Back to a time when the world still felt normal, as you would call it.
People always think the end comes with noise.
Explosions. Sirens. Screaming headlines and flashing red warnings that demand attention.
But the truth—one Xenon Maximoff would only understand much later—was that the end usually arrived quietly. It slipped into the background of ordinary days, hid behind routines, and waited patiently for people to stop paying attention.
And people were very good at not paying attention.
You all must have loved the opening chapter.
I heard you cared about dopamine around here, so I decided to feed you some—chaos from beginning to end.
But chaos, by itself, is cheap.
So now, we take a step back.
Because by now, some of you should be asking a question Xenon never had the luxury of asking himself.
How did someone who looked so strong end up so… fragile?
To answer that, we need to rewind.
Not days.
Not months.
Years.
Back to a time when the world still felt normal—at least, normal by the standards people clung to when everything around them was already rotting.
And by a few years, I mean nearly twenty.
Xenon Maximoff was seventeen years old, walking down the corridor of his school with his hands clenched tightly inside his pockets.
The bell had just rung, unleashing a flood of students into the hallways. Lockers slammed. Shoes squeaked against polished floors. Laughter echoed—sharp, careless, alive in a way that made something twist uncomfortably in Xenon's chest.
He moved against the flow, shoulders squared, chin lifted just enough to look defiant without actually being brave. His posture was deliberate. Calculated. A silent challenge to a world that never seemed to notice him.
He was turning eighteen in a few days.
That fact alone had to mean something.
Becoming an adult.
Becoming someone.
Becoming a man.
At least, that was what he told himself during the quiet moments when the weight of being invisible pressed too hard against his ribs.
But as he passed clusters of students, none of them slowed for him. Conversations didn't pause. Laughter didn't soften. No heads turned. No eyes lingered.
He might as well have been a ghost.
The smart kids thought he was slow.
Or maybe that was just how it felt when they talked over him, corrected him mid-sentence, or smirked whenever he tried to contribute. Xenon wasn't stupid—he knew that—but he wasn't exceptional either. And in a world that worshipped extremes, being average was treated like a failure of character.
The athletes didn't want him.
He wasn't weak. Far from it. He trained alone, pushed his body until his muscles screamed, until his hands shook and his lungs burned. But effort without recognition felt pointless. Strength without witnesses might as well not exist.
And the rest?
They simply didn't care.
Xenon clenched his jaw and kept walking.
Soon, he told himself.
Soon they'll see.
Posters lined the walls—college announcements, scholarship opportunities, smiling faces promising futures Xenon couldn't picture himself belonging to. The images felt artificial, like props in a play he hadn't auditioned for.
Near the stairwell, a television mounted high on the wall played the news on mute.
Subtitles crawled across the screen beneath footage of masked doctors and crowded hospitals.
A headline slid past.
MYSTERIOUS VIRAL OUTBREAK CLAIMS MILLIONS — OFFICIALS URGE CALM
No one stopped.
A few students glanced up, scoffed, and moved on.
"Fake," someone muttered.
"Government fear-mongering," another laughed.
Xenon paused for half a second longer than the rest.
Millions.
That wasn't a small number.
Something about the footage—how tired the doctors looked, how still the bodies were—made his stomach tighten. But even then, he shook his head and kept walking.
The world was always ending, according to someone. And it never actually did.
Not when it mattered.
Home didn't feel like home.
The door creaked open as Xenon stepped inside, dropping his bag by the wall. The air inside was stale, unmoving, heavy with silence.
"Mom?" he called.
No answer.
"Dad?"
Still nothing.
He glanced into the living room. His father sat on the couch, eyes locked onto his phone, expression hollow. His mother stood by the window, arms crossed, staring outside like the world beyond the glass mattered more than the son who had just walked in.
Neither acknowledged him.
Upstairs, his sister's door was closed. That was probably for the best.
She was not so fond of him just like he wasn't of her. Who would have thought that an elder sister who was supposed to cherish and dote over you would be your greatest pain in the ass.
Xenon swallowed and moved into the kitchen.
Empty counters. No food. No plates. No effort.
He opened the fridge anyway, stared at the bare shelves longer than necessary, then closed it slowly.
Figures.
Without saying a word, he grabbed his jacket and headed back outside.
The streets buzzed with late-afternoon life. Cars passed. People talked. Shops stayed open. Everything pretended to be fine.
Xenon walked toward the convenience store a few blocks away, hands shoved deep into his pockets, thoughts spiraling in familiar circles.
He wanted to matter.
Not later.
Not eventually.
Now.
That hunger—deeper than food, sharper than loneliness—gnawed at him constantly. He didn't want affection. He didn't want comfort.
He wanted proof.
That was when someone stepped into his path.
"Didn't think you'd be out alone," a voice sneered.
Xenon looked up.
Three of them.
Older. Bigger. Comfortable in their cruelty.
By now, this had become a routine event and one would have hoped that Xenon would have gotten used to it and tried his best to stay out of their way.
One leaned against a streetlight. Another cracked his knuckles slowly. The third—the leader—smiled like this was entertainment.
Xenon straightened.
"Move," he said.
The leader laughed. "Or what?"
Xenon didn't answer.
If there was one thing he was good at, it was pissing the big guys off just to satisfy his ego.
He swung first.
For one foolish, fleeting moment, it worked.
Then the world became pain.
Fists. Kicks. Concrete. Breath torn from his lungs. Something cracked. Blood filled his mouth.
"Stay down," someone barked.
Xenon spat blood and tried to stand anyway. This only led to another round of blows and kicks.
Eventually, they got bored.
They left him broken on the pavement.
But Xenon didn't pass out.
He crawled.
An hour later, bleeding and shaking, he dragged himself home.
And that was when he smelled it.
Metallic. Thick. Wrong.
The living room was drenched in red.
His parents were dead.
Upstairs, his sister wasn't moving.
Xenon's scream never fully formed.
Outside, the street was littered with bodies.
The world had ended while everyone was busy laughing.
And Xenon Maximoff was finally paying attention.