Nothing announced the end.
No sirens.
No emergency broadcasts.
No moment where the sky cracked open and people finally understood.
Instead, the city adjusted.
Kane Mercer watched those adjustments happen in real time.
From the command chamber beneath the streets, he observed the subtle shift in behavior patterns—slightly heavier traffic during off-hours, longer hospital wait times, an increase in stress markers across civilian biometric data harvested from wearable devices and public networks. Not panic. Not fear.
Tension.
"Social cohesion remains intact," the AI reported. "However, deviation from baseline behavior has increased by nine percent."
Kane clasped his hands behind his back, staring at a holographic map of the city. Yellow indicators flickered on and off across different districts—nothing alarming enough to force attention, nothing dramatic enough to break denial.
Perfect.
This was how the world died the first time.
People didn't ignore warning signs because they were stupid. They ignored them because accepting reality required action, and action meant responsibility. Governments waited for certainty. Corporations waited for liability clearance. People waited for someone else to go first.
No one ever did.
Aboveground, a maintenance crew replaced a transformer that had briefly malfunctioned earlier in the morning. The power disruption had lasted seconds—just enough to reset clocks in a few apartment buildings and prompt irritated posts online. Most people forgot about it within an hour.
Kane didn't.
"That fluctuation wasn't necessary," he said calmly.
"It was not intentional," the AI replied. "Secondary municipal systems are beginning to destabilize due to human operational errors."
Kane narrowed his eyes slightly.
"So it's starting."
"Yes. Early failures are no longer hypothetical."
He accepted that without emotion.
Back when the apocalypse had come the first time, infrastructure had collapsed from fear, not force. Human operators abandoned stations. Command chains broke down. Critical systems failed simply because no one showed up to keep them running.
Now, Kane was watching the first dominoes lean.
Hospital alerts crossed his awareness again. Not mass casualty events—yet—but inconsistencies. Patients admitted for violent seizures. Others restrained for "psychotic episodes" that didn't respond to treatment. A handful of unexplained deaths quietly sealed off for review.
One of them didn't stay dead.
Kane paused on the footage.
A hospital corridor camera showed staff reacting to something happening just outside frame. The audio feed had already been muted by administrators. When the camera angle shifted, Kane saw the patient—eyes unfocused, posture unnatural, movements sharp and unstable.
Security rushed in.
They didn't come back out.
Kane shut the feed down himself before the AI could ask.
"Suppression effectiveness?" he asked.
"Ninety-seven percent," the AI replied. "Information leakage remains localized and discredited."
Good.
People still trusted systems that were already failing them.
Belowground, Kane's world remained stable.
Construction droids moved along preset paths, expanding storage vaults and reinforcing load-bearing pillars. Humanoid androids patrolled silently, more human in appearance than function, their internal directives tightly bound to a single priority: protect the child at all costs.
The baby slept peacefully, unaware of anything beyond warmth and sound and gentle motion.
Kane didn't visit her.
Not yet.
He understood attachment too well to let it surface early.
"Supply status?" he asked instead.
"All essential materials secured," the AI replied. "Warehouses operating within projected tolerances. No external suspicion detected."
Kane nodded.
Money had never been the obstacle in the past—it had been time. This time, he had both. Shell corporations moved resources legally, cleanly, invisibly. Construction equipment vanished into underground shafts listed as urban repair projects. No one questioned the paperwork.
No one looked down.
A new anomaly surfaced—wildlife surveillance flagged abnormal behavior in a river park near the outskirts. Fish died in clusters, floating to the surface with distorted bodies. Birds avoided the area entirely.
"Environmental mutation spillover," Kane said.
"Yes," the AI replied. "Viral saturation increasing in non-human ecosystems."
Kane folded his arms.
"This is still denial phase," he said. "But the system strain is accelerating."
"That is correct."
He remembered the day denial ended last time. Not because of a revelation, but because panic finally outweighed pride. Because fear became louder than reassurance.
They weren't there yet.
Aboveground, restaurants still filled up. Couples still argued about bills. Parents still walked children to school.
Belowground, Kane marked another sector for silent isolation.
"Prepare contingency routes," he ordered. "But don't activate anything. I want redundancy without visibility."
"Confirmed."
The city did not realize its foundations were being claimed piece by piece.
Later that night, Kane stood alone in the observation chamber, watching the skyline through indirect camera feeds. Lights glittered. Life persisted.
For now.
"This is the calm before comprehension," Kane murmured.
"Yes," the AI said. "Probability models suggest public awareness will spike once denial is no longer psychologically sustainable."
Kane's gaze hardened.
"By then, it won't matter."
Far beneath the city, machines stood ready.
Above it, humanity slept—still convinced tomorrow was promised.
And somewhere deep in Kane's mind, the clock had already started counting down.