The hiss of milk frothing filled the morning air like static under tension, curling through the aroma of dark espresso and burnt caramel.
Jude Ashen stood behind the coffee shop counter, eyes trained on the whirlpool beneath the steam wand.
The sound was sharp, almost surgical, but to Jude, it was white noise—comforting, mindless. A ritual. Like so much of his life.
Around him, the city's daily theater played out.
Orders were barked out in impatience. Chairs screeched across chipped tile floors. Conversations overlapped in a tired, caffeinated chorus. Phones buzzed. Laughter cracked. Spoons clinked against porcelain.
Morning rush hour didn't wait for anyone—it devoured all in its path, grinding time and people into predictable routines.
Jude moved with calm efficiency, blending into the blur. His apron was clean, movements precise. He wore his courtesy mask like armor: a calm face, a neutral tone, eyes that neither challenged nor yielded. Invisible. He had perfected the art of being forgettable—a ghost with a name tag.
Then the bell above the entrance jingled.
A man stormed in with the weight of importance draped over him like a tailored suit. Mid-thirties. Charcoal blazer. Bluetooth headset clamped tight against one ear. His voice—sharp, grating—pierced the calm as if he owned the place.
"I told him the deal won't clear by Wednesday," he barked, already halfway to the counter. "If he pushes again, pull the plug. I don't care."
He didn't look at Jude. Didn't acknowledge the human behind the machine. Just stood there, phone pressed to his skull, words tumbling out like bullets.
"Triple shot Americano. Extra hot," he snapped. The command landed like an insult.
Jude said nothing.
He keyed in the order, hands steady, and began preparing the drink with the same quiet professionalism that had carried him through a hundred similar mornings.
The paper cup was filled, the lid clicked into place, and he placed it gently on the counter.
The businessman, mid-gesture, threw a hand wide in emphasis—and caught the edge of the cup.
The drink tipped. Hot coffee exploded out in a steaming splash.
Jude flinched as the scalding liquid hit his apron and soaked through to his skin, stinging his arm. He inhaled sharply, eyes narrowing. A few droplets had splattered onto the man's pristine sleeve.
The man froze. Then turned slowly, as if winding up for a show.
"What the hell?!" he bellowed, drawing attention.
Jude met his gaze without blinking. "It spilled when you—"
"You're kidding me!" the man barked, cutting him off. "You burned me! Do you even see what you've done? This is Armani, you idiot!"
Heads turned. Conversations faltered. Whispers drifted through the shop like wind through leaves.
Jude's voice remained even. "Most of it landed on me."
That only seemed to enrage him more. "You trying to be funny now?!"
"No one is laughing, sir."
And then the man's arm snapped forward, open palm slapping across Jude's cheek with a sharp crack that split the silence like a whip.
The café went still.
Jude didn't move. He stood there, the sting radiating across his face. A red print bloomed on his skin like a brand, but his expression didn't flicker.
Behind him, the store manager appeared, flustered, pale. His voice was rushed. "Clean it up, Jude. Just clean it up."
Jude turned. No hesitation. No backtalk. He grabbed a rag and moved around the counter, crouching in front of the man to mop up the spill.
"What happened?" the manager asked, eyes darting between the two.
"He threw coffee at me and wouldn't apologize," the man lied smoothly.
The manager's frown deepened. "Jude," he called, louder. "Apologize. Now."
Jude didn't reply. He kept wiping.
The spill had pooled into a hard-to-reach groove on the counter, blocked by the man's expensive shoes. Jude straightened slightly.
"Can you move? I want to clean that."
The man's jaw slackened. He blinked in disbelief.
Jude repeated, a shade firmer, "Please move."
The man didn't. So Jude stepped forward—right into his space.
"You little..." the man snarled, his hand rising again.
But this time, Jude moved first.
His hand shot up and caught the man's wrist mid-swing.
His grip was firm but not angry, more surgical than emotional.
A twist, then a push, and the businessman stumbled backward into a stool.
Jude's voice was cold steel. "Don't raise your hands on strangers, sir."
A ripple of gasps. Phones lifted. Cameras started rolling.
The man's face turned crimson. Rage and humiliation clashed in his eyes. With a guttural roar, he lunged again, fist swinging wide and sloppy.
Jude sighed. Shifted left.
The punch missed entirely.
He stepped in—one smooth motion—and drove a right hook straight into the man's jaw.
The man crumpled.
Gasps became chaos.
"Jude! What the hell do you think you're doing?!" the manager shrieked, his voice thin and panicked.
Jude wiped a hand across his mouth. The adrenaline hummed low under his skin.
He had messed up. He knew that.
But he didn't regret it.
Not even a little.
Because it felt damn satisfying.
The manager kept shouting. "This assault! You're finished! If he files a lawsuit—"
Jude didn't care to hear the rest.
He turned, walked to the back, unfastened his apron, and hung it neatly on the wall like a man quitting an office job.
Then, without another word, he left—shoulders squared, back straight.
The city swallowed him whole.
Dusk had settled by the time Jude stepped into a grimy corner store tucked between a laundromat and a closed-down cinema. The neon lights outside flickered like dying stars, painting the street in pale blues and toxic reds.
Jude moved on muscle memory: aisle three, top shelf. Cigarettes. Two packs. Then instant noodles. Cheap cola. Aspirin.
His essentials.
The survivalist's dinner.
He turned toward the fridges and the floor trembled.
At first, it was subtle. A low vibration, like distant thunder. The bottles on the shelves quivered. Light fixtures swung overhead.
Then everything went dark.
A thud. The humming fluorescents died. Silence fell like a curtain.
Emergency lights blinked to life a second later, casting the store in harsh shadows.
No one moved at first. Then someone whispered, "Was that an earthquake?"
"No… no, that wasn't normal," another replied.
Jude stood still, basket in hand. Something was off. The air—it felt thicker, like breathing through syrup.
A man ran to the door and shoved.
It didn't budge.
He tried again. Nothing. "The doors! They're not opening!"
Panic rippled through the store.
A woman said, voice shaking, "Why is it so dark outside?"
Jude looked. No headlights. No streetlights. No movement.
Just black. Thick, absolute black.
"What the hell…"
And then—
Thud.
Above them.
Something moved.
Jude turned slowly, eyes scanning upward.
There, perched on the middle shelf, was something… impossible.
Three feet tall. White fur. Black cloak. It sat like a child—legs dangling, paws folded.
A rabbit.
But not.
Its eyes gleamed—intelligent, aware.
Then it smiled.
Jude's stomach dropped.
A woman gasped behind him. "What the hell is that?!"
Phones came out.
But there was no signal.
No service. No help.
The creature tilted its head and raised a paw in greeting.
"Hello there!" it chirped, its voice bright and musical. "I'm Gulgi, your conductor. To cut the long story short—your world has ended. And now… you'll begin a simple trial where most—if not all—of you will die."