The edges of the world began to flicker like an old TV screen. Billboards glitched, perfume ads melting halfway into faceless monsters. Nobody screamed. They just muttered about "declining picture quality."
Cracks tore through the sky, stitched shut with rusty nails, leaking groans like some cosmic karaoke bar next door. The weather bureau announced calmly: "Just high-altitude wind shear. Nothing to fear." They even rolled out a "Doomsday Sightseeing Package—Buy One Get One Free," complete with complimentary anti-nightmare eye masks.
Street markets adapted instantly. Vendors sold "Anti-Crack Melons." Fortune-tellers rebranded as "Apocalypse Insurance Advisors." Pet shops launched "Nightmare-Compatible Cat Food" with the slogan: "Even if the world collapses, your cat deserves balanced nutrition."
My friend and I sat in a shabby café, watching black fissures crawl across the pavement like someone had spilled ink into the city's foundation.
"Look at it," I sighed. "The world's sprinting toward the finale of a bad fantasy novel. All we need now is the author posting an apology: Dear readers, the plot got out of hand. Please forgive me."
"You're awfully calm," my friend muttered. "This looks worse than any horror flick."
"At least horror movies come with background music," I said, sipping bitter coffee. "We've only got state news broadcasts."
As if on cue, the café TV flickered to life. The Bureau Director's face appeared, solemn as a funeral salesman:
"Citizens, remain calm. The boundary between reality and nightmare has experienced minor fluctuations, but everything is under control. Continue working and shopping as usual."
Beneath him, a ticker scrolled: "Emergency Guide to World Collapse will be released at 9 PM tonight. Free Nightmare Mask with every download."
Scattered applause broke out. People looked relieved—but their eyes carried a hollow resignation. Like students told, "The exam will be easy," when everyone knew a massacre was coming.
I chuckled bitterly. "Think they'll turn collapse into a shopping holiday? Black Friday Nightmare? Apocalypse Prime Day?"
"Sure," my friend said. "Payment method: soul scan."
Outside, the cracks widened. Neon lights shattered into shards. A nightmare beast bit a bus in half, while the driver still shouted: "Exact fare only! No change given!"
Absurdity blurred with terror. I realized a cruel truth: collapse hadn't even begun, yet people had already adjusted. Like patients nodding at their terminal diagnosis, politely asking if they could collect the inheritance early.
"The world's done for," my friend whispered.
"No," I said, smiling thinly. "It's not over. The director just changed. New stage, same bad actors. We're still stuck in the play."
As night swallowed the city, shadows from the cracks shredded neon signs. I felt like I was watching a joke's final punchline unfold in real time.
Title: The Night Before Collapse.