He glanced at the notebook once more, offering a smirk to the cryptic symbols that now bound his fate. He climbed into bed, pulling the covers up against the chill of the room. On the desk, the candle didn't go out. It simply stood—watching.
The arcane formula, humming with a quiet intensity, pulsed in Ogdi's battered notebook. It wasn't just graphite lines on paper; it was a vibration that resonated deep in his molars, a frequency he felt throughout the architecture of his skull. He snapped the notebook shut, the soft thud echoing like a gavel in the oppressive silence of his room.
He pushed himself to his feet, a leaden weight pressing behind his eyes—a lingering fatigue that no amount of sleep seemed to alleviate. That night, sleep offered no true peace, only a restless negotiation between oblivion and the lingering echoes of waking mysteries.
7:00 a.m. – University of Oravus
An unnerving quiet had descended upon the campus, an unfamiliar hush that replaced the usual morning bustle of rushing students and distant traffic. A cool, almost biting wind swept through the central courtyard, rustling unseen leaves.
As Ogdi made his way to his first class, he passed the bronze statues of the university founders that dotted the pathways. Today, they gleamed with an unnatural brightness, their surfaces reflecting the pale morning light as if recently polished by an invisible hand—or perhaps, by reality itself, subtly shifting its texture.
He welcomed the stillness, a rare reprieve. Fewer people meant fewer intrusive questions, fewer jarring collisions with a world that always seemed to move too fast for his contemplative thoughts. His shoes clicked softly on the pavement, each step a deliberate punctuation in the prevailing silence.
He pushed open the door to Café Opaline. Inside the familiar warmth, the smell of roasted beans acted as a momentary shield against the strangeness outside. Nala stood behind the counter, her apron a little loose, her eyes holding a hint of lingering exhaustion. Yet, she still managed to summon a genuine grin when she spotted him.
"Good morning, Nala. How are you today?" Ogdi greeted, offering a tired half-smile in return.
"Yo, Ogdi. Not much has changed," she replied, her voice a low murmur.
"As per usual," Ogdi responded.
Then, their voices seamlessly overlapped in a perfectly rehearsed chorus, a ritual born of countless mornings:
"A mocha XL with vanilla ice cream."
Their shared phrase, a well-worn comfort, felt like a miniature, perfectly executed spell in a world that felt slightly off-key. Nala winked, a familiar gesture of camaraderie, and turned to the gleaming espresso machine. Steam whispered from the nozzle as she began preparing his drink, the rich aroma filling the air.
When she finally handed him the steaming cup, Ogdi instinctively reached into his back pocket.
Nothing.
His fingers danced through empty denim. A rising panic tightened his chest. He checked the other pocket. Empty. His wallet wasn't there.
"Forgot your wallet?" Nala asked, her brow furrowing with a genuine concern that momentarily replaced her weariness. "That's not like you. You okay?"
Ogdi froze. A wave of vertigo washed over him—a sense of déjà vu so potent it tasted metallic. He had done this before. He had felt this panic before. But in his memory, the wallet had been there.
He cleared his throat, trying to dispel the sudden wave of unreality. "Indeed. That ain't like me." He shook his head, a faint echo of a memory he couldn't quite grasp slipping through his fingers like smoke.
"What?" she pressed, her gaze fixed on him.
"Ah—nothing," he said quickly, dismissing the fleeting sensation. "Just spaced out. I must have left it on the desk."
She stared for a second longer than usual, her eyes searching his as if looking for a crack in a mask. Then, her expression softened. "Don't worry. It's on the house. You keep us in business anyway."
"Thanks," he replied, a hint of his characteristic dry sarcasm lacing his tone to hide his unease. "So, what's the buzz today? The campus is dead quiet."
"Oh!" she exclaimed, her eyes widening slightly. "The Prime Minister is speaking at the plaza near Unity Tower. People flocked there earlier. Big talk about reform and transparency, supposedly."
Ogdi raised his eyebrows. "Might actually be worth hearing. He's one of the few who doesn't seem like a hologram pretending to be human."
"Tell me if it gets spicy," she said, sliding a napkin across the counter towards him. On it, she had quickly hand-drawn a large question mark.
"Will do," he chuckled. He took a sip of the hot, sweet coffee and turned, walking out towards the plaza.
Unity Plaza – 8:12 a.m.
Unity Plaza, usually a vibrant nexus of student life, had transformed into a hushed amphitheater. The crowd was dense—a sea of focused faces, thousands strong, all heads tilted in unison toward a temporary stage erected beneath gleaming metal scaffolding. Microphones clustered around a solitary podium like mechanical flowers, reflecting the morning light.
The Prime Minister stepped forward, his figure silhouetted against the rising sun. His expression was firm, etched with a sharpened resolve that Ogdi couldn't quite name—perhaps the raw edge of nerves, or a deep-seated conviction.
"Good morning to all," he began. His voice, surprisingly clear and resonant, echoed across the open square. "Today I speak not as a man behind policy—but as one who stands beneath pressure. Our economy crumbles not because of an absence of solutions—but because of an absence of courage."
Ogdi scanned the crowd as he listened. It was a kaleidoscope of students, faculty, and press. His eyes drifted over the sea of heads until they snagged on a familiar patch of blue near the front barricades.
A blue denim jacket with a white patch on the shoulder.
Ogdi's breath hitched. It was his brother. He was standing near the front, listening intently, his messy hair catching the wind. Ogdi felt a pang of protectiveness—he should go over there, tell him about the weird morning, share the coffee.
"In five weeks," the Prime Minister continued, his voice rising, "we unveil legislation that reshapes the core of our trade networks. No more silence among those paid to listen. No more secrets from people who kept this nation breathing through the storms…"
The speech unfolded, a masterful blend of inspiring vision and stark accountability. Around Ogdi, students nodded in agreement, some murmuring softly to themselves. One girl nearby wiped a tear from her cheek.
Ogdi turned his head back toward the stage, distracted by a fleeting thought about the "secrets" the PM mentioned.
Then, the air snapped.
It didn't begin with sound. It began with pressure. A solid wall of force hammered against Ogdi's chest, stealing the breath from his lungs before his brain could even register the event.
BOOM.
The world fractured.
Multiple explosions ripped through the plaza with a deafening roar—a blinding flash of white-hot light that erased the sun, followed by a searing, concussive wind that threw bodies like discarded chess pieces across the square. The stage, moments before a symbol of authority, vanished into a churning vortex of smoke, fire, and flying metal.
Ogdi's vision went black as the ground rushed up to meet him.
Minutes Later – 8:40 a.m.
The world returned, not as a whole, but as a fractured, agonizing puzzle.
The air, once breathable, was now a thick, suffocating blanket woven from the cacophony of screams, the acrid smell of pulverized concrete and burnt ozone, and the metallic tang of fresh, spilt blood. Sirens, distant at first, grew steadily louder, their wails cutting through the chaos like sharpened blades.
A high-pitched metallic ringing drilled into Ogdi's left ear, threatening to burst the drum—a relentless phantom echo of the cataclysm.
He pushed himself up slowly. Every muscle protested with a deep, aching burn, as if his very bones had been rearranged. His coat, once pristine, was now a tattered, grimy mess, clinging to him with a dampness that he knew, with a sickening certainty, was blood.
A gruesome tableau greeted him. Blood streaked a nearby bench, still glistening wet, congealing into thick, dark pools that reflected the smoke-filled sky. A single shoe, empty and forlorn, lay against a splintered wall, its lace tied in a macabre bow.
Beside him, a person lay motionless. Ogdi crawled over, instinct taking over. "Hey! Are you—"
He stopped. The person's eyes were wide and unseeing, staring blankly at the gloom. Their abdomen was gone—a raw, pulpy cavity where flesh and bone should have been.
Ogdi scrambled back, bile rising in his throat. He looked around wildly. Bodies were scattered everywhere, grotesque effigies of life extinguished. Limbs twisted at impossible angles. Faces frozen in silent screams.
Then, memory hit him harder than the blast.
The blue jacket. The front row.
His brother had been right there. Right near the stage.
A sharp, searing pain in his left abdomen ripped through him, but it was nothing compared to the ice that flooded his veins. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the agony, scanning the devastation where the front rows used to be. There was nothing but smoke and ruin.
"No... no, no, no..."
The denial rocketed out of him, a primal, guttural cry that ripped from his very soul, echoing in the ruined landscape.
"BROTHER!"
He took a step forward, ready to run into the fire, to dig with his bare hands.
"Do not turn around."
The voice cut through the chaos—cold, precise, and dangerously close to his ear. It wasn't the voice in his head. It was a man, standing directly behind him.
Ogdi froze, a chill running down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold wind.
"Do not move if you do not want to die," the voice commanded.
Ogdi stood paralyzed, swaying slightly.
"Now," the voice continued, smooth and detached. "Stand up straight. Walk forward. Do not look at me. I will guide you."