The shaking doesn't stop.
It starts as a tremor — subtle, almost ignorable — then becomes a violent seizure that splits concrete and snaps steel.
Sirens scream.
Red emergency lights pulse in suffocating rhythm, washing the underground corridor in arterial flashes. The air tastes metallic. Burnt wiring. Ozone. Dust chokes the throat.
Boots slam against tile.
Men and women in uniform shove past one another. Some shout into dead comms. Others just run.
"Plate rupture confirmed—"
"Volcanic chain ignition—"
"The sky is splitting—"
"—God, what is that—"
Above ground, somewhere far beyond the reinforced ceiling, the world is tearing itself open.
This is not the first attempt.
A lone man runs against the flow.
Not away.
Toward.
His coat is torn. Blood mats his hairline. A clearance badge swings from his neck — GLOBAL CATASTROPHE UNIT: DIRECTORIAL ACCESS.
He doesn't slow.
He knows this facility.
He built it.
Deeper.
The corridor narrows. Security doors hang twisted from broken hinges. The lights flicker harder now — red, dark, red, dark — like the structure itself is suffocating.
He reaches the final vault.
The keypad is cracked. His hands shake as he types.
A tremor hits mid-code. Concrete dust rains down. The door groans.
ACCESS GRANTED.
The vault splits open.
Inside, the air hums.
Five massive crystalline fragments float in magnetic suspension rings.
Jagged. Faceted. Veins of green light pulse beneath mineral surfaces like bioluminescent arteries.
They are not stone.
They are seeds.
Ancient.
Engineered.
Waiting.
The man steps forward.
"All stations have failed," a voice distorts over a broken speaker. "Containment breach across all nodes. We are beyond threshold."
He exhales slowly.
He has seen this before.
"Activate Eden Protocol."
Silence.
Then the fragments respond.
Green light blooms outward, violent and absolute. Symbols carve themselves into the shard surfaces — not projected, not etched — but forced into existence, as if the air itself is engraving them.
The fragments begin to rotate.
Slowly.
Then faster.
Faster.
Every loose object in the chamber lifts into the air. Tools. Tablets. Shards of glass. The air compresses. Sound warps. Gravity bends.
Time stutters.
The man cannot move.
And over the distortion, a voice manifests — not heard, but injected directly into reality.
EDEN PROTOCOL INITIALIZED
TRIAL CHAIN: 1–1–1
PRIMARY SEED DEPLOYMENT COMMENCING
ARCHIVE IMPRINT TRANSFERRED
The Director closes his eyes.
He understands what that means.
The light fractures.
A shockwave detonates outward—
Black….
Morning sunlight filters through blinds.
Soft. Warm. Ordinary.
Jay blinks awake.
The year is 2022.
And he has no idea he has already ended the world once.