Jean didn't know anymore if it was a dream or reality.
But he still woke up.
Sunlight streamed through his window, warm and familiar, painting golden patterns on his bedroom walls. His blankets were soft. His pillow was flat in that perfect way it always was. Everything was exactly as it should be.
'This feels odd?' he thought.
He ignored it. Swung his legs out of bed. Left the room.
The stairs creaked beneath his feet—the third step always did—and the aroma hit him before he reached the bottom. Pancakes. Butter. Maple syrup. The smell of mornings before school, before responsibilities, before everything.
He followed it.
The kitchen was bright. His mother stood at the stove, humming as she flipped pancakes onto a growing stack. His father sat at the table, hidden behind his newspaper. His brother and sister bickered quietly over something trivial.
Normal. Perfect. Wrong.
'This feels familiar,' Jean thought. Too familiar.
He greeted them anyway. Sat down. His mother placed a plate of pancakes before him and kissed the top of his head before returning to the stove.
'This feels familiar!'
It was the day. The day the apocalypse began. The rift. The monsters. The Voice. The Somnum.
He knew this. He remembered this.
But it was a dream. It had to be a dream.
He ate his pancakes.
The sky cracked open.
Jean stood outside with his family, staring up at the wound in reality. The same as before. The same as always.
Then the shadow fell.
The Quetzalcoatlus descended from the clouds, massive and terrible, its wings blocking out the sun. They ran—his family ran—back toward the house, seeking shelter.
But this time was different.
The creature landed in front of them. Blocked their path. Its massive head lowered, those ancient eyes fixing on them with something that looked almost like recognition.
They stopped. Froze. Stared.
'Wait,' Jean thought. 'Why aren't we running? Why am I not running?'
He couldn't move. His legs wouldn't obey. His voice wouldn't work. He stood frozen, watching, as the creature's beak lashed out.
His father fell first.
Then his mother.
Then Ben. Then Julie.
Their bodies crumpled to the ground, broken and still.
Eugene grabbed Jean—tried to throw him away, tried to save him—but Jean couldn't move. Couldn't run. Couldn't do anything but watch as his uncle joined the others.
Then the creature turned to him.
Its beak lunged forward.
Jean died.
Jean woke up.
Truck bed. Wind in his hair. His father was driving. His mother and siblings in the cab. Eugene beside him.
The Quetzalcoatlus chased them through the ruined city.
'Why?' Jean thought. 'Why is this happening?'
He didn't give the advice this time. Didn't tell his father to turn toward the shaking. Didn't try to change anything.
The creature caught them. Plummeted down. Its massive body crashed into the truck, crushing metal and bone and everything.
Everyone died.
Jean's thoughts, in his final moment: 'Mother? Father? Ben? Julie? Uncle Eugene?'
'Sorry... I'm sorry.'
He died.
Jean woke up.
Truck bed. Plaza. Two titans.
The Quetzalcoatlus and the T-rex stood on either side, and this time—this time they didn't fight. They didn't clash. They simply turned their ancient eyes toward the same prey.
The humans.
Everyone died.
Jean's thoughts screamed: 'Please stop!' He tried to speak. Tried to tell them how to escape. But words couldn't leave his mouth. Nothing could leave his mouth.
He died.
Jean woke up.
The figures of light hovered in the sky. Eight beings of pure radiance, their books open, their pupil-less eyes gazing down at humanity.
But this time was different.
This time, they didn't offer an accord. Didn't offer power. Didn't offer salvation.
They simply... annihilated.
The light consumed everything. Every person. Every building. Every inch of the world. Jean watched as his family dissolved before him, as his own body followed, as existence itself was wiped clean.
'PLEASE!' his thoughts screamed. 'PLEASE! PLEASE! STOP! STOP!'
Nothing stopped.
He died.
The apocalypse repeated.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Jean lost count after a hundred. After a thousand. Each time he woke to a different version of the nightmare. Each time his family died. Each time he died. Each time he was frozen, helpless, unable to speak, unable to move, unable to do anything but watch.
The same question echoed through every death:
'Why me?'
Why him? Why was he forced to witness this? Why couldn't he stop it? Why couldn't he save them?
The question repeated at the end of every nightmare, just before the darkness took him and the cycle began anew.
'Why me?'
'Why me?'
'WHY ME?'
Then, finally, Jean woke up.
Black void. Nothing but darkness stretching in every direction. He could see himself—his hands, his body, his tears—but nothing else. Just infinite nothing.
He was lying on the ground.
After a while, he got up.
He let out a breath. A deep, shaky, broken breath.
Then he screamed.
He screamed until his throat tore. He cried until no tears remained. Every nightmare, every death, every moment of watching his family—his loved ones—die while he stood frozen and useless poured out of him in waves of anguish.
He fell to his knees. Sobbed into the void.
Then he felt it.
Not an ache. Not a pain. Just... a presence.
The void before him shimmered. Light coalesced from nothing—silver, transparent, impossibly pure. It gathered and swirled until a shape emerged.
An orb. Floating in the darkness, pulsing with soft silver light.
It hadn't come from him. It had simply... appeared. Faded in from the void itself, as if it had always been there, waiting for this moment.
Jean stared at it. After everything he had witnessed, a floating orb was nothing.
The orb made sounds—weird, ancient, melodic sounds. Jean spared it a glance. Watched it pulse.
Then slowly, gently, it approached him.
Jean flinched. But he didn't move away. Didn't resist. After everything, what did it matter? What could possibly be worse than what he had already endured?
He accepted it.
The orb touched his chest. Slipped inside. Settled somewhere near his heart.
Jean felt nothing.
But when he looked around, the void was changing.
Cracks spread across the darkness—thin at first, then wider, brighter. The black room began to break down, piece by piece, reality seeping through the fractures.
Jean closed his eyes.
The nightmares collapsed.
Jean woke up.
A transparent hatch hovered inches from his face.
At first, he couldn't move. Not a finger. Not a muscle. His body was lead, was stone, was nothing responding to his commands. Panic flickered—brief, desperate—before he forced it down.
He tried again.
Fingers twitched.
Again. His hand rose an inch.
Again. He pushed against the hatch. It clicked. Released.
Cold air rushed in. He gasped, sucking in breaths that tasted stale and artificial. His hands fumbled at the oxygen mask, pulling it free, letting it fall.
He swung his legs over the edge.
He took the first step.
And fell.
His body crashed against the floor, tubes and wires tangling around him, pulling at connections he couldn't see. Pain flared through his knees, his palms, his entire frame.
He lay there, trembling.
The vestiges of the nightmare still clung to him—every death, every scream, every moment of watching his family fall. They were clear in his mind, sharper than memory, sharper than reality. He could still feel the phantom pain of beaks and claws and consuming light.
But there were no wounds on him. No blood. No bruises.
It was just a nightmare.
But that didn't matter. The damage was done.
His mind was in scrambles.
For a minute—maybe two—he lay on the cold floor, breathing heavy, staring at nothing. Then, slowly, he raised a hand to his face.
He touched his cheek. His jaw. His forehead.
It felt different. Wrong. He didn't know why.
'What is this?'
But beneath the confusion, beneath the lingering terror, something else stirred. A rhythm. A beat.
His heart.
It was beating. Weird, maybe—faster than it should, uneven in ways he couldn't place—but beating. Alive.
He focused on that sound. Let it ground him.
Then, slowly, painfully, he stood.
The room was dark. Pitch black except for the dim glow emanating from the pods behind him. He turned, counting.
Four pods total. Including his.
Three more. Silent. Still. Occupied.
He couldn't see what was inside. Couldn't bring himself to look.
His eyes adjusted slowly. Shapes emerged from the darkness. Walls. A door. And there—a switch.
He stumbled toward it, each step a battle. His muscles screamed. His head spun. The vestiges of nightmare clung to every movement.
But he reached it. Flipped it.
The light flickered at first—once, twice—then blazed to life.
Jean blinked against the sudden brightness, hand raised to shield his eyes. The room came into focus piece by piece. Sterile walls. Medical equipment. Sleeping pods in a neat row.
And there, on the wall beside him—
A mirror.
Small. Hung crookedly. Reflecting light back at him.
Jean approached it slowly. One step. Another. His reflection grew clearer with each movement.
He stopped in front of it.
And looked.
His eyes widened.
'What?'