The world was supposed to end at 3:17 a.m.
Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. Literally.
Every serious model said so. Climate cascade thresholds, orbital debris chains, pathogen probability curves, even the weird fringe simulations that only ran on repurposed weather satellites—all of them converged on the same timestamp. Humanity didn't argue much at that point. When doom arrives with graphs, people tend to listen.
At 3:16 a.m., the sky over most continents turned the color of bruised steel. Oceans pulled back like lungs preparing to scream. Power grids flickered into a synchronized, global apology.
At 3:17 a.m., nothing happened.
No fire. No rapture. No silence either.
Instead, something slipped.
That was the only word later agreed upon by the machines still capable of logging reality. A slip. As if existence itself missed a step on the stairs.
Some people felt it as vertigo. Others as a pressure behind the eyes, like remembering a dream they never had. A few screamed—not because of pain, but because for half a second they were elsewhere, standing in places that did not obey geometry or mercy.
Most noticed nothing at all.
The clocks kept moving.
Governments declared victory over panic. Influencers joked about the "Apocalypse DLC getting delayed." Religions quietly rewrote footnotes. Life resumed, slightly embarrassed.
But reality had developed a hairline fracture.
———————————————————–
Eren Vale was awake when it happened, which already put him in a statistical minority.
He was sitting on the edge of his bed, tying his shoes for a night shift that paid too little and asked too much. The room smelled faintly of rust and old books. When the slip occurred, Eren didn't feel vertigo or awe.
He felt recognized.
The air thickened, not physically, but intentionally. Like being looked at by something that didn't need eyes.
For exactly one second, the world went quiet—not silent, just… unclaimed. Gravity hesitated. Shadows forgot which direction they belonged to.
And then Eren heard a voice that did not come from outside his head, nor fully from within it.
"You noticed."
His heartbeat skipped, annoyed more than afraid.
"Yeah," he muttered to an empty room. "So did about eight billion others."
The voice paused. That pause carried weight, like a book being set down by something very old.
"No. They experienced it. You noticed it."
The second hand on the wall clock stuttered, jumped forward, then resumed its lie of normalcy.
Eren stood up slowly. His reflection in the cracked mirror looked unchanged, which somehow made things worse.
"What exactly are you?" he asked.
Another pause. Longer this time. Careful.
"A failsafe that wasn't supposed to wake up."
Outside, sirens wailed—then cut off mid-note. Somewhere far above the clouds, something massive realigned itself with a soundless shudder.
The voice continued, almost… apologetic.
"The world refused to end. That creates surplus."
"Surplus creates pressure."
"Pressure creates candidates."
Eren laughed once, sharp and humorless.
"Let me guess," he said. "I won the worst lottery imaginable."
The presence did not deny it.
Instead, the walls of his room briefly became transparent—not to the outside, but to elsewhere. Eren glimpsed cities folded inside each other, oceans suspended like thoughts, and a vast ledger of names—most of them already crossed out.
His name was not.
"You are not chosen," the voice corrected, almost gently.
"You are… left over."
The vision snapped shut. The room returned. The clock read 3:18 a.m.
Eren exhaled.
"…Figures."
Outside, the world celebrated survival.
Somewhere deeper, far below explanation, something had begun counting again.
And this time, it was counting him.