Traffic thickened the closer they got to the shopping center.
Not a standstill. Not even a true jam. Just too many cars for a weekday late morning, moving in uneven pulses — surging forward, braking suddenly, inching ahead again as if the entire road were breathing.
Brake lights flared in red waves stretching toward the horizon.
Dad kept both hands on the wheel, posture forward, eyes locked ahead.
"Feels like the day before a hurricane," he said, though there was no coast in sight and no storm warning on the radio.
Mom smoothed her folded grocery list against her thigh for the third time.
"We'll just get what we need and go."
She sounded calm.
Not relaxed — controlled.
Noah leaned forward between the seats, peering past the windshield like he might see answers hiding in the traffic.
"Why are there so many police?"
Two cruisers idled at the next intersection, lights off but engines running. An officer stood in the road speaking to a cluster of drivers who had stepped out of their cars, gesturing in clipped movements that suggested he'd repeated himself too many times already.
Another cruiser blocked the entrance to a gas station where the pumps were dark and caution tape fluttered weakly in the humid air.
Containment posture.
Not emergency response.
Ethan watched silently.
People weren't evacuating.
Not yet.
They were orbiting uncertainty, waiting for someone else to decide first.
The radio crackled.
"…—officials urge residents to avoid unnecessary travel as emergency services respond to multiple incidents across the region—"
Static swallowed the rest, dissolving into a hiss.
Dad tapped the dashboard in irritation.
"Signal's been awful all morning."
The sky above the road looked unsettled rather than stormy. Thin gray layers drifted in different directions, muting the sunlight into dull patches that shifted every few seconds. The air inside the car felt heavy even with the AC running, humidity pressing in through every seam.
A flock of birds crossed overhead.
Dense. Low. Moving too fast.
Their formation fractured and reformed in erratic bursts, wings beating in sharp, aggressive strokes rather than smooth glides.
Several dove toward rooftops, then jerked upward again as if pulled by invisible strings.
One clipped a streetlight pole with a sharp metallic ping.
It recovered instantly, accelerating to rejoin the swarm.
Noah twisted in his seat to watch them disappear.
"…That was weird."
"Probably spooked," Mom said automatically.
Ethan didn't respond.
Birds didn't misjudge distances like that. Not repeatedly. Not in daylight.
The Parking Lot
The supermarket lot was packed.
Cars crawled through lanes at walking speed, drivers scanning for openings with tight, hungry focus. Several vehicles sat crooked across lines where someone had given up pretending precision mattered.
Dad parked at the far edge near a strip of sun-bleached grass and a line of young trees that looked too thin to cast real shade.
The moment the doors opened, the heat hit them — not sharp, but suffocating. Humidity clung to skin instantly, turning breath thick and damp.
Somewhere nearby, a car alarm chirped weakly, cut off, then chirped again as if it couldn't decide whether to commit.
Noah wiped his palms on his shorts.
"It feels like it's about to storm."
There was no wind.
No distant thunder.
Just pressure.
A shopping cart rolled slowly across the asphalt without anyone touching it, wheels rattling unevenly. It drifted toward the curb, bumped it, and tipped onto its side with a hollow metallic clatter.
Mom stared.
"Was that wind?"
Dad glanced around.
"Maybe."
Nothing else moved.
Above them, one of the parking lot trees shuddered. Leaves rippled across the branches in a wave, as if something had brushed through them — except the air was still.
Ethan's gaze lingered.
The bark looked swollen.
Subtle.
Easy to miss.
But wrong.
Inside the Store
The sliding doors parted with a mechanical sigh, releasing a blast of cold air that smelled faintly of disinfectant, produce mist, and packed human bodies.
Noise followed.
Cart wheels rattling over tile.
Checkout beeps.
Announcements chiming.
Voices layered into a constant, restless murmur.
Not panic.
Pressure.
Shelves weren't empty.
But they weren't normal either.
Water stacks reduced by half. Bread picked through. Canned goods scattered in uneven gaps. Batteries down to brands no one chose unless they had no choice.
Mom guided the cart carefully, list held like a lifeline.
"Rice… pasta… beans…"
Dad grabbed items without hesitation, stacking them with efficient precision.
Noah hovered close, eyes darting from shelf to shelf as if afraid something might disappear while he wasn't looking.
Ethan walked slightly behind them.
Observing.
Entrances. Exits. Cameras. Blind corners. Dense clusters of people.
Threat mapping.
A man hurried past pushing a cart piled so high with bottled water it wobbled dangerously.
Another shoved two carts at once, diapers stacked chest-high.
Near the pharmacy counter, a woman argued into her phone, voice tight enough to snap.
"…I don't care what they're saying, just come home."
She lowered her voice when she noticed people listening.
Denial demanded privacy.
Store employees moved quickly but avoided eye contact, restocking shelves with mechanical focus.
One quietly taped a LIMIT TWO PER CUSTOMER sign over the water display.
No announcement.
No explanation.
Just preparation.
Mom frowned.
"They're rationing already?"
Dad shook his head.
"Probably supply delays."
Ethan said nothing.
Supply delays were how collapse introduced itself politely.
They turned into the pet aisle.
The growl sliced through the store noise like a blade.
A German shepherd stood rigid at the far end, fur raised along its spine, tail stiff as a rod. Its owner struggled to hold the leash, boots sliding on the polished floor.
"Buddy, easy—"
The dog lunged.
Not startled.
Not playful.
Committed.
The leash snapped taut, dragging the man forward several steps.
Its jaws snapped inches from a passing shopper's arm with a loud, hollow crack of teeth.
"Sorry! He's never— I don't know what's wrong—"
The dog didn't bark.
It stared.
Head low. Ears pinned. Muscles trembling with restrained violence.
Predator posture.
Ethan studied it carefully.
Coordination intact. Target tracking present. No signs of confusion.
Not sick.
Changed.
Security approached cautiously.
"Sir, you'll need to take the animal outside."
The man nodded frantically.
"Yeah. Yeah, okay."
He dragged the dog toward the exit. It resisted the entire way, twisting to keep its gaze locked on the crowd until the doors swallowed them.
Only then did people exhale.
Noah swallowed hard.
"…That wasn't normal."
"No," Dad said quietly.
Mom tightened her grip on the cart.
"Let's finish quickly."
Ethan didn't disagree.
Near produce, the overhead lights flickered.
Not a blink.
A pulse.
For a fraction of a second, the air seemed to bend — not visibly, but perceptibly, like the world had shifted half an inch out of alignment.
Water droplets from the misting system froze midair.
Then fell.
Several shoppers frowned, glancing upward.
"Did you see that?"
"See what?"
The moment passed.
Ethan felt pressure behind his right eye.
A dull, spreading ache.
Reality strain.
Mana leakage.
Soon.
Checkout Lines
Lines stretched deep into the aisles, carts bumper-to-bumper.
No shouting.
No fights.
Just restless silence broken by sighs, shifting feet, and the thin wail of a child who didn't understand why everyone felt wrong.
Noah shifted from foot to foot.
"…This is taking forever."
Dad checked ahead.
"Almost there."
Ethan watched the front windows.
Outside, the light had dulled further. Not darker — flatter. As if the sun were shining through smoked glass.
A deep boom rolled across the distance.
Too low for thunder.
Too sustained for construction.
Several people paused, heads tilting.
No one spoke.
Leaving
They paid and stepped outside.
The heat felt heavier than before, humidity pressing down like a physical weight.
Conversation had drained away.
Mom scanned the parking lot constantly.
Noah hugged a grocery bag tight against his chest.
Dad loaded the trunk in brisk silence.
"Let's head home."
Ethan spoke quietly.
"Better not linger."
Dad didn't question it.
He closed the trunk and got behind the wheel.
The engine's vibration felt reassuring — familiar, predictable, controllable.
They merged into the slow current of cars leaving the lot.
Behind them, the store looked unchanged.
Just crowded.
Just noisy.
Just stretched tight at the seams.
Ahead, the road led toward neighborhoods, tree lines, and quiet streets that still pretended the world made sense.
Ethan watched the sky through the windshield.
Nothing falling.
Nothing tearing.
Not yet.
But the air felt dense, like the moment before a storm breaks — the stillness that comes when everything alive pauses without knowing why.
He rested his hand lightly against the shield concealed beneath his jacket.
Supplies secured.Family intact.Time shrinking.
This was the quiet part.
The part most people mistook for safety.
Ethan knew better.
Because disasters didn't begin with destruction.
They began with denial.
And right now—
The world was still pretending it had time.