Thump-thump-thump. His heart hammered like a war drum against his ribs.
Sweat slicked his skin, cold and relentless, stinging his eyes.
Huff... huff... Each breath came ragged, desperate, a ragged gasp clawing its way out of his throat.
The world blurred around him, but the chase was close — closer than ever. No time to think. Only run, his legs screaming to keep moving.
The dark figure behind him was closing in with every second. For Vid, death felt inevitable—yet his legs, driven by raw adrenaline, refused to stop.
THUNNNNNNNN
That was when it came, a sound that silenced everything, the sound that marked calamity, as if the entire sky was being hammered
Vid couldn't help but freeze mid-run and glance up.
For a moment, time itself seemed to stop.
His pupils dilated instantly, as what he saw made his heartbeat stop for a second.
There was a tear in the sky, a literal tear right above him, as if the sky was made out of cardboard and a toddler accidentally punched it
[A few hours earlier...]
7th July, 2025
6:00 a.m.
"Bleep bloop! Incoming transmission from Planet Overlord! Your royal presence is required immediately."
"Bleep bloop..."
A groggy hand slapped around for the phone, knocking over a bottle of water and a pair of socks before finally silencing the intergalactic embarrassment.
"Ugh... fuck. Why haven't I changed this ringtone yet?" he muttered, voice still thick with sleep. "It'll be real fun when this thing starts screaming in the middle of deadlifts."
He stared at the ceiling for a moment, contemplating his life choices. The ringtone echoed faintly in his mind, mockingly. "Your royal presence is required…"
"What day is it again? Let me check..." he thought, grabbing his phone to peek at his schedule.
Wednesday: Leg
"Finally, chest day." He let out a sharp, dry chuckle — the kind that had more bitterness than humor — as he rose from bed and shuffled toward the washroom.
As he reached the sink, a mirror stared back at him from just above the basin, catching him in that lovely half-dead, morning-zombie state. For a second, Vid stopped to observe his reflection.
He couldn't help but admire the muscles he'd built with sweat and stubbornness. He wasn't some Greek god carved from marble, nor an Olympian-level monster with arms the size of average thighs. He was just your regular gym rat — built enough to turn a few heads at the grocery store, mostly from grandmas in his neighborhood. It wasn't intentional, but hey, a little unsolicited admiration never hurt. Gave him just enough confidence to keep showing up.
He wasn't lean either — not the shredded, veins-popping-everywhere kind. But he wasn't fat, not quite. He existed somewhere in that ambiguous middle zone where he could justify his eating habits under the sacred banner of a bulk. Was it a clean bulk? Absolutely not. But it was a bulk nonetheless. And that was enough.
"Front double bicep."
"Front lat spread."
"Atlas."
Vid stood frozen, still holding the last pose, a faintly unhinged smile creeping across his face as he stared into the mirror. He had just spent the past twenty minutes mimicking Olympia poses like a man possessed.
"Hah…"The laugh slipped out-soft, breathy, almost eerie - as if he'd momentarily forgotten he wasn't on a stage under blinding lights, but alone in a dim bathroom at 6 a.m., flexing at himself like a Greek statue with a protein addiction.
"Fuck, I forgot to call back," he muttered, irritation slipping into his voice as the realization hit. He'd left his friend — and unofficial gym bro — hanging for half an hour.
Scrolling through his contacts. He tapped on Kairn, already bracing for the guilt trip.
The call connected almost immediately.
Kairn: "Wow. So you do remember I exist."
Vid sighed. "Bro. I was literally just about to call—"
Kairn: "Uh-huh. That's what they all say right before they vanish with their new gym bros."
Vid rubbed his temple. "It's been thirty minutes, not thirty years."
Kairn: "Time moves slower when you're emotionally neglected."
Vid maintained a silence as he had no intention of replying to that statement.
Kairn: "No, seriously—just tell me. Did you find someone else?
"Vid: "What?"
Kairn: "Another spotter. Another lifting partner. "
Vid: "I would, if I could."
Kairn:"…Alright. Just checking. But if you ever start tagging someone else in PR videos, I'll know."
Vid: "You got half an hour, we are hitting Chest today."
Kairn, in a confused tone, "Wait, isn't today leg-" beep
Vid ended the call before the other side could retort — one of his many tactical evasions. Classic.
Without missing a beat, he threw on his gym clothes, grabbed his old string bag — worn out from too many deadlifts and protein bars — and stepped out the door, careful not to wake his mom or his little sister, Alina, curled up like a burrito in the next room.
As he walked, a thought crept into his head uninvited:Why was he even on this grind anymore?
He had never cared about stepping on stage or chasing trophies. Competitive bodybuilding wasn't the goal — it never had been. It all started with insecurity, plain and simple. Some mix of self-doubt and the primal hope of catching a few more glances from the opposite sex.
But somewhere along the way, it shifted. The vanity gave way to routine. Discipline. A desire to stay fit, to feel good, to move better. He stopped caring about how others saw him — it became personal.
And now? Now it had morphed into something even simpler. Something raw. A quiet, masculine urge to lift heavier than the guy next to him. No medals. No applause. Just the iron and the need to conquer it.
The gym's glass doors slid open with a faint hiss, and that familiar mix of sweat, metal, and stale air hit him like a welcome slap to the face.
"Yo."Vid nodded at Kairn, who was wiping down a bench with the dead eyes of someone halfway through a brutal push day.
They exchanged a quick fist bump - the unspoken acknowledgment of shared pain - and Vid made his way to the bench.
He started his usual warmup. Bar only — 20kg.
Just to get the joints moving.
Then 60kg for 10, light and fast.
100kg for 5, slower now. Muscles waking up.
120kg for 3, focused, no more talking. He sat up, rolled his shoulders out. The weight was moving clean. Body felt solid.
150kg. Time for the real set.
He loaded the plates, chalked his hands, and sat on the bench for a moment. Deep breath in. No music. No distractions. Just him and the iron.
He lay back, locked in his grip, and unracked the bar. The weight dipped fast, controlled, and then he pushed. Elbows tucked, chest tight, legs planted. The bar rose, clean and steady.
Clang.
The sound of the bar hitting the rack echoed loud enough to turn a few heads.
Vid sat up, wrists sore but steady. No smile, no ego — just that familiar rush.
He wrapped up the session with a couple of back-off sets and some quick stretches that barely counted. His body was worn out in that familiar, heavy way — not painful, just spent.
After wiping down the bench and grabbing his bottle, he gave Kairn a nod.
"Done?" Kairn asked, adjusting his grip on a dumbbell.
"Yeah."
No fuss. No fist bumps. Just that mutual understanding.
Vid slung his string bag over one shoulder and started walking. No music. No calls. Just the steady rhythm of his steps on the pavement and the low hum of the city around him.
His arms felt heavy. Not from the workout, but from everything else.
He'd been on autopilot for months. A routine that felt like a loop with no real exit.
Vid had recently graduated from high school. He was eighteen now.
After failing to clear a popular competitive exam in his country, he decided to take a drop year and try again next year. But deep down, he already knew the truth — he probably wasn't going to pass next year either.
Not because the exam was impossibly difficult. Not because he lacked the intelligence.
Academics had always been his strong suit — until he turned sixteen. Since then, something inside had just... stalled. He knew he wasn't putting in the effort. He wasn't even pretending to try. But somehow, climbing out of that rut felt harder than the actual syllabus.
His days followed a loose, looping rhythm: Wake up. Lift weights. Binge-read fantasy novels. Scroll through reels for hours. And finally, fall asleep listening to some video on an abstract philosophical concept that he half-understood but found oddly comforting.
Those videos always knocked him out. Something about someone calmly talking about "meaning" or "nothingness" made his brain go quiet. Peaceful, in a weird way.
He was stuck.
He turned onto the last street before home, still lost in thought, when he noticed the light had shifted.
The morning haze — that usual soft gold — was gone. In its place, a deep, murky gray had settled over everything, like the sun had changed its mind and started setting instead of rising.
It wasn't cloudy. No storm clouds were rolling in. But the sky… it just looked wrong.
Not pitch black — but unnaturally dim. The kind of dim you only get right before a total eclipse, or in a dream you can't quite wake up from.
The streetlights, timed to turn off at sunrise, flickered uneasily and blinked back on.
Vid slowed down. His chest tightened — not from fatigue, but from something deeper. Older.
He glanced up. The sky looked stretched again. The same strange shimmer. Like something behind it was trying to push through.
And then — buzz.
He flinched.
A message.
Alina [7:50 a.m.]
You need to run. Now.