"Phileo, you're going to be late again."
Phileo groaned and pulled the blanket over his head. "Five more minutes," he said, his voice rough with sleep.
Sunlight slipped through the thin curtains of his room in the Town of Moss. The air smelled of dust and warm wood. Outside, a motorcycle passed, its sound fading down the road.
"You said that ten minutes ago," the voice replied, amused but firm.
Phileo sat up and rubbed his eyes. His room was small and messy—clothes on the chair, a cracked phone on the table, old posters peeling from the wall. Nothing special. Just life.
"I'm up," he said, swinging his legs off the bed.
He washed his face at the sink and stared at himself in the mirror. Twenty-two. Same tired eyes. Same quiet look. Nothing about him said today would matter.
Outside, Moss moved slowly. Shops opened one by one. Neighbors talked across fences. The world felt normal—too normal.
Phileo stepped out and felt his phone buzz.
Emergency Alert: Stay indoors. Await further instructions.
He frowned. "That's new."
Across the street, an old man looked at his own phone and laughed. "Probably another drill," he said. "They love their drills."
Phileo nodded, but something felt off. The alert didn't disappear. No follow-up. Just silence.
Far away, beyond Moss, sirens began to rise.
In the sky, a low helicopter passed, heading toward the City of Zektra.
Phileo watched it until it disappeared, a strange tight feeling settling in his chest.
He didn't know it yet, but this was the last quiet morning he would ever have.