The world trembled.
The first signs were quiet. Barely noticed. A distant vibration running through cracked streets and hollow buildings. Windows rattled in their shattered frames. Dust drifted down from the remains of skyscrapers, falling like silent grey rain across burned-out cars and bodies frozen in death.
Then came the stillness.
The wind died. The sky dimmed. Birds fell from the air in silent heaps, feathers drifting after them like pale, broken prayers. Far away, the ocean receded from its shores, waves pulling back into the dark horizon as if fleeing something they could not bear to witness.
Lucifer stood in the middle of Times Square, silent among the bodies of dead clones and broken hunters. The early sun flickered above him, its light dimming to a pale, sickly gold. He felt it instantly—the pulse that had always been there beneath his feet, the heartbeat of the world itself. It was fading. Slowing. Becoming quiet.
