Chapter 2 – Cities Crumble, Noodles Remain

The next morning felt like the world had forgotten how to breathe.

Bob unlocked the door of the noodle shop, pushed it open, and glanced around the empty street.

No cars.

No people.

No morning rush.

Shattered glass covered the asphalt, and a high-rise in the distance looked like something had taken a huge chunk out of it.

Smoke curled from its top floors. The air tasted like burnt metal.

Bob flicked on the lights inside the shop. Nothing happened.

"Huh."

Shrugging, he pulled a chair from under a table and sat down, staring out the window like it was just another slow day.

A few minutes later, Gabe burst through the door, panting and wide-eyed.

"You… you're really open?" Gabe wheezed, hands on his knees.

Bob nodded. "Place won't run itself."

Gabe glanced around the empty dining room. "Bob… look outside, man."

Bob tilted his head. "Looks quiet."

"It's the end of the world!" Gabe shouted, throwing his arms up. "Half the city's gone, people are looting, and you're wiping tables like it's lunchtime!"

Bob scratched his head. "Gotta keep busy."

Gabe slumped into a chair. "You're unbelievable."

The TV behind the counter flickered weakly to life, running on the backup generator. The reporter from yesterday was still there, though her hair was messier and her voice was cracking.

"Breaking updates on the global situation," she said, reading from a crumpled piece of paper. "As of this morning, governments worldwide are declaring states of emergency following the meteor impact."

Footage rolled.

Cities leveled.

Highways snapped like twigs.

Airports reduced to burning craters.

"Tsunamis have struck coastal regions. Thousands are missing. Relief efforts are underway, but..." the reporter paused, swallowing hard, "most major powers are prioritizing their own cities. Negotiations between nations have broken down. Countries are refusing to share resources. Some governments are openly accusing others of withholding aid."

Gabe ran his hands through his hair. "Of course. Every man for himself now."

Bob didn't answer. He was watching the screen, but mostly because it was the only thing making noise.

The reporter continued. "International organizations are scrambling to take control of what resources remain. Major criminal groups have taken over several supply routes. Early attempts at global coordination have collapsed."

They showed footage of relief trucks being hijacked, food warehouses being looted, and soldiers arguing at borders, guns raised, while the people trapped between them screamed for help.

"In the U.S., multiple states are already declaring independence from the federal government. In Europe, borders are closing, and several countries are threatening military action against their neighbors.

Russia, China, and the U.K. have officially withdrawn from joint relief efforts."

Bob leaned back in his chair, glancing at the empty street. "So... guess the lunch rush is canceled?"

Gabe gawked at him. "Meteor disaster, end of the world, and you're worried about customers?"

Bob shrugged. "Gotta plan ahead."

Gabe groaned. "You're unbelievable."

Outside, the pink fog was no longer some distant rumor from the news. Yesterday, it had been invisible—just whispers and warnings on a screen. But now? Now it was real.

South of the noodle house, maybe five or six blocks away, the fog crept between buildings like a rising tide, thick and undeniable. What was once empty air had turned into a shimmering pink haze, swirling between the wreckage of cars and the shattered remains of storefronts.

It was still far enough not to touch the noodle house, but close enough to see with the naked eye.

And it wasn't stopping.

Every few minutes, Bob swore it looked darker. Thicker. Like it was waiting for something.

And slowly but surely... it was getting closer.

The reporter's voice crackled through the stream, noticeably more frantic than before.

"The fog is... it's spreading faster than initial estimates. It's now confirmed in over 70% of urban areas. Scientists are still struggling to understand its properties, but what we do know is this—"

She paused, glancing off-screen as someone handed her an update. Her face paled, but she kept going.

"Meteor fragments remain the only reliable source of protection. Areas with large fragments are forming what experts are calling 'Safe Zones'—localized barriers where the fog cannot penetrate. If you're near a crash site with an active fragment, stay inside the protected perimeter and do not leave unless absolutely necessary."

Her eyes flickered back to the camera.

"For everyone else... please remain calm. Authorities are doing everything they can."

Gabe scoffed under his breath, lowering the phone slightly as the feed cut to shaky footage of fog swallowing another distant city.

"Yeah. Sure they are."

The reporter paused again. Looked off-screen.

Then came the words that changed everything.

"We've just received confirmation... the fog emits a field similar to an electromagnetic pulse. Any technology that enters the fog is instantly disabled. Military vehicles, drones, aircraft... all down. Global power grids are failing across multiple continents.."

As if on cue, the lights inside the noodle shop flickered, buzzed... and died.

The TV went black.

The fridge hummed its last breath.

Outside, the streetlights blinked out, one by one.

Silence.

Real silence.

The kind you only hear when the world officially gives up.

Gabe stood slowly. "Bob... I think we need to leave."

Bob looked at him. "Why?"

Gabe gestured toward the window.

"Because everything's gone. And I don't think it's coming back."

Bob stared at the growing wall of fog curling toward the shop.

"Alright," he said. "But let's bring the broth."

 ---

In another place, in a smaller district that hadn't been completely flattened by falling debris, the local government offices were in full panic.

"We need more barricades on the west side! The fog's coming in faster than expected!" shouted the deputy mayor, sweat dripping down his face as he pointed at a crude map spread across the table. "And where's our supply update? We've got three shelters running out of food!"

But no one answered him.

Because at that moment, the front doors slammed open.

A dozen figures marched in—men and women in mismatched body armor, carrying baseball bats, knives, and stolen rifles. The leader of the group, a man with a shaved head and a jagged scar across his cheek, tossed a bullet-riddled vest onto the floor.

"Meeting's over," he said with a grin. "Claws is in charge now."

The deputy mayor blinked. "Wh-What are you talking about? We're in the middle of organizing relief—"

"Yeah, and you're doing a terrible job," Scarface replied, waving his hand like he was swatting a fly. "People are starving. Streets are chaos. Half your security ditched you the moment the fog touched the front gates. But don't worry. We'll take it from here."

Two of his men dragged the mayor out of his chair.

"You can't do this!" the mayor shouted, struggling against them.

"We just did."

Claws members wasted no time. Within hours, they seized the food supplies, took over the armory, and locked down every road in and out of the district. What little remained of the local police either joined them or disappeared.

By nightfall, the district wasn't a government territory anymore.

It was Claw's.

Anyone who wanted shelter, food, or protection had to swear loyalty.

And if they didn't?

They were left outside.

To the fog.

---

Somewhere across the sea…

At the northern border, tension hung as thick as the fog now creeping over the hills.

The air was thick with smoke from cigarettes and tension. Dozens of generals crowded around a long table cluttered with outdated maps and half-working radios. The supreme leader sat at the head, fingers tapping the armrest as one of his top commanders stood to deliver the latest update.

"Report," the leader said, his voice sharp.

The general cleared his throat and pointed at the map of the K Peninsula. Red circles marked South military bases, but most of them were now crossed out with thick, black marker.

"S Capital is in complete disarray," the general began. "Initial impact from the meteor struck the outer districts, but secondary damage has left the entire city barely functioning. We have confirmed reports that a commercial airliner was clipped mid-air by a falling fragment. The plane went down directly onto their main military base in the south of the city, wiping out a significant portion of their active command."

Murmurs filled the room.

He continued. "Military response is scattered. Most of their available forces are not defending borders. They're spread thin—focused on rescue operations, digging out survivors from collapsed buildings, and trying to keep order in the capital. Bridges are down. Roads are blocked by debris.

Communication lines are unstable."

Another general scoffed. "They're wide open. We could walk right into S Capital with minimal resistance."

The first general nodded. "That is our assessment. Intelligence indicates their focus has shifted entirely to disaster relief.

Medical teams are overwhelmed. Food supplies are running low. Civil unrest is growing. Most of their military is digging through rubble or guarding emergency shelters. They are not prepared for an offensive."

A grin slowly crept across the supreme leader's face.

The leader leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers together. "So, while they are weak... and blind... we take it all."

Heads around the table nodded in agreement.

One general clapped his hands. "We will strike under the guise of humanitarian aid. The world will believe we are helping... while we help ourselves."

They all chuckled quietly.

Orders were issued. Troops mobilized.

Engines roared to life.

The leader smirked, tapping the table. "Do it. Announce our aid to the world. But bring the full force of our military. Tanks. Choppers. Artillery. S Capital will be ours before nightfall."

And so, the Iron Wave moved south.

Rows of tanks rolled over broken roads. Troop carriers roared across bridges. Helicopters darkened the skies, loaded with missiles meant to end whatever was left of the South's resistance. Thousands of soldiers marched in perfect formation, confident, well-armed, and completely unaware that they weren't invading a country anymore.

They were marching straight into the fog.

It started small.

A faint pulse through the radios. Static.

Then the first tank's engine sputtered.

One by one, vehicles slowed, grinding to a halt.

"Commander, we're losing power!" someone shouted over comms.

The helicopters hovered uncertainly. Then, as they entered the fog, their rotors faltered. One by one, they dropped from the sky like stones.

The first crashed into the lead convoy. The explosion tore through half a column of troops, scattering debris and bodies across the road.

The second clipped the roof of a tank, sending it skidding sideways into a ditch.

Missile trucks stalled. Their launch systems went dark, dead screens and useless buttons blinking like toys.

Panic spread.

"Restore the systems!"

"Reboot the engines!"

"We're sitting ducks!"

But there was no fixing it.

The Pink Fog didn't just disable tech—it erased it.

Guns jammed. Radios died. Night vision goggles flickered once, then blacked out.

Every piece of machinery shut off like the entire army had tripped over the world's biggest power switch.

And the fog kept coming.

Silent. Slow. Endless.

On the southern side of the border, South forces watched in stunned silence from their last remaining outpost.

They'd been bracing for the attack. Ready to make a last stand.

But as the northern forces crossed into the fog, there was nothing left to fight.

Through binoculars, the southern commander watched tanks grind to a stop, helicopters spiral out of control, soldiers screaming as machines died around them.

"They're done," he muttered.

Another officer lowered his scope. "What do we do, sir?"

The fog was coming for them next.

"We retreat," the commander said. "Tell the men. We fall back to the Safe Zone. Now."

They didn't have to be told twice.

The southern troops abandoned the outpost as the fog crept closer, knowing exactly what it would do. They'd seen enough already to understand.

You couldn't fight the fog.