in it. Himself most of all. Life was nothing but a monotonous cycle, an endless loop of meaningless days. He hated.... being alive.
*DING!*
A sharp sound shattered the silence. His phone.
The phone vibrated on the nightstand, the screen flashing with a notification. Damian's hand moved sluggishly, his body heavy with exhaustion. He reached for the phone, blinking against the harsh light of the screen.
[ Choose Your Title ]
His brow furrowed, confusion knitting his features. It was a blank screen with just those three words in bold white text on a pitch-black background. There was no sender, no app icon, no explanation. Just a command. It didn't make sense. Maybe it was some kind of glitch or a pop-up from one of the apps he'd been using last night. But something about it felt... wrong.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and dragged himself out of bed, his body aching with fatigue. His limbs felt heavy, sluggish, weighed down by an invisible force. Every step was a struggle, every breath a reminder of his exhaustion. Yet, he kept moving, his body operating on autopilot.
The bathroom was as neat as his room, everything organized with meticulous precision. Toothbrush in its holder, towels folded perfectly on the rack, not a speck of dust in sight. The mirror gleamed, spotless, reflecting the pale bathroom light without distortion. Damian stood there, gripping the edges of the porcelain sink, his knuckles white from the pressure.
He stared at his reflection, eyes dark and hollow, rimmed with exhaustion and shadows. His short black hair was messy from sleep, stray strands falling over his forehead. His skin was pale, almost sickly under the harsh light, lips chapped and slightly pink. He looked…
Empty.
Like a shell. A ghost wearing the face of a human. His face was expressionless, devoid of emotion, like a poorly crafted mask. His eyes were dull, unfocused, distant. Even his body seemed lifeless, shoulders slouched, arms limp, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
Damian's gaze lingered on his reflection, his mind drifting. Was this really him? Was this hollow, broken thing his true self? The thought sent a chill down his spine. He looked away, unable to bear the sight any longer.
With a sigh, he turned on the faucet, the icy water splashing against his face. The cold shock cleared his mind, but the unease remained, stubborn and persistent. As he dried his face with a towel, his thoughts drifted. What was that notification? Was someone playing a prank? But who would even bother? He didn't have friends. Not really. Just acquaintances at college who barely knew him— the real him.
Everything was wrong. Everything had always been wrong.
Damian's relationship with his family was… complicated. He didn't understand them, and they didn't understand him. His parents tried to bridge the gap, asking how his day was, offering to help with his schoolwork, even buying him books they thought he'd like. But their words felt empty, their smiles forced. They looked at him like he was broken, like they were afraid he'd shatter at any moment.
He hated it. Hated the empty smiles people wore, the shallow conversations, the way everyone pretended everything was fine when nothing was. He hated how fake it all was. How fake they were. He hated people. All of them. They were hypocrites. Liars. Parasites feeding off each other's misery. The world was rotten, and he was sick of living in it.
His siblings were no different. They were loud, boisterous, always joking, always laughing. They were full of life, full of energy. Everything he was not. Damian could never keep up with their conversations, never understood their jokes. They called him boring, weird, a killjoy — though he still loved them and they did too. They didn't mean to hurt him. They just… didn't understand.
And that hurt even more.
The Second Chime
*DING!*
His phone chimed again, the sound echoing through the stillness of the room. He hurried back to his bedroom, heart pounding for reasons he couldn't quite explain. The screen was still black, the same words staring back at him.
[ Choose Your Title ]
A shiver ran through him. It was unsettling, this strange, unprompted message. It felt deliberate. Almost... supernatural. But that was ridiculous. Things like that only happened in the novels he read, the stories he wrote to escape his own dull reality. Yet here it was, staring him in the face.
His fingers hovered over the screen, hesitation freezing him in place. A title? What was he supposed to choose? Why did he have to choose anything at all? His mind raced with possibilities, but nothing made sense. It was just a screen, just words. It couldn't hurt him. Right?
Before he could gather his thoughts, a sound pierced the air. A sound so loud, so otherworldly, that it rattled the windows and shook him to his core. It was a trumpet. A deep, resonant blast that echoed across the sky, reverberating through the city like the voice of a god. It was haunting, mournful, and terrifying all at once.
His body went rigid, every muscle locked in place as the sound continued, its eerie note stretching on for what felt like an eternity. The air vibrated with its intensity, a bone-deep hum that resonated in his very soul. It was unlike anything he had ever heard—powerful, ancient, a call that seemed to reach into the fabric of existence itself.
The trumpet's wail finally died, fading into the distance, leaving behind an echo that lingered long after the sound itself had vanished. The world stood still, a suffocating silence descending in its wake. And then the screaming began.
Damian rushed to the window, eyes wide with disbelief as chaos erupted ahead. People were panicking, running in all directions, their faces twisted in terror. Cars swerved wildly, crashing into each other as their drivers vanished, leaving empty seats behind. Pedestrians stumbled, clutching at thin air as loved ones disappeared before their eyes, fading into nothingness as if they had never existed.
His heart raced, breath hitching as he stared at the screen. The trumpet, the disappearances, the chaos... and this message. Somehow, they were connected. He didn't know how or why, but he could feel it in his bones. This was no coincidence.
His fingers moved on their own, trembling as they hovered over the screen. He was terrified. Confused. But beneath the fear, a strange certainty gripped him. This was important. This was the beginning of something far beyond his understanding. And whatever choice he made... it would change everything.
[ The End Of Days ]
Damian had always been fascinated with stories. Fictional worlds, mythical creatures, heroes and villains—he loved them all. In his isolation, he found solace in words, in stories that transported him to worlds beyond his reach. He became a small-time author, writing fanfiction under the pen name "The End Of Days", a title he had always found oddly poetic, fitting for how his life is.
The moment he confirmed his selection, the screen went black. An icy chill ran down his spine, shadows dancing at the edges of his vision. Outside, the trumpet blared once more, its mournful wail echoing across the dying world.
The Rapture is in process.
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To Be Continued...