Ephemeral Cataclysm

"Dreams are the quiet architects of the impossible. They start as fleeting thoughts, whispers in the back of the mind, dismissed as fantasies until one day, someone dares to chase them. And in that moment, the line between the impossible and the inevitable begins to blur. Everything we take for granted today was once just an absurd idea in someone's head. The idea of flight was once ridiculed—until the Wright brothers defied gravity with little more than wood, fabric, and sheer obsession. Electricity was once thought to be a passing novelty—until Tesla and Edison waged their war over it, lighting up the world in the process. Even civilizations, the ones that now dictate the course of history, were built on the backs of visionaries who refused to accept the world as it was.

And yet, for every name that echoes through time, there are thousands—millions—who never reached that far. Because dreams, no matter how grand, do not guarantee success. Hard work alone is not enough. Talent is not always rewarded. The world is not a fair judge of ambition. Some men claw their way up from nothing and carve their names into history, while others, just as brilliant, just as driven, are forgotten before they even begin. How many artists died in obscurity, only for their work to be celebrated long after they were gone? How many inventors had their ideas stolen, their names buried beneath those who had more power, more money, more luck?

And then there are the ones whose dreams destroy them. The ones so consumed by their pursuit that they burn out before they ever reach the summit. How many have spent their lives chasing something that was never meant to be theirs? How many have ruined themselves for a future that never came? Dreams inspire, but they also deceive. They give people hope, but hope is not always kind. It can be a drug, a slow poison, convincing a man to keep running even when the road ahead leads to nowhere.

There have been dreams that changed the course of history—visions so powerful they transcended the individual and shaped the fate of entire nations.

That's the thing about dreams. Some become movements. Some reshape history. And some, no matter how noble, remain just that—dreams.

However… what's the alternative? To stop dreaming? To accept things as they are and never dare to want more? That, too, is a kind of death—a quieter one, but no less tragic. Because the truth is, even knowing all this, people will still chase their dreams. Not because they are blind to the risks, but because to dream is to be human. Because sometimes, against all odds, the impossible becomes real. And because, in the end, it is better to have reached and fallen than to have never reached at all."

This would be my answer if I were asked about dreams in a test today. Would I write it? No. Why? Was it because I didn't truly believe it? Because I stole the idea? Because I was too afraid to articulate my real thoughts, wary that I might offend someone?

No. None of that.

If someone were to ask me my honest opinion on their dreams, their grand visions for the future, I wouldn't scoff at them, no matter how improbable their ambitions might seem. I wouldn't dismiss them or call them foolish. In fact, who am I to do so? If anything, I would recognize and appreciate both the person and the enormity of their aspirations. Because at the very least, they have something to hold on to—a sense of direction, an unyielding belief in something greater than themselves.

But would I support them? That's where things become more complicated. Some believe that every dream deserves unwavering encouragement, that to stifle ambition is to commit a moral transgression. I don't share that sentiment. Not every dream is noble, and not every pursuit leads to something good. Many of the world's most intelligent minds stood in opposition to Oppenheimer, warning that his vision would bring catastrophic consequences. The pragmatic saw the danger. The greedy saw an opportunity. The result was history irreversibly altered, not by fate, not by necessity, but by the sheer will of one man and those who enabled him. His visions became reality, and the world paid the price.

Now, who am I to have an opinion on this? Who am I to pass judgment on events far beyond my influence, on choices made by minds infinitely greater than mine? I am no philosopher, no scientist, no figure of authority. I hold no power, no remarkable knowledge, no prestige. I am, at best, an observer—an 18-year-old student attending a university that holds no reputation, coming from a background that holds no significance. I am neither wealthy nor remarkable. I exist in the same faceless crowd as the millions who drift through life, offering their opinions from behind the safety of a screen, comfortably detached from consequence.

So, does that mean I have the right to speak about dreams? Perhaps. Or perhaps the only reason I dwell on them is that I am too afraid to admit that I lack one of my own.

That would make sense, wouldn't it?

Maybe. Because the truth is, I have no dream. No grand ambition, no burning passion, no path laid out before me. I do not know what career I will pursue, what purpose I will dedicate myself to, what future awaits me. I possess no exceptional talents—my academic performance is unremarkable, my athletic ability is passable at best, my social skills are forgettable. Even my interests are fleeting, my likes and dislikes so inconsequential that they hardly warrant acknowledgment.

I do not chase. I do not yearn. I take life as it comes. I let the days pass as they always have, without resistance, without expectation.

That is how I have lived for the past 18 years.

I am Ryan Mitchell.

The sound of my footsteps echoed through the stairwell, each step resounding off the empty walls. I didn't try to muffle them. There was no need. The corridor was mostly deserted, with only a handful of students still lingering near the classrooms—some flipping through their notes, others lost in idle conversation. It was always like this after a test. Those who finished early had long since left, eager to shake off the weight of the exam, while the rest, like me, were among the last to turn in our papers.

I didn't rush. I never did.

What are dreams?

That was the question. A question that should have invited depth, reflection, something personal. But I hadn't written my real thoughts on that paper. Not because I had nothing to say—I had plenty. But because I had already studied the answer straight from the back of the textbook, word for word, exactly as it was meant to be written.

"If you write this, you'll almost certainly get full marks," the teacher had told us. "Of course, you're free to express your own opinions, but I can't guarantee you'll score as high."

So, was that why I held back? Because I feared missing out on a perfect grade? No. That would be too simple, too easy an excuse. The truth was, if I had written my own thoughts, it would have set me apart from the rest of the class—thirty-three students who would, without question, submit the exact same answer. And if I stood out, I would have to sit through the teacher reading my words aloud. Or worse.

It wasn't fear of being wrong. It wasn't fear of losing points. It was the discomfort of being noticed.

And yet, as I left the classroom, I wasn't the only one who had lingered until the last possible second.

"Guess you wrote your own opinion like me, huh?"

The voice came from beside me, casual, effortless, as if he already knew the answer. I turned my head slightly.

Nathan Collins.

He walked at my pace, hands in his pockets, a faint smirk on his face. I wasn't surprised that he had finished late. He wasn't the type to follow the script. And in a way, I envied that about him.

I suppose I could call him my friend. Not because we shared some deep connection, not because we had years of memories tying us together, but simply because it was better than having no friends at all.

And sometimes, that was enough.

"I just wrote what I studied," I replied, keeping my tone neutral, respectful.

I wouldn't deny it—I was a little jealous of him.

Why? The answer was simple. The fact that he could so easily write his own opinion on something as controversial as dreams spoke for itself. He wasn't afraid of standing out. He wasn't afraid of having his words picked apart by a room full of people.

Naturally, Nathan was good at everything. His grades were excellent, he excelled in sports, and he was arguably the most well-liked student in our class—maybe even beyond it. The kind of person others gravitated toward without effort. Someone like him shouldn't have had any reason to associate with someone like me. And yet, for some reason, he did. Why? That was still a mystery to me.

"Oh? Did you have trouble remembering the answer, then?" he asked, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Since you took all the time you had."

Of course, he wouldn't judge me for it. He wasn't the type to look down on people for doing what the majority would have done.

"Yeah," I replied simply.

We descended the stairs, falling into an easy rhythm of conversation. It wasn't anything deep—just idle chatter, something to fill the silence as we made our way down. Strangely, talking to him was easier than talking to anyone else. When he was alone, at least. Maybe it was because he never made a big deal out of things, never pushed too hard.

But that brief comfort didn't last long.

The moment we stepped onto the ground floor, a group of students noticed him and immediately approached.

Nathan, of course, greeted them in that effortless way of his—casual, friendly, as if he belonged among them. They returned the greeting, but only to him.

I knew how this went.

He turned slightly, lifting a hand in a small wave, as if to say goodbye. But I pretended not to notice. Without breaking stride, I walked past them, slipping away before anyone had the chance to acknowledge me.

You could call me an introvert, though I wasn't incapable of holding a conversation with strangers when necessary. I just didn't see the point in lingering where I wasn't needed.

And in a crowd like that, I never was.

I walked along the pavement, offering a nod to the university gardener—an old man with a weathered face and a quiet presence. Our relationship wasn't anything significant, nor was it anything secretive. Just an unspoken understanding formed over a moment that, to others, might have seemed insignificant.

It had happened a few weeks ago.

A puppy had wandered onto the university grounds, barely more than a small heap of white fur against the thick green of the bushes. It lay there, unmoving, its breathing so shallow it was almost imperceptible. People passed by without a second glance. Or maybe they did glance, but their eyes didn't linger long enough to let it register as their problem.

That was the thing. The mind works quickly in these moments, running through a chain of thoughts that, more often than not, lead to inaction.

First, "Do I have time for this? Don't I have a lecture to attend?"

Then, if they do pause—just for a second, just long enough for doubt to creep in—comes the next thought:

"Even if I wanted to help, what could I actually do? It's not like I'm a vet."

And then the rationalizations begin.

"It's just a stray. I've never seen it before. Someone else will probably take care of it."

"Maybe it got lost. Maybe it'll find its way back."

"Maybe this is just the way things are."

And by the time those thoughts settle, their feet have already carried them past the bushes, past the dog, past whatever moment of hesitation they might have had.

Within minutes, it's gone. Forgotten, like it had never even existed in their world to begin with.

I don't claim to know what truly went through their minds. I'm not a mind reader. I'm not some enlightened thinker who understands the hidden mechanisms of human morality. But I do know one thing—some of those very thoughts had passed through my own mind, too.

I had walked right past the puppy, past the gardener working quietly on the bushes, past the scene as if I hadn't seen anything at all.

And maybe I could have kept walking.

Maybe I could have let those thoughts settle, let them sink into the rhythm of my daily life, and let the moment slip away just like the others had.

But instead, I stopped.

Not to act. Not to rush back and play the hero.

I stopped just to think.

It was strange. The moment my feet halted, it felt as though the entire world around me had frozen. Time, normally so relentless, stretched out, turning fluid and weightless. The voices in my head—the ones telling me to keep walking, to mind my own business, to forget—fell silent.

And in that silence, something became clear.

How many others had walked past this spot before me? How many had noticed the lifeless shape in the bushes and gone through the same cycle of thoughts? How many had made the same calculations and concluded that inaction was the best, or at least the easiest, choice?

If all of us had the same thoughts, if we all hesitated for the same reasons, then wasn't it predictable? Wasn't it ordinary?

And if that was the case, then breaking free was simple.

All I had to do was turn around.

But why?

Why do something that so many others had already rejected? Why stand out? If I turned back, maybe someone would notice, maybe they'd whisper, "What a kind-hearted person." Maybe they'd give me a small nod of approval before continuing on, just as indifferent as before.

But in that moment, standing still in a world that never stopped moving, something strange happened.

I felt… weightless.

No hesitation. No fear of judgment. No nagging voice urging me forward. But no voice telling me to go back, either.

It was as if, for that single instant, I was free of everything—the pressure to act, the pressure not to act, the expectations, the unspoken rules that dictated when to care and when to turn away.

For the first time, the choice was entirely mine.

And so, without thinking, without debating, without hesitation, I turned back.

The gardener was the only one who followed up after me. I hadn't expected anything from the others anyway. It was enough that, for once, I had made a decision entirely my own. That, and the simple fact that I couldn't have treated the puppy alone even if I wanted to. A vet check-up was out of the question—I didn't have the money for it.

The old man had apologized that day. Said he was a coward for not doing what a teenager could. It felt strange hearing that from someone who had lived so many more years than me. We treated the puppy together, and when it recovered, we left it at a pet shelter. A little boy and his family adopted it soon after. I had seen the kid once—tiny, maybe six or seven, his hands barely big enough to hold the leash. But his smile had been genuine, filled with something I wasn't sure I'd ever had.

I thought about that as I walked.

The school gates were already open by the time I reached them, their rusted hinges groaning against the wind. A few students were still lingering near the entrance, waiting for their rides or chatting in small groups, their voices blending into a low, indistinct murmur. None of them paid me any mind.

Stepping past the gates, I turned onto the cracked sidewalk that stretched along the street. The sky had settled into an ashen gray, the last remnants of the sun bleeding into the horizon. Cars passed by, their headlights cutting through the dimming light, and for a moment, I watched the people inside—some alone, some talking, some staring blankly ahead as if moving on autopilot.

I kept walking.

A convenience store stood at the corner, its neon sign flickering between life and death. I stopped there briefly, not because I needed anything, but just to let the moment stretch a little longer before heading home. Inside, the cashier sat behind the counter, scrolling through his phone, barely looking up when the door chimed at my entrance. I wandered through the aisles, running my fingers over plastic packaging and cold cans, letting the artificial hum of the refrigerators press against the silence in my head.

I didn't buy anything.

When I stepped back outside, the streetlights had started to buzz to life, casting fractured shadows across the pavement.

Home wasn't far, just a few more blocks. The familiar route unfolded before me—past the bakery that had long since closed for the day, past the narrow alley that always smelled of damp concrete, past the same old stray cat that perched on the fence like it owned the whole street.

And then, home.

It wasn't anything special. Just a small apartment complex with walls that had seen better days. The front door creaked as I unlocked it, stepping inside to the familiar scent of detergent and the faint trace of my mother's perfume.

What did I do at home?

Read books. Watch videos. Scroll through the endless noise of the internet—the thoughts and opinions of millions across the globe, all screaming into the void. I wasn't particularly into the news, but I glanced at it now and then, just enough to stay aware.

I made myself some hot chocolate. The scent of cocoa lingered in the air, mixing with the faint chill seeping through the apartment walls. I took my time, stirring the drink slowly, watching the surface ripple before bringing the cup to my lips. The warmth spread through my fingers, down my throat—a quiet kind of comfort. It kept my mind light, helped me unwind.

I don't live alone. My mother comes home from work around 10 PM, always exhausted but never showing it outright. She smiles, asks about my day, makes small talk like any other parent would. But beneath that, there's something else—something I don't think she ever lets slip.

My father, though… he's been gone for a long time. An accident took him before I even entered middle school. It's strange. When people lose someone, they talk about remembering—holding onto the past so it doesn't slip away. But I don't have anything to hold onto. My father exists to me as a concept more than a person, a name rather than a presence. Whatever memories I should have are either too faint or never existed to begin with.

But my mother remembers him. She remembers everything.

She tells me stories, details the moments they shared, the things he used to say, the way he laughed. Sometimes, she talks as if I should remember too, as if the memories are buried somewhere inside me, waiting to be uncovered. I don't know how to tell her that they aren't there. That they never were.

"It's alright," she told me once when I admitted I couldn't remember. "Not having memories of him might be easier for now."

Easier for whom?

I don't ask. I just nod, sip my drink, and let the conversation fade.

My eyes drift to the manga lying open on my desk. The pages are slightly curled from the way I left it, a half-finished story waiting to be picked up again. I'm not really into anime, cartoons, or manga. At least, I wasn't. Nathan was the one who introduced them to me, practically forcing a stack of books into my hands one day, claiming I'd be missing out if I didn't at least try.

"It's pretty popular," he had said. "Just give it a chance. You might like it."

I humored him.

I could see the appeal. The sheer variety alone was overwhelming—single-volume stories, serialized epics, fantasy, romance, horror, psychological thrillers. There was something for everyone. And somehow, out of everything, the one that caught my attention was this: "Requiem for the Summoned."

An isekai. A reincarnation story.

One of the most overdone, oversaturated genres out there, yet somehow, it never gets old. People love the idea of being transported to another world—of dying in one reality and waking up in another, stronger, luckier, unburdened by their past mistakes. A clean slate. A second chance. A new identity in a world that doesn't know who they used to be.

It's wishful thinking wrapped in fiction. A fantasy people secretly hope could be real.

I wouldn't say I love it, but I won't deny how easy it is to get hooked. These kinds of stories pull you in fast, demand little in return. The setting shifts, the rules bend, the logic gets rewritten at the author's convenience. No need to worry about realism—if something doesn't make sense, just chalk it up to "another world, another system." It's the perfect genre for escapism.

And maybe, in its own way, that's why it thrives.

I set my cup down on the table, the faint clink of ceramic against wood barely registering in my ears. Leaning back, I let my head sink into the chair, my gaze drifting upward. The ceiling fan spun in slow, rhythmic circles, its whirring hum filling the silence of the room. At first, the sound was noticeable—a constant mechanical drone—but the longer I stared, the more it faded into the background, becoming something distant, almost forgotten.

Then, my phone buzzed against the armrest. The vibration sent a dull tremor through the chair, a small reminder that I wasn't completely alone in this quiet space.

I exhaled, dragging my hand over to grab it, unlocking the screen with a slow swipe. A message from Nathan.

"Yo, wanna come to a party? Lucas is hosting. He said I could bring someone, so come with me."

A party.

I read the message twice, maybe three times, before setting the phone down on my lap. Nathan had invited me out before, but I rarely said yes. Crowds, loud music, people talking over one another—it never really appealed to me. The idea of standing there, drink in hand, pretending to be invested in some conversation I didn't care about seemed more exhausting than anything else. And yet, Nathan always asked. Maybe he thought one day I'd surprise him.

I glanced at the message again before typing out a response.

"Got a headache. Think I'll just rest."

The reply came almost instantly.

"You sure? Might be fun. You barely go out, man."

I stared at the screen for a moment before locking the phone and tossing it onto the couch. Not tonight. I wasn't in the mood.

I shut my eyes, trying to let the silence take over. The warmth of the hot chocolate still lingered on my tongue, and my limbs felt heavy, weighed down by the kind of fatigue that didn't come from physical exhaustion, but from something else—something harder to name.

I'd just sit here for a while, let the quiet settle around me, let my mind go blank.

But it didn't.

Instead, my thoughts circled back to Nathan's message. A party. A change of pace. A reason to be somewhere other than this apartment, staring at the ceiling or skimming through random videos online.

I told myself it didn't matter, that I wouldn't enjoy it anyway. But still, the thought lingered.

Five minutes passed like that—eyes closed, thoughts drifting, debating something as trivial as whether to leave my apartment for a few hours. Then, before I could overthink it any further, I reached for my phone.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a second longer than necessary before I finally typed the message.

"I'm coming."

I sent another message to my mom.

"Going out with Nathan. Will be back soon."

The screen's glow cast a faint light over my hands. I watched it for a while, waiting, hoping to see the familiar vibration of a reply. Nothing. The time at the top read 5:49 PM.

I exhaled, locking the phone and setting it down. She was probably busy. Or maybe she hadn't checked her phone yet. Either way, there was no point in waiting.

I reached for the jacket lying over the washing machine. It was mine—light, comfortable, still carrying the faintest trace of my mother's perfume. A scent that had lingered on it ever since the last time she did the laundry. I held it for a second, then put it back.

Instead, I turned toward the bedroom, my steps slow and deliberate. The closet door creaked slightly as I pulled it open. My fingers brushed over the familiar fabric before gripping it fully and pulling it out.

A leather jacket. My father's.

It had been here for years, untouched. The material had softened over time, though the edges had started to crack. The scent of old fabric and something faintly metallic still clung to it.

I stared at it for a long moment before slipping it on.

It was heavier than I expected, a bit too big on the shoulders but not uncomfortably so. The sleeves covered my wrists perfectly. I flexed my fingers, adjusting to the weight, then let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

I glanced at my phone again. 5:56. No reply.

I walked back to the kitchen and ran the tap, rinsing out the lone cup in the sink. The water was colder than I expected, sending a sharp sting through my fingertips. I let it run for longer than necessary, the white noise filling the quiet space.

By the time I was done, the clock read 6:00 PM.

I grabbed my phone, stuffed it into my pocket, and stepped out. The lock clicked behind me, the sound oddly final in the stillness of the hallway.

Outside, the air was crisp, carrying the lingering dampness of an earlier drizzle. The pavement was still dark in some places, the moisture reflecting the glow of passing headlights. The sky was shifting—a deepening blue, teetering between day and night, where the first stars were just beginning to push through.

Nathan's place wasn't far. They could've picked me up, but I saw no reason for it. I preferred the walk.

The streetlights flickered on as I moved. A slow rhythm of footsteps against concrete, the occasional hum of a car passing by. The city wasn't loud here—not like the main roads or the busier parts of town. Just the soft rustle of wind through the trees, the distant sound of someone's television playing through an open window.

I walked without rush, without urgency.

Maybe I was stalling.

It wasn't like I had never hung out with Nathan before, but this was different. A party. A house full of people I didn't know. Loud music, small talk, the pressure of socializing.

I wasn't the type for these things.

But maybe I'd meet someone new. Maybe I'd even talk to some girls.

I scoffed at the thought, shaking my head. Dreamy.

A car rumbled past, momentarily breaking the quiet. I kept walking.

Nathan's place wasn't much farther now.

I reached Nathan's house just as the streetlights fully flickered on, casting long shadows over the pavement. His place was a bit farther from the main road, tucked into a quieter neighborhood lined with similar-looking houses—modest, with small porches and dimly lit windows.

A black sedan was parked out front. The music coming from inside was faint, just a distant thrum behind closed doors. I stopped at the edge of the driveway, adjusting my father's jacket slightly.

I wasn't in a hurry to go inside.

The thought of stepping into a room filled with unfamiliar faces, forced conversations, and the weight of being an outsider pressed at the back of my mind. I didn't regret coming, but I wasn't eager either.

I pulled out my phone. 6:17 PM. Still no reply from my mom.

The wind had picked up slightly, carrying the scent of damp pavement and distant smoke from somewhere. I rubbed my hands together briefly, stuffing them back into my pockets.

The door swung open a minute later.

Nathan stepped out first, a grin already forming when he saw me. His hair was slightly messy, like he'd been moving around a lot inside, but his shirt was crisp, and his cologne was just strong enough to notice.

Behind him, two other guys followed—Darren and Jason. I recognized them from school, though we'd never talked much. Darren was taller, with a build that suggested he worked out regularly. Jason, on the other hand, had that casual ease to him, like someone who never really stressed about anything.

Nathan clapped a hand on my shoulder as he reached me. "Damn, thought you weren't gonna show."

I shrugged. "Almost didn't."

Jason chuckled. "Well, lucky for you, we're heading somewhere better."

Darren unlocked the sedan with a quick press of his key fob. "Lucas' new house. Out in the middle of nowhere."

Nathan shot me a glance. "You cool with that?"

I wasn't sure what I expected when I agreed to this, but I also wasn't about to back out now. I gave a small nod. "Yeah, whatever."

Nathan smirked. "That's the spirit."

We got into the car, Jason taking the front passenger seat while Nathan and I settled in the back. The leather seats were cold at first, but the heater kicked in shortly after Darren started the engine.

The drive started off quiet, just the low murmur of the radio playing. City lights faded behind us, replaced by longer stretches of road lined with trees. The deeper we went, the fewer cars we saw, until it was just us and the occasional flicker of headlights in the opposite lane.

Somewhere along the way, Jason's phone buzzed. He checked it and grinned. "Girls are ahead of us."

Nathan perked up. "Which ones?"

Jason smirked. "Lucas' friends. He said they left a bit earlier, but they're already on the road."

Darren huffed. "They better not have gotten lost. The turnoff to that place is a nightmare."

The neighborhood streets were quiet, bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. Rows of houses passed by in a blur as Darren's car rolled smoothly over the asphalt, the tires humming beneath us. The world here felt familiar—rows of neatly spaced homes, the occasional flicker of a television behind curtained windows, the distant barking of a dog. But as we neared the edge of town, that familiarity faded. The last gas station slipped past, its neon sign flickering weakly against the growing dark. The road stretched ahead, empty, leading straight to the highway.

Darren merged smoothly, the car picking up speed as we hit the open road. The streetlights disappeared, replaced by the vastness of the night sky. The hum of passing vehicles was distant, scattered, the occasional pair of headlights flashing by in the opposite lane. The music from the radio played low, barely cutting through the steady rush of air slipping through the cracked windows. The further we went, the fewer signs of life there were—no gas stations, no diners, just the dark silhouette of trees in the distance, swallowing the sky.

Then came the turnoff. A narrow, single-lane road branching off from the highway, its entrance barely marked. Darren took it without hesitation, the car bumping slightly as we left the smooth pavement behind. The road twisted ahead, winding its way into the forest, the trees pressing in from either side. Their shadows stretched long, reaching toward the car like fingers in the dark. A thick silence settled in, only broken by the faint rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of insects.

It felt like we had crossed some invisible threshold. The town, the highway, everything familiar—it was behind us now. Ahead was something different. Isolated. Nathan turned to me. "You good?"

I glanced out the window. The sky was darker now, the road ahead stretching into what felt like endless black. The trees on either side loomed taller, their silhouettes barely visible against the night.

I exhaled. "Yeah."

Nathan grinned. "Good. Let's have some fun."

The road ahead stretched into darkness, flanked by dense trees that loomed over us, their bare branches intertwining like skeletal fingers. Streetlights had long since disappeared, leaving only the high beams of Darren's car to cut through the thickening night.

I shifted in my seat, the hum of the engine a steady backdrop to the low murmur of conversation between Jason and Nathan. Darren, behind the wheel, drove with the confidence of someone who had done this a thousand times—one hand relaxed on the steering wheel, the other tapping idly against the gear shift.

Jason, always restless, was fiddling with the radio, flipping through stations that fizzled in and out with static. Every now and then, a song would start playing, only for him to huff in dissatisfaction and switch again.

Nathan, leaning against the window, was quiet. His gaze was fixed outside, watching the dark blur of trees passing by. There was something about the way the trees stood, motionless and dense, that made it feel like we were driving into something untouched—something separate from the world we knew.

The isolation settled in. The deeper we went, the more distant everything felt.

Then, up ahead, a pair of red taillights glowed in the distance—a car, moving steadily but slower than we were.

Jason smirked. "Think we should pass them?"

Darren let out a short laugh, flexing his fingers over the wheel. "No doubt. Watch this."

Nathan turned slightly, glancing at me with a raised brow. "Hope you don't mind a little fun."

Before I could respond, Darren pressed down on the accelerator.

The car rumbled beneath us as we picked up speed, the glow of the taillights ahead growing closer, larger. The air inside the car shifted—the quiet hum of conversation giving way to something more electric, an unspoken excitement that hung between us.

Darren edged closer to the vehicle ahead. The car's sleek exterior reflected our headlights, its brake lights flickering as it held its steady pace.

Jason leaned forward. "Just go for it, man."

Darren didn't need the encouragement.

The tires gripped the road as he veered slightly into the side, the growl of the engine deepening as we pulled up alongside the other car.

For a brief moment, we were side by side.

Their interior lights flickered as we passed, revealing four figures—a driver and three passengers. All girls.

The girl in the passenger seat turned her head, her dark eyes locking onto ours. A moment of surprise flickered across her face, but it was quickly replaced by something else—something playful.

She smirked.

And then she mouthed something.

I couldn't hear it over the engine, but I didn't need to. The meaning was clear enough.

Jason laughed, nudging Nathan. "Oh, they're not gonna let that slide."

Darren pulled ahead, cutting back into the lane.

Nathan turned in his seat, watching the car behind us. "They're speeding up."

Headlights flared in the rearview mirror.

The girls' car swerved to the left, slipping into the side just as we had. But this time, they weren't just passing.

They blitzed past us, their tires kicking up small flecks of gravel.

Jason let out a whistle. "Damn, they're fast."

Darren grinned, his hands tightening on the wheel. "Think I'll let them win?"

He floored the gas.

The engine roared as we surged forward, chasing the red taillights ahead. The road twisted, winding through the forest like a serpent, the trees blurring past in streaks of darkness. The girls' car remained just out of reach, their laughter barely audible over the rush of wind and the growl of the engines.

The thrill of the moment swallowed everything else. The tension of the night, the unfamiliarity of the place—all of it faded, replaced by the reckless joy of the chase.

Nathan was grinning now, the quiet, reserved expression he usually wore replaced with something looser. Jason whooped as we gained ground.

The girls' car swerved slightly, teasing us, their silhouettes flickering through the rear windshield. The passenger—the one who had smirked at us—turned slightly, raising her hand in a casual wave.

Darren narrowed his eyes, gripping the wheel.

And then—

The fog rolled in.

Thick. Heavy. Almost unnatural.

One second, the road was clear. The next, everything was swallowed in a dense, pale mist.

The headlights ahead blurred, their glow smothered by the fog. The trees on either side of the road became hazy shadows, their outlines distorted.

Nathan sat forward. "Shit. Where'd they go?"

Jason squinted, peering ahead. "I don't see them anymore."

Darren slowed slightly, the tension shifting. "They're probably just—"

The brake lights exploded from the fog.

The girls' car was right there, stopped dead in the middle of the road.

No time to react.

The impact came in an instant.

A violent jolt. The world tilting. The screech of metal against metal.

Something slammed against my chest—hard—stealing the breath from my lungs.

The sound of shattering glass.

The sensation of weightlessness, of the car lifting—spinning—crushing—

Then—

Darkness.

Hours had passed.

A peddler had been walking the roadside path when he spotted the wreckage. His steps slowed, the dim glow of his flashlight catching twisted metal and shattered glass scattered across the pavement. He took a sharp breath, his gut tightening at the sight before him—two vehicles, crumpled and broken, steam rising in the cool night air.

It didn't take long for the sirens to wail through the silence. Flashing red and blue lights bathed the road in flickering color, police vehicles and ambulances pulling up to the gruesome scene. Officers stepped out, hands resting on their belts, eyes hardened at the sight of the mangled remains. The paramedics moved first, approaching with stretchers they wouldn't need.

The stench of gasoline lingered in the air, mingling with something more metallic—blood.

The headlights from the emergency vehicles illuminated the bodies. Some were still in the cars, others had been thrown from the impact, sprawled lifelessly on the cold asphalt. The driver of the first car, a young man, lay slumped over the steering wheel, glass embedded in his cheek, blood trailing down his arm. A girl had been thrown through the windshield, her body lying motionless a few feet ahead, hair matted with dirt and crimson. The others—scattered, some tangled in their seatbelts, some resting against the trees like discarded mannequins.

A police officer stepped carefully through the wreckage, his eyes scanning the scene before settling on something small, something clutched in the hands of a boy who had landed face-up on the road, his fingers frozen stiff around it. A phone.

He knelt down, prying the device from the boy's grip. His uniformed colleague looked over his shoulder as he pressed the side button. The lock screen blinked to life.

A notification.

"Sure, dear. But please return home by 9 PM."

The officer glanced at the time. 11:59 PM.

The seconds ticked down. 12… 11… 10…

He exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the cold air. Around him, the medics shook their heads, confirming what was already obvious.

The boy wasn't going home. None of them were.

9… 8… 7…

The officer stood, tucking the phone into an evidence bag. The screen dimmed again, casting the world back into shadow.

6… 5… 4…

The sirens continued, an empty sound in the hollow night.

3…2..1.