The end of the world. A story no one can truly tell.
It didn't come with fire or water. No artificial intelligence rose up against its creator. No explosion, no cataclysm.
The end was subtle. It crept in like a silent fire—unseen until it was far too late.
And like every fire, it obeyed the Fire Triangle: heat, fuel, oxygen.
And he... he was all three.
On the day that world began to die, people were celebrating Revolution Day—a holiday marking the birth of global peace. The once-dreamed-of utopia had become the norm. The Ones—as humans were now called—filled the streets with wide smiles, dressed in hope, and shouted rhythmic chants of gratitude to the system that had given them order, safety, meaning.
And yet, while the streets overflowed with joy, he remained lying on the dangerous rooftop of the university, eyes closed, facing the sky. It was a routine that not even Revolution Day had managed to break. But this "today" was unlike any other. It was on this "today" that he—a simple boy with black hair covering nearly one eye—felt the heat that would turn him into something terrifying.
An unexpected silence sliced through the noise of the Ones' celebrations.
Interrupted only by the sound of his slow breathing and the steady beat of his heart—as if the world around him were nothing more than a distant echo—the boy stood up and walked slowly to the edge of the roof.
The sole of his left foot warned him that he'd reached the end, a ledge with no railing. His right foot was ready to take the next, final step, when...
"You're so predictable."
The voice came from behind him—calm, yet heavy with familiarity. He was still staring at his right foot when the voice continued:
"Same place, same time. Pretending no one else exists."
Pedro Goya. His ever-smiling childhood friend.
The one who, for an unmeasurable amount of time, had kept the boy's troubled mind from combusting and destroying the world too soon.
The boy stepped back. Both feet now firmly inside the rooftop's boundary. His voice came out low, calm—but charged with a dark certainty:
"It's time, Pedro."
For a moment, Pedro Goya's smile faltered. A barely visible crack in his carefully sculpted mask. But in the blink of an eye, he pulled himself together—like someone snuffing out a spark before it could become a blaze.
"I'm looking forward to the Andgate too," he said, as if weighing every word. "But something that powerful, that complex... it needs to come at the right time."
He turned his gaze back to the horizon, as if Pedro's words were nothing but wind brushing past his shoulders. Still, he fell silent. And that was enough for Pedro, who quickly tried to change the subject.
"To be honest, I wasn't sure you'd be here. Anne's getting out early today and—"
"Anne!" he burst out, startled. "I completely forgot about Anne!"
He took off running, descending the university stairs without so much as a glance back. Pedro Goya, now alone on the rooftop, cracked a wry smile and shouted:
"Talk later, yeah?"
As he ran, that dangerous heat still clung to him, now tangled with something else. A silent anxiety, tempered by the respect he felt for Pedro Goya, but bubbling within him—on the verge of exploding.
The street was packed with smiling Ones—it was, after all, the happiest day of the year.
And among them, there she was. Anne Bolein.
"Sorry. Pedro and his never-ending conversations—he made me late. You know how he is," he lied, hoping to do the impossible: calm someone like Anne.
"What made me fall in love with you," Anne replied, dryly, "is the same thing that drives me crazy every day."
She grabbed his hand firmly and pulled him through the campus. Her steps were firm, almost military.
The daughter of two Control Agents, Anne had inherited the annoying habit of dictating what others should or shouldn't do.
"I wish I knew what's going on inside that head of yours," she muttered. "The Chancellor's speech is today. We're watching it in the cafeteria. Don't be late."
"Actually, I told Pedro we'd—"
"No!" she snapped, like a gate slamming shut. "Enough with Goya. I'm sick of it."
"I like being with Pedro."
"No, you don't."
There was something strange between them. A fragile bond, a connection where love seemed to have been replaced by something else entirely.
Perhaps, for her, it was the mystery surrounding that unusual boy.
Perhaps, for him, it was her parents. Agents. Authority. Normality.
To be "normal" in this world wasn't just about obeying the rules—it was about accepting them with gratitude. The Agents embodied that ideal. More than a profession, they were devout. Their god was peace. Their scriptures, the rules that had prevented collapse.
But not all gods are real.
On Revolution Day, people celebrated the day that peace was established. A simple solution, yet extraordinarily effective. The great Chancellor I had unified the entire population onto a single continent. Together, in an ode to migration, they renamed the former "Europe" as "Zone1." The world's dictators realized that ruling a nation without citizens was pointless and were forced to accept the revolution. And so, without a single drop of blood spilled, the world came to know peace.
"Over the past two centuries, with one language, one culture, and one unified set of laws, the world has forgotten words like hunger, poverty, murder, genocide, or racism," declared the elderly Chancellor IV during a speech broadcast on the university cafeteria screens.
Anne applauded enthusiastically, joined by students and professors alike. He, however, remained still, staring at his own feet. Only after a discreet nudge from Anne did he reluctantly join the applause.
"I know you'd rather be out with Goya at some café playing that dumb game of yours, Parachutes..."
"Parasoles," he corrected.
"...but this isn't just tradition. Celebrating Revolution Day reminds us of the miracle performed by the first Chancellor."
"And what miracle was that?"
"What are you talking about?!"
"A miracle is something that can't be explained. But this peace can be explained—something sustains it. You know it, I know it, and so do all of them. For Ones to exist, there must be Zeros."
"But no one disrespects the work the Zeros do," Anne whispered, slightly uncomfortable.
"Then why does he never mention them in his speeches?"
"Before the Binary Revolution, there were five hundred homicides per day. Today, that number is zero. Those are the kinds of zeros we want to hear about—not the Ones who drop their own number! What's gotten into you today?!"
"You're right, Anne. I'm sorry," he replied quickly, just to end the conversation.
Anne pointed to the screen, redirecting his attention. He obliged at once.
"Was your boyfriend talking about the nuls?" whispered one of Anne's friends sitting beside her.
"Of course not!" Anne replied with a nervous smile.
All the laws of the One system existed to prevent the return of conflict. The adoption of a single language and the eradication of its vernaculars had been effective measures to eliminate cultural disputes. No speaker could claim ownership over words known only to them, and within a few generations, it had become impossible to tell who had been born in the former Europe and who had not.
But the Ones didn't respect these laws because they thought them fair. They respected them out of fear. The fear of being turned into a Zero.
The Binary Revolution had changed the world and how people lived in it. But nothing can change human nature. Imperfection is embedded in DNA. No legislation, no matter how clever, could purify a human being. But it could isolate one. And prevent contamination of others.
Any violation of the law turned a One into a Zero.
The change occurred far from the eyes of those who avoided criminal acts. Being expelled from Zone1 was, in practice, a death sentence. But the euphemism fit perfectly: no one was executed—just transformed.
That's why the first Ones built a virtual wall around the former Europe. Leaving Zone1 meant relinquishing the right to return, even if survival was possible on the other side.
But if no human can be born alone, why should one die alone? Of course, those who survived on the other side tried to return to their families. To civilization. The solution? Convert the virtual wall into concrete. A barrier that said, without words: please, die far from here.
The Ones never truly understood why it had been necessary to build the wall or forbid exploration of Zone0. And there was a reason for that: no one had ever told them.
So, time tried to explain.
Some believed the Wall existed only to remind the Zeros they could never return. Others trusted the Wall Agents' reports of wild creatures that devoured the newly exiled as soon as they stepped onto the other side.
These creatures became the justification for the Wall's existence. No, it wasn't seen as a prison gate or a cemetery door, but as a glorious protection against the monsters beyond, the ones that devoured anyone who dared to survive in a place stripped of humanity. Those monsters were called nuls.
But time, as capricious as ever, gave that word new meaning. And so, with biting irony, as if the term "Zero" weren't degrading enough, nul became the pejorative label for any One who sinned.
But time isn't just capricious—it's also macabre. And the day was fast approaching when the word nul would take on yet another meaning. A terrible, deadly new meaning.