AWOO! Sasha's bark echoed outside. Justin Maddox swung the door open, letting the husky bound in. He poured kibble into Sasha's bowl, watching the dog dive in with gusto. A quick wrestle with the pup ate up time—1:30 p.m. already. Work called.
Justin ducked into the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and pulled a black chef's uniform from the closet. Slipping it on, he stepped outside to his old friend: a weathered but pristine Honda CB750 K4. He twisted the throttle, the engine's deep roar sparking a rush of satisfaction. Wind whipped past, the small town's scenery blurring as he sped off.
Ten minutes later, Justin pulled up to the familiar Italian restaurant. He pushed through the door, warm lamplight spilling over wooden floors, the air thick with the tang of tomato sauce and basil.
"Hey, Justin!" A striking woman in a server's uniform—white blouse, black skirt, apron cinched at the waist—flashed a smile. Jessica, his ex-girlfriend and the voice from the phone, waved him over.
"You catch the news?" she asked, her eyes sharp with curiosity.
"Yeah," Justin said.
"Looks like you've got a knack for dreaming the future." Her tone was half-teasing, half-serious.
Justin's jaw tightened. "Jessica, if that's true, we're in trouble. I had another dream last night." He pulled out his phone, opening his YouTube channel. "Uploaded it already."
He glanced at the numbers. The Starship One video had just crossed a million views. The new one—his G6 solar storm warning—was at 1.5 million and climbing. Four grand in ad revenue. More than his monthly paycheck. His pulse quickened.
"2025 Prophecy? World's End?" Jessica read the title, her eyes widening. "Seriously?"
"It's clickbait," Justin admitted, shrugging. "Gotta get eyes on it."
"Justin! Five minutes late and you're chatting?" The head chef's voice boomed from the kitchen.
"Coming!" Justin called back, pocketing his phone. He shot Jessica a wry grin. "Catch you later."
He dove into the kitchen, knives flashing, sauces simmering, unaware that his video wasn't just going viral—it was ringing alarms in places far beyond his small-town life.
At the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration's Space Weather Prediction Center, a young staffer hustled through the corridors of Boulder, Colorado. Clutching his phone, he knocked on an office door and barged in without waiting.
Dr. Jennifer Holt sat at her desk, eyes glued to a data screen, fingers dancing across the keyboard. She didn't look up.
"Dr. Holt," the staffer said, breathless.
"What?" Her voice was flat, distracted.
He thrust his phone forward. "You need to see this video."
Jennifer glanced at the YouTube title, her brow furrowing. She glared at him, irritation flaring. "You're wasting my time with clickbait trash? You know how slammed I am?"
"No, Doctor, this guy predicted the Starship One explosion two months ago. Spot-on. Says he dreams the future. It's blowing up online. You should watch his latest."
Before she could protest, he hit play. Jennifer's scowl lingered, but curiosity won. She leaned in, watching.
The video ended in under a minute. "An EMP? Impossible," she snapped, her voice sharp with dismissal.
"He calls it a G6," the staffer said, unfazed. "Beyond anything we've seen."
Jennifer's eyes narrowed. "The strongest flare in a century—what was it?"
The staffer didn't miss a beat. "X28, 2003."
"And the Carrington Event, 1859?" she pressed.
"There wasn't equipment to measure it in X-ray classes back then, but later estimates put it at X40. Doctor, that estimate was yours. So please, stop quizzing me."
Jennifer nodded, satisfied. "Then this guy's 'G6' would need to be ten times an X40. You think that's possible? We monitor the sun daily. A sunspot region that massive—wouldn't we see it?"
The staffer chuckled. "Sounds crazy, but…" He trailed off as Jennifer waved him silent, her screen pinging with an update.
"SOHO satellite data's in."
She leaned closer, her focus razor-sharp. Then her face paled. "What the hell is this?"
"What's wrong?" The staffer stepped forward, sensing the shift.
Jennifer's fingers flew, zooming in on a data plot. "Look. Active Region 9169. Sunspot count just spiked—twelve new ones. Overnight."
The staffer peered over her shoulder, eyes widening. "Twelve? That's not normal."
"No, it's not," Jennifer said, her voice tight with unease. "Get NASA and ESA on the line. Priority monitoring on AR 9169. Now. And pull the team—calculate flare potential and timing, stat."
"Yes, Doctor!" The staffer turned, hand on the doorknob, then hesitated. "What if… this is his prophecy?"
Jennifer's glare could've cut steel. "Shut it. No more nonsense."
The staffer flinched, nodded, and slipped out, easing the door shut as he hurried off.