Coral snapped her apocalypse novel shut and glared at the cover. The summer grass prickled against her arms as she sprawled across the park lawn, but she couldn't relax. Honestly, if the world ended tomorrow, half the protagonists in these stories would deserve it.
They hoarded mountains of supplies they could never finish in ten lifetimes—not to build shelters, not to protect anyone, not even to preserve knowledge for the future. No seeds. No books. No archives. Just piles of food and weapons, hidden away while they smugly declared that saving humanity wasn't their responsibility.
Coral found that mindset infuriating. Was basic compassion really impossible? Firefighters risked their lives for strangers. Doctors endured exhaustion, abuse, even violence, and still healed. Humanity survived because people refused to give up on each other. So why did every fictional apocalypse hero act like decency was too much to ask?
A sharp, electronic ding sliced through her thoughts.
["Hello, Coral. This is Apocalyptic System 001. You have been selected as a candidate to save humanity."]
Coral froze. Her fingers tightened around the book. "What… the—"
[The apocalypse will arrive in two years. I am offering you a system to prepare.]
Her stomach dropped. Black spots danced at the edges of her vision. She scrambled to her feet, shaking her head violently as if she could knock the voice out of her skull. No. Absolutely not. This wasn't real.
She fumbled for her phone and called a taxi with the desperation of someone clinging to sanity. La, la, la… she sang loudly, drowning out the voice.
['Coral, wait. Listen to me.']
The system's tone was calm, almost clinical. According to its database, she was supposed to be courageous, level‑headed, and difficult to shock. Yet here she was, sprinting straight into denial like a startled deer.
The taxi arrived. Coral practically dove inside, begging the driver to hurry. At the hospital, she marched to the psychiatry department and reported that she was "hearing bizarre things." The doctors taught her breathing exercises and placed her in a calming room. She declined distractions. She needed to think. The system had gone silent, which somehow made everything worse.
If the world truly ended, survival would become brutal. People would reveal the darkest parts of themselves. One mistake could cost a life. Her mind raced through every apocalypse scenario she'd read—zombies, mutated creatures, natural disasters, alien invasions. Some worlds even had all four.
And then there was her family: seven brothers, thirteen male cousins—enough testosterone to power a small nation. Could she protect them? Could she protect anyone?
She wasn't a saint. She wouldn't meddle in every injustice she saw. But she didn't want to lose the moral compass that made her human.
[Candidate Coral.]
[You have been selected to receive Apocalypse System 001.]
[Acceptance binds you to humanity's survival protocol.]
[Refusal erases this opportunity.]
[Time is running out. Decide.]
Coral stared at the empty hospital room, her heart hammering. The words echoed in her mind, but the voice was still just that—a voice. Nothing tangible. No proof the apocalypse was real.
She couldn't just accept it. Not yet. She needed confirmation. She needed someone trained to separate hallucination from reality.
"I… need to see a psychologist," she whispered to herself, standing up. "I need to make sense of this before I do anything."
The thought of explaining "hearing a system in my head" made her cheeks burn. But she clenched her fists. Better to face skepticism than blind obedience.
As she left the calming room, her mind raced through what could come next. The system was waiting, the apocalypse was coming, and one choice could define her life—or end it.
She didn't yet know if she could trust the system. She didn't yet know what survival would demand.
But the psychologist—someone real, human—could help her take the first step toward understanding it all.
And for now, that was all she could do.
But the system wasn't done with her yet.