Chapter 1: The Broadcast

The television flickered, its grainy hum cutting through the stale air of Alex Reed’s apartment. They sat slouched on a threadbare couch, boots propped on a coffee table littered with empty takeout boxes and a half-dead fern. The news ticker scrolled silently at the screen’s base—another day of political squabbles and heatwave deaths—until it wasn’t. A sharp crackle snapped Alex’s attention upright as the feed jolted, replaced by a face they hadn’t seen in years. Victor Aurelius stared out, his silver hair swept back, eyes glinting with a cold, unyielding certainty.

“Good evening, world,” he began, his voice smooth as polished steel. “I am Victor Aurelius, and this is no hoax. One year from today—February 19, 2026—every nuclear arsenal on this planet will launch. I’ve ensured it. The codes are mine, the systems compromised beyond repair. You’ve failed yourselves, and now the clock runs out.”

Alex’s boots hit the floor. The chopsticks in their hand clattered onto a greasy carton. Victor’s face filled the screen, larger than life, his tailored suit pristine against a stark white backdrop. His words landed like blows—calm, deliberate, final. “This isn’t a threat. It’s a promise. You have 365 days to prove humanity deserves to exist. Fail, and it ends.”

The broadcast cut to static, then looped. Victor’s declaration played again, his gaze boring into millions of homes. Alex lunged for the remote, muting it, but the silence didn’t last. Outside, the city groaned awake. Car horns blared, sharp and frantic, as if drivers could outrun the words still sinking in. A woman’s scream pierced the night, high and raw, followed by the crash of glass somewhere below. Alex crossed to the window, peeling back a grimy curtain. The street was a mess—people spilling from buildings, some clutching bags, others just running. A man in a stained tank top swung a tire iron at a parked sedan, metal crunching with each strike.

“Christ,” Alex muttered, breath fogging the glass. They’d seen Victor’s genius firsthand—a decade ago, working security at his biotech firm, watching him charm investors with promises of a better world. That man was gone, replaced by this—whatever this was. A death sentence with a timer.

Their phone buzzed hard against the table, skittering toward the edge. Alex grabbed it, the cracked screen flashing an agency code. They hesitated, thumb hovering, then answered. “Reed.”

“Get down here,” came the clipped voice of Director Voss. “Now. You saw it?”

“Yeah.” Alex’s throat tightened. “Victor’s lost it.”

“Lost it or not, he’s got the keys to the end. Briefing’s in thirty. Move.” The line went dead.

Alex shoved the phone into their jacket, scanning the room for their gear. The SIG Sauer sat atop a pile of unopened mail—loaded, cold to the touch. They holstered it under their arm, the weight familiar but heavier tonight. Keys jangled as they snatched them from a hook, the apartment door slamming behind them.

The stairwell reeked of piss and smoke, the lights buzzing like flies trapped in a jar. Halfway down, a kid—maybe sixteen—barreled past, his hoodie soaked with sweat, eyes wild. “It’s over, man!” he yelled, voice cracking as he took the steps two at a time. Alex didn’t answer, just kept moving.

Outside, the air hit like a slap—humid, thick with gasoline fumes and fear. The streetlights cast jagged pools of yellow across the pavement, illuminating a crowd swelling near the corner. A woman in a bathrobe clutched a toddler, her face streaked with tears, while a guy in a delivery uniform shouted into a phone, “No, you listen—they’re saying it’s real!” Further down, a pickup truck roared through a red light, clipping a cyclist who hit the asphalt hard, his leg bending wrong. Blood pooled fast, dark and slick, but no one stopped.

Alex wove through the chaos, shoulders bumping against strangers too dazed or too angry to care. A flat-screen in a shattered storefront replayed Victor’s message on mute, his lips moving in a sick pantomime. Someone had spray-painted “Liar” across the glass, the red paint dripping like an open wound. Alex’s gut twisted—not at the vandalism, but at the faint hope it might be true. Victor didn’t bluff. Never had.

A gunshot cracked nearby, sharp enough to jolt the crowd into a brief, stunned hush. Then the screams started again, louder, as people scattered. Alex ducked behind a dumpster, peering out. Two blocks over, a man in a cheap suit waved a pistol at a looter hauling a TV from a pawnshop. The looter dropped the set, glass exploding across the sidewalk, and bolted. The shooter fired again, wild, the bullet ricocheting off a street sign with a metallic whine. Alex stayed low, waiting until the idiot stumbled off, then broke into a jog.

Their car—a battered sedan with a dented hood—sat where they’d left it, miraculously untouched. Alex slid in, the engine coughing to life as they floored it out of the lot. The radio blared static, then a voice: “—reports confirm the broadcast originated from an unknown source. Governments are urging calm—” Alex killed it, knuckles whitening on the wheel. Calm was a pipe dream now.

Headlights cut through the haze as they sped toward the agency’s edge-of-town compound. The city blurred past—flashing police lights, a burning trash can, a woman pounding on a locked bodega door. Victor’s face lingered in Alex’s mind, those steady eyes promising ruin. They’d known him once, believed in him once. Now he’d handed them a year to live—or die trying to stop him.

A mile out, the road clogged with fleeing vehicles, horns screaming in unison. Alex swerved onto the shoulder, gravel spitting under the tires, and gunned it past the gridlock. The agency loomed ahead, a squat fortress of concrete and barbed wire, its floodlights blazing. They screeched to a stop at the gate, flashing their badge to a guard whose hands shook on his rifle.

Inside, the briefing waited—answers, orders, maybe a shred of hope. Alex stepped out, the night pressing in, the weight of 365 days already clawing at their chest. The phone rang again, shrill and insistent. They answered without breaking stride.