Chapter 1 – The Meteor Shower Special (With Extra Crunch)

It was supposed to be just another regular day.

The sun was up. Cars clogged the streets outside. People argued over the best noodle toppings. And inside a small noodle house on the corner of the block, Bob wiped the tables like usual—slowly and half-heartedly, like a man who knew the floor wasn't going anywhere.

"Bob! Wipe those tables properly!" Grandpa's voice bellowed from the kitchen.

"I am," Bob called back, dragging the rag over the same spot twice.

"Looks clean to me."

"It's not clean until I say it's clean!"

Bob shrugged and wiped it a third time.

"There. Perfect."

Bob never thought much about life. After his parents died when he was a baby—some accident no one liked to talk about—his grandpa raised him in the same quiet neighborhood, running a small noodle shop tucked between bigger, flashier places. It wasn't famous, but the regulars liked it. Grandpa cooked. Bob cleaned. That was life. Simple, quiet, and good enough.

He was hard to miss—6'7", nearly 380 pounds, built like a wall with a soft belly instead of abs. Short, messy hair, small eyes, and a face that always looked half-asleep. Not musclebound, not flashy. Just big. Steady.

A familiar laugh came from the doorway.

"You're gonna get fired from your own family's business at this rate."

Bob looked up to see Gabe walking in, waving lazily.

"Hey, genius."

"Hey, idiot," Gabe said with a grin.

"Busy day?"

Bob gestured at the empty seats. "Yeah. Can barely keep up."

"Mind if I slow you down some more?" Gabe flopped into the booth near the window, setting his backpack on the seat beside him.

Gabe had been around as long as Bob could remember. Childhood friends from the same neighborhood. Same schools. Same after-school fights behind the gym—though usually with Gabe hiding behind Bob. Where Bob was huge, Gabe was the opposite. Average height, lean, with neatly combed dark hair and sharp hazel eyes that always seemed to be thinking ten steps ahead. His clothes were never out of place, like he took getting dressed as seriously as breathing.

And now? Still together. Still surviving. Except now Bob worked, and Gabe was... well... still looking.

"Thought you had an interview today," Bob said as he dropped a menu in front of him.

"They canceled." Gabe sighed and scratched the back of his head.

"Said something about the meteor. Like the world's ending or something."

Bob smirked. "Yeah. Scary rock from space. Real end-of-the-world stuff."

Gabe opened his phone and held it out. "I'm serious! Look at this."

On-screen, a reporter stood on a rooftop with the sky behind her, the glowing meteor now visible like a second sun.

"Experts are still debating the possible outcomes as the meteor enters the atmosphere," the reporter said, her voice steady but tight.

"While most believe it will break apart and burn up before impact, a growing number of scientists suggest fragments may survive entry. Several theories are being shared online, including the possibility of localized damage from falling debris. Authorities are urging the public to remain calm and stay indoors until further notice."

Behind her, the pinkish glow of the meteor shimmered like a bad omen.

"They said it's gonna burn up," Bob muttered, barely looking.

"That's what they thought yesterday. Now they're not so sure." Gabe scrolled through the comments.

"Whole world's watching. Feels like one of those disaster movies."

"Again, to repeat—while the meteor's core is expected to dissolve, experts now believe some pieces could make it to the surface. But there is no cause for panic—"

The broadcast cut briefly as the signal flickered.

Gabe squinted at the screen. "Yeah, no cause for panic. They say that right before it all goes to hell."

Bob leaned over to look. "Looks kinda pretty, though."

"That's not supposed to be the takeaway, Bob."

Bob snorted. "Long as it doesn't hit my lunch, I'm good."

Still, he'd never seen Gabe this worked up over a news report before. Maybe it wasn't just hype this time. Maybe.

"Speaking of lunch... you joining me, or what?"

Bob glanced toward the kitchen. "Grandpa! Two bowls!"

"Coming up!" Grandpa shouted.

"And Bob, don't think sitting down gets you out of work!"

"Wouldn't dream of it," Bob muttered, sliding into the booth across from Gabe.

They sat there for a bit, watching the live stream. News anchors argued over what would happen. Some said the meteor would shatter. Others warned of global disaster. Gabe leaned closer to the window, peering at the sky.

"Shouldn't we, like... evacuate or something?"

Bob yawned. "Where? The noodles are here."

Gabe rolled his eyes. "I swear, one day your stomach's gonna get us both killed."

A minute later, Grandpa shuffled out with two steaming bowls of noodles. "Eat up, boys. Might be the last meal you get if those scientists are right."

"Wow, thanks for the optimism," Gabe muttered.

Bob grabbed his chopsticks. "Food's food."

Grandpa chuckled. "And don't waste any."

"Got it."

---

They were halfway through their bowls when the first boom shook the building.

The first boom hit like a punch to the chest, rattling the windows so hard the glass nearly cracked.

Somewhere outside, tires screeched, and the sharp sound of twisting metal cut through the air.

Distant car alarms blared. People on the street stopped. Looked up. Then someone screamed.

Gabe sat bolt upright. "Uh... was that...?"

Bob looked out the window. "Huh."

Fires in the distance. Smoke curling. People running. Maybe it really was one of those disaster movies. He just hoped the credits wouldn't roll before lunch was over.

The meteor wasn't burning up. Pieces were breaking off as it hit the atmosphere. Big pieces. And they were falling. Fast.

"We have breaking news... The meteor has fractured upon entering the atmosphere. Multiple large fragments are now falling toward populated areas. Early reports confirm impacts in several major cities—" she paused, looking off-camera as someone shouted.

"—Tokyo, New York, Moscow... emergency services are responding. Authorities are now advising everyone to seek immediate shelter. Please—"

The feed stuttered. The camera shook as a low rumble echoed through the broadcast.

"Please stay indoors and away from windows. We repeat: this is not a drill."

One fragment tore straight through the top of a skyscraper down the block.

The explosion sent flaming debris raining into the streets. A shockwave hit seconds later, rattling the noodle shop's walls and knocking over a salt shaker.

The smell of burning metal drifted in through the window.

"Okay, this is officially bad," Gabe muttered, sliding deeper into the booth like the worn-out cushions might somehow shield him from the apocalypse.

Another impact. Another explosion.

Somewhere nearby, a gas station went up, sending a thick column of smoke curling into the already pink-stained sky. Sirens wailed from every direction, lost beneath the steady hum of screaming.

And yet, even as the ground gave a low, rumbling shake beneath them, Gabe realized he wasn't panicking the way any normal person should be.

And really, there was only one reason for that.

Bob.

It had always been like this.

Gabe still remembered being a kid, back when the worst thing in the world was breaking a neighbor's window with a rogue baseball swing.

Back then, he thought his life was over. Fines, furious parents, getting banned from the block for life—he'd already written the end of his story in his head. But before the panic could even hit full speed, Bob just shrugged, wandered down the street to the abandoned classroom no one used, ripped out a whole window, and popped it into place like it was another chore on his to-do list.

Problem solved. Crisis averted.

The neighbor didn't even yell. They got snacks.

And that was Bob.

The guy who fixed problems before they could become disasters. The guy who shrugged off the end of the world like it was just another Tuesday. The guy who made saving his own little corner of the world feel as casual as wiping down a table or taking out the trash.

And he did that over and over again.

No fuss.

No speeches.

Just Bob, quietly keeping the world from falling apart... like it was the most normal thing in the world.

So yeah, sure. Meteors were falling. Cities were burning. And maybe humanity was having its worst day in recorded history.

But Bob was still sitting there, slurping noodles like it wasn't his concern.

And for Gabe, that was enough.

Because no matter how bad it got, no matter how hopeless it looked, as long as Bob was there, it felt like they were already standing in the safest place on Earth.

Bob was his Safe Zone.

And then, just as Bob went to take another bite, something crashed through the window.

A glowing, pinkish fragment about the size of his finger bounced off the table and landed directly in his bowl.

Gabe stared. "Man."

Bob blinked at it.

It sizzled, steam rising off the broth like someone dropped a hot coal into soup.

"Man," Gabe repeated. "A space rock just fell into your lunch."

Bob poked it with his chopsticks. The fragment hissed. The noodles around it turned a little crispy. Bob tilted his head.

For a brief second, he thought, maybe this was the kind of thing you should NOT eat.

Then again... food was food.

"Well," he said, "can't waste food."

Before Gabe could stop him, Bob scooped up the fragment with a few noodles and popped it into his mouth.

Crunch!

Gabe's jaw dropped. "You're not serious."

Bob chewed. "Tastes like... burnt bacon."

Gabe pointed toward Bob's bowl, eyes wide. "Grandpa! He just ate part of the meteor!"

From the kitchen, Grandpa's voice called back without missing a beat. "Uh-huh... as long as he finishes the broth!"

Gabe blinked. "Wait... what? That's it?"

Grandpa didn't even poke his head out. To him, it was just more of their usual nonsense.

Bob shrugged, lifting the bowl and slurping down the last of the soup. "See? Full approval."

Gabe groaned, dropping his face into his hands. "We are absolutely dead."

---

Outside, chaos spread. More fragments hit the city. One crashed into a bus. Another blew a hole through the grocery store across the street. Fires burned. People screamed. The sky turned pink.

Bob glanced outside, then back at his empty bowl.

Bob pointed at Gabe's half-finished bowl.

"Are you eating that?"

Gabe blinked. "Man... seriously?"

Bob shrugged. "Waste is waste."

"Bob. Priorities."

"I am prioritizing. Food first. Apocalypse later."

Gabe groaned, pushing his bowl over. "Unbelievable. World's ending and I'm babysitting your stomach."

---

While Bob shamelessly swapped their bowls—well, more like took Gabe's half-finished one without asking—the live stream kept playing from Gabe's phone, propped up between the salt shaker and a napkin holder.

"Breaking update," the reporter announced, voice tight with tension. "Authorities have confirmed the appearance of an unusual pink fog near several meteor crash sites. Early tests show no immediate danger to those nearby, but scientists urge extreme caution. Citizens are advised to avoid all fog-affected areas while research teams investigate. Please remain calm and follow local safety protocols."

Gabe sighed and lowered his phone slightly, his eyes drifting toward the front window. He half-expected to see waves of pink mist creeping down the street. But the streets were still empty. Safe.

"Good thing we're not near any of that stuff," Gabe said, more to himself.

Bob didn't even look up from his bowl. "Cool."

Gabe sighed. "Man, you're impossible."

Meanwhile, Bob kept eating, like the world ending wasn't enough reason to skip a meal.

It took a while before Grandpa finally came out from the kitchen, just as Bob was finishing the last sip of his broth. He was wiping his hands on a towel, his face a little pale, movements slower than usual.

He rubbed his ear with a deep frown, like something was bothering him.

"You good?" Bob asked, glancing up from his now-empty bowl.

Grandpa just waved it off.

"Old bones," Grandpa muttered, rubbing his ear. "Let's close up for today. Not like anyone's coming back."

"Okay," Bob said, stretching his arms.

Gabe checked his phone, scrolling through the live stream one last time. The updates had slowed down—no new reports, just the same looping footage of the aftermath: burning buildings, shattered highways, emergency crews scrambling.

"Looks like that's it for now," he muttered, closing the stream with a sigh. "No new news. Just wreckage."

He slipped the phone into his pocket.

Gabe glanced at the darkening sky. The streets were quiet now, too quiet. No cars. No voices. Just the faint crackle of distant fires and the low hum of wind through broken windows.

"I'm heading home before things get weirder. Message me if the world ends, yeah?"

Bob gave him a lazy wave. "Sure. See you tomorrow."

If there was a tomorrow.

Gabe hurried out, backpack slung over his shoulder, disappearing into the quiet, broken street.

Bob stacked the empty bowls and glanced down at his.

The fragment wasn't there anymore.

He shrugged.

"Guess I finished it."

Then he got back to cleaning up, same as always.