This story ends in Chapter Fifteen.
The protagonist dies.
I'm telling you now because it's only fair. Stories like this pretend choice exists. They dress inevitability in suspense and call it mercy. I won't insult you that way.
He doesn't know this yet.
The man—the protagonist, if you insist on labels—wakes up at 6:12 a.m. to the sound of a neighbor's alarm bleeding through the wall. It's the same cheap ringtone every morning. A cheerful melody that has never once made anyone cheerful.
He lies still, staring at the crack in the ceiling that looks like a crooked lightning bolt.
This is how most mornings begin. Nothing symbolic about it. No foreshadowing. Just habit.
He counts to ten before sitting up. He always does. He believes—incorrectly—that this gives him control over the day.
On the ninth count, the alarm stops next door.
On the tenth, he swings his legs over the side of the bed.
If you're expecting something strange to happen immediately, you'll be disappointed. That comes later. Subtlety works better when trust hasn't been broken yet.
He showers. He dresses. He burns his tongue on coffee because he never waits long enough for it to cool. He checks his phone, then checks it again as if the notifications might appear out of embarrassment.
They don't.
By 7:03 a.m., he's outside, locking the door behind him. The hallway smells faintly of disinfectant and something older underneath it—damp concrete, maybe. The building has been standing long enough to remember other tenants. Other versions of this morning.
He doesn't think about that.
People rarely think about the places that outlast them.
On the street, the city behaves as expected. Cars pass. A woman argues into her phone. A man laughs too loudly at nothing. Somewhere, something important is happening, but not here.
Not yet.
He walks to the bus stop, hands in pockets, shoulders slightly hunched. Not from the cold. From the habit of making himself smaller.
He believes he is unremarkable.
This belief will help kill him later.
The bus arrives three minutes late. He notices because he always notices. He files it away mentally, a useless fact added to a growing collection of useless facts.
When he sits down, a thought crosses his mind—uninvited and oddly phrased.
This feels written.
He frowns.
The thought embarrasses him. It sounds pretentious, the kind of thing said by people who think noticing patterns makes them special. He dismisses it quickly, the way you swat away an insect without really looking at it.
The bus lurches forward.
Across the aisle, a child stares at him. Children do that sometimes. He offers a small, awkward smile.
The child keeps staring.
Too long.
The mother notices and gently turns the child's head away. She mouths an apology without sound. He nods, relieved, and looks out the window.
He misses the moment when the child mouths something back.
Something like, He said you're not ready.
But that's fine. It wouldn't have helped.
The bus ride takes exactly seventeen minutes. This is normal. It has taken exactly seventeen minutes every weekday for the past eight months.
Today is no different.
Until it is.
The bus stops one block earlier than usual.
There's no announcement. No explanation. Just the sudden hiss of brakes and the driver standing up, face pale, eyes unfocused.
"End of the line," the driver says.
Someone complains. Someone always does.
The driver doesn't respond. He just opens the doors.
Our protagonist hesitates. So do the others. For half a second, everyone looks around, silently asking the same question: Is this really happening?
Then, one by one, they stand.
Momentum is a powerful thing.
Outside, the street looks wrong.
Not obviously wrong. Nothing you could point to. The buildings are where they should be. The sky is the right color. But there's a thinness to it, like a photograph stretched slightly too wide.
He steps onto the pavement.
The bus doors close behind him.
He turns to look.
The bus is gone.
Not driving away. Not pulling into traffic.
Gone.
This is where the story should change pace. Where the music would swell, where a better narrator would linger and milk your attention.
I won't.
He stands there for six seconds, heart pounding, mind scrambling for explanations that don't require panic.
"I wasn't paying attention."
"It turned the corner."
"This happens sometimes." He thought
None of these thoughts satisfy him.
That's new.
Someone bumps into him from behind. A real, solid impact. He stumbles, mutters an apology, and the world snaps back into place just enough to be convincing.
Traffic hums. People walk. The city exhales.
He laughs under his breath.
"Get a grip," he tells himself.
He doesn't see the way the street sign flickers when he walks past it.
He gets to work on time anyway. Of course he does. The building recognizes him. The elevator opens without being called. His access card works on the first try.
Reality is very good at covering its tracks.
At his desk, he sits down and opens his computer. The screen lights up instantly.
A document is already open.
That's strange. He never leaves documents open. He's careful about that.
The file has no title.
No cursor.
Just a single line of text, centered on the page.
This story ends in Chapter Fifteen.
He stares at it.
Laughs.
Looks around the office, expecting to catch someone watching him, waiting for his reaction. A prank, maybe. Not a good one, but still.
No one looks up.
He reaches for the mouse.
The screen flickers.
The text changes.
The protagonist dies.
His laugh doesn't come this time.
A third line appears beneath the others, slower, deliberate, as if written by someone who wants to be seen writing.
He doesn't know this yet.
Something cold settles in his chest—not fear, not exactly.
The kind you feel when someone says your name in a crowd without shouting.
He closes the laptop.
Too fast.
Too hard.
The sound echoes louder than it should.
For a moment—just a moment—the office freezes. Fingers hover above keyboards. Coffee hangs mid-sip.
Then everything moves again.
Normal resumes.
He presses his palms flat against the desk, breathing carefully.
"This is stupid," he whispers.
He opens the laptop again.
The document is gone.
His desktop is clean. Empty. Exactly how it should be.
Relief hits him so hard his knees almost give out.
You see? he thinks. Just stress. Just imagination.
He doesn't notice the final line written faintly at the bottom of the screen, pale as a watermark.
Chapter One is almost over.
That's fine.
Nothing important happens in this chapter.
Not yet.