"Hell is other people."— Jean-Paul Sartre
< The long-whispered end did not arrive with the roar of a meteor or with the expected grand divine signs. The apocalypse did not enter like a guest. It slipped in like a thief. When the gates of a metaphorical purgatory opened onto the earth, it became clear. How thin the mask of civilization truly was—something humanity had spent millennia painting over itself.
The polite crowds who had smiled at one another just yesterday, who had said good morning in passing, fell back into the dark corridors of evolution within the first hours—when electricity died, water went silent, and laws remained only as ink on paper. The vast inheritance of so-called civilization was stained in seconds. When the brilliant city lights went out, the ancient beast inside humanity woke up.
Cries of pain were drowned out by the sound of throats being torn before they could reach the sky. Prayers whispered with the last breath became empty echoes with no answer. Because the apocalypse was not merely about being left without shelter. It was the moment you began to see the shoulder beside you not as refuge, but as a step to climb on.
The instinct to survive became acid poured over morality—first dissolving politeness, then conscience, and finally the very concept of what it meant to be human. Welcome to the moment when a brother stabbed a brother for a slice of bread, when mothers first saw the stranger in their children's eyes. This is what real destruction looks like.
Now tell me, dear savior—every ending must be a beginning, mustn't it?
But this beginning does not rise with the splendor of a phoenix from ashes. It crawls with the desperation of a rat in the mud. The biological clock of the universe resets itself once more, its gears lubricated with blood. This divine judgment offered to you is not a blessing. It is a burden.
Avenge what you have lost; demand an accounting for the peaceful past that was stolen from you. In this new world, dying as a good person is a fool's errand. What's the use in dying like a dog for nothing? Never settle for what you've been given. Politeness is dead; now, there is only hunger. Start fighting for more. If you have no strength left to fight, you still have nails and teeth. Use them.
And what is your reward at the end of all this agony, my love? That single, filthy breath you draw. One last peaceful night of sleep... that is your prize. The grim joy of outliving all those soulless bastards. In this hell where tomorrow is never guaranteed, your reward is the savage freedom of living just one more day! >
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"Please, I beg you, don't—"
The words were cut off, replaced by a choking sound from deep in the throat.
Sloane covered her mouth with both hands to suppress her sobs. What had begun as a mere cosmic anomaly—an ordinary solar eclipse—had spiraled into a ruthless slaughter, a madness that turned people into butchers within minutes.
The poor woman, unable to understand what was happening, had locked herself inside a restroom in the metro station. When she bolted the door, she had heard someone pounding on it. Despite the crying and begging outside, she hadn't opened it. Fear had glued her in place.
Then she had heard the final words.
How long had it been since the noise outside stopped? Time had lost its shape. Her panic was rising, tangled with the shock she still hadn't escaped.
Suddenly, the power cut. Sloane let out a sharp cry of terror. The outer world fell silent, replaced by the hum of the tiny restroom she was trapped in. The dripping tap made her trembling body flinch with every drop. She waited for creatures to leap out of the darkness and tear into her—but nothing came.
Her heart hammered against her ribs as she reached into her bag. Her fingers fumbled, searching for something—anything. Finally, they brushed against a small object.
She pulled it out: a lighter.
A tiny flame pierced the darkness, and she finally breathed again. The light barely reached past her knees. The same cheap lighter that never worked on the first try when she wanted a cigarette now felt like hope.
The trembling flame revealed her sweat-soaked face and the filthy tiles around her. Every sound made her heart leap into her throat. She was terrified a shadow would slip through the narrow gap beneath the door. Each drop of water hit the silence like a hammer blow.
"Breathe," she whispered to herself. "Just breathe."
Then the flame bent.
There was no draft, yet the fire acted as if an invisible hand were pushing it aside. Then, a cold, clinical blue light erupted, drowning out the orange glow. Sloane tried to scream, but the sound caught in her throat.
A digital window floated in the darkness before her eyes.
[System Integration Complete]
[User Identifying…] [Assigning Class...]
Sloane tried to reach out and touch the light with trembling fingers, but her hand passed through the void. In that moment, the cold, distant voice of the narrator echoed in her mind—the same dramatic whisper she had heard during the Integration, now sounding like a final judgment.
[Class Assigned: The Author] [Rank: Common (☆)] [Difficulty: ☆☆☆☆]
[Description: A dreamer lost within reality. You have no place on the battlefield.]
[Attribute Lock: Active]
[A writer does not need muscle. All potential has been redirected to the 'Charisma' attribute.]
[Special Passive: Perspective]
[Perspective: You can see the narrative within the minds of others and bend that narrative with subtle wordplay.]
Sloane traced her fingers over the screen. The light didn't touch her skin; it seeped into her consciousness. The stats she saw felt like a punch to the gut.
[Applying Universal Standard Array: 15, 14, 13, 12, 10, 8] [Assigning to Attributes...]
The numbers began to spin rapidly. Sloane stared blankly at the window. Her fear was slowly being overtaken by a hollow curiosity. Was this really the end of the world?
[ERROR! ERROR! Standard Array Cannot Be Applied!]
[Executing Solution: Redirecting All Potential to Charisma...]
[Calculating:...]
It felt as though a dam had burst inside Sloane's mind. An intense pressure seeped into her brain, blurring her vision. When the screen finally stabilized, the resulting table looked like the birth of an anomaly.
[Current Stat Table]
Strength (STR): 8 (Locked)
Agility (AGI): 8 (Locked)
Constitution (CON): 8 (Locked)
Intelligence (INT): 8 (Locked)
Perception (PER): 8 (Locked)
Charisma (CHA): 32 (Main Attribute)
[Status: Imbalanced Character Profile, Presence Pressure at Critical Level]
Sloane drew a deep breath. Her lungs burned due to her 8 points of Constitution, but the breath that escaped her lips was dense enough to make the very air vibrate.
32 Charisma... This wasn't a beauty score.
"Only eight?" she murmured. The terror in her voice bounced off the tiles. "Eight... a child might have a better chance than me."
The System hadn't just given her a class; it had locked her in a cage. She felt a strange heaviness in her limbs, as if invisible chains had wrapped around her joints, pruning away any possibility of growth. The stat lock wasn't a warning; it was an execution. In this world, the survivors would be those who could run. Sloane was the weak victim who would lose her breath before reaching the top of the stairs.
Then, her eyes flickered back to her class: The Author
She let out a hysterical laugh, grieving for her own helplessness. "The Author? This is a joke." While civilization outside had turned into a slaughterhouse, was the System really handing her a pen and telling her to write? It was like an executioner handing a victim a quill to write their final words. This wasn't a blessing; it was the System's way of mocking her.
She wasn't the hero of this apocalypse; she was merely an extra, meant to record the triumphs or deaths of others. The world was regressing into an age where only the strong survived. Why had this stupid System given her this class when her real profession wasn't even writing?
"I'm going to end up just like the woman on the other side of this door," she said, her voice trembling.
Her thoughts were severed like a blade as the door she was leaning against was suddenly shaken with force. She was thrust back into the heart of the nightmare.
"Is it stuck?" a voice asked. It sounded so calm. "Is someone in there?"
It was polite. When Sloane heard that soft tone, she felt her defenses crumble. In this blood-soaked station, it was the most human sound she could imagine. She was certain that whoever was behind the door wasn't the psychopath she had heard earlier.
"Don't be afraid," the man said. His voice carried a fatherly warmth. "I'm just trying to help. My name is Mark, and I'm an emergency volunteer. You're not alone."
Just as she was about to open her mouth and beg for help, the translucent blue window flickered into existence.
[Perspective Triggered] [Tutorial: An Author doesn't just hear what characters say; they 'read' their intent.]
Sloane watched as her passive skill went to work. Her vision rippled. The door was still there, but it no longer felt like a barrier; it looked like a sheet of paper stained with ink.
[Notification: Since you do not know the target, Perspective will be used briefly.] [Initiating Perspective...]
Inner monologue: Alone. In a confined space. No way out. I think I heard her voice tremble... Yes, she's terrified. Good. Let her think she's safe first. People open doors when they think they're safe. I have to move fast when the door opens. Can't give her a chance to scream. It's better if no one else wanders over here.
Sloane's blood ran cold. She had been ready to view the man as a savior, but Perspective had shown her the anatomy of a murderer. The voice in his mind was sharper than the fists pounding on the door. With her low constitution, she knew she wouldn't last a second. But now, she had a card to play.
Mark must have interpreted the silence as shock. He chuckled softly; his voice still sounded as pure as an angel's. "Sweetie, I know you're in there. Please, trust me. I can get you out of here."
Inner monologue: I'm losing time. But if I rush, she'll get suspicious. My voice needs to be soft. Like a savior. People believe in saviors. Her first reflex will be to step back when the door opens... that's when I'll grab her. If I strike suddenly, she won't be able to resist. Ah, my palms are itching.
Sloane drew a deep breath. Her high charisma pushed aside the ugly whispers and stilled her trembling hands. The fear was still there, but it was under control. Sloane parted her lips. Her throat was dry, but her voice was surprisingly steady.
"How many people have you killed?"
There was a sudden silence on the other side. "...What?"
"How many," Sloane repeated, her voice cold—nearly mechanical. "How many people did you kill before you got here?"
The effect of Perspective vanished instantly. As the blue screen faded, the muddy voice in the man's mind dissipated. Only the calm tone remained. "Sweetie," the man said again. "I'm just trying to help."
"Answer me."
The man let out a short laugh. Forced. Irritated. "What are you talking about? I haven't—"
"How many of them did you gain the trust of," Sloane interrupted, "only to murder them brutally?"
This time, the silence stretched longer. The breathing behind the door shifted. The fatherly warmth was gone. A harshness had crept into his tone. "Look," the man said slowly. "You're scared. You're talking nonsense. Please open the door…"
Sloane panicked. Is there any other way? she wondered frantically.