3 A.M. The hour when cities should be silent. Instead, the entire world's sleep imploded.
Every dream synced: cities drowned in fog, streetlamps melted like candles, subway cars filled with faceless passengers chanting in unison—"Show your nightmare pass."
Dreams tangled into grotesque mashups. People screamed in nightmares yet laughed in bed. Others dreamed of lottery wins, only to wake in empty homes with a single "Thanks for participating" receipt.
News anchors named it Nightmare Storm. One spoke with a pale smile: "This will not affect the economy. Markets will open as usual tomorrow. Please stay calm." Behind her, the screen displayed: "If you cannot distinguish dream from reality, call the hotline. Trained staff will guide you—on how to keep paying taxes in your sleep."
The streets unraveled further. Dream-warriors woke wielding kitchen knives, directing traffic with heroic fervor. Others strangled their spouses, convinced they were monsters. Mental hospitals overflowed, issuing standardized "Nightmare Forms" for triage:
Who did you dream of?
Did they chase you?
Before they caught you, had you paid your insurance premium?
Walking through the chaos, I realized civilization had turned into a black comedy. Billboards adapted faster than governments: "Anti-Nightmare Energy Drink—Stay Awake Till You Die!" Purchase included a coffin-shaped thermos, limited edition.
My friend snorted. "End of the world, and they still make it a sales pitch."
"Wrong," I said, pointing at the writhing sky. "This isn't a promotion. It's a clearance sale. The universe is emptying its warehouse."
Darkness deepened. Lamps failed. Fog swallowed skyscrapers like paper jammed in a copier and set on fire. Screams echoed, but escape was impossible—every street looped back to the same corner. The world wore an invisible leash.
I pinched my arm. Pain lanced sharp.
"Doesn't prove anything," my friend shrugged. "Maybe the nightmare just turned realism up to maximum."
Then came the roar. Not one voice, but billions groaning in unison. The sky split wide. Black tides spilled out: eyeless beasts, twisted humans, floating pages of unwritten books—like every fear on Earth tossed into a blender.
Society collapsed into absurdity: nobody knew if they were alive, dreaming, or already dead.
I laughed—short, broken. "Maybe this storm is the universe reminding us: don't assume waking life is real. We might've been extras in someone else's nightmare all along."
My friend chuckled darkly. "Extras? No. We're just the audience. And the tickets were overpriced."
The storm devoured the globe. Nightmare and reality fused, irreversible. Humanity welcomed the end in screams, jokes, and bitter laughter.