YEAR 2057
It began with sunlight.
A single golden ray cutting across my desk.
It was Tuesday.
My name is Seraphina Valerius, and being the Student Council President of Yamashiro Institute was no easy feat. I spent most of my days reviewing budgets, managing internal projects, and maintaining order. That I carried myself with the cold precision expected of my position so much so that my peers had branded me the "Ice Maiden."
Most of the time, I ignored it. Their whispers were like ants that don't deserve my attention.
My silvery hair, usually long and flowing down to my waist, was tied back in a tight knot.
I caught my reflection in the dark screen of my datapad: sharp cheekbones, a firm jawline, amber eyes everything in place.
The white-and-gold uniform of Yamashiro Institute cling to my smooth bodily edges, crisp and wrinkle-free, reflecting the discipline I preserve.
"Councilor Tanaka," I said coolly, watching him fidget. They always did, new councilors, even the seasoned ones.
Whenever they spoke to me, they bowed under my presence like obedient dogs.
Ugh. Is it really that hard to find a guy who's not completely useless?
I sighed in my thoughts, already knowing the answer, surrounded by cowards, as always.
"The request for a budget for 'swift snack delivery' lacks any academic merit."
He looked painfully small in the oversized office chair, swallowing hard. I giggled accidentally, he probably cowered from my presence.
Outside the tower, the city gleamed with life. The sky was as blue as the ocean.
Sky-lanes shimmered with passing vehicles, while holographic newsfeeds flickered across buildings.
Reports of growing Martian colonies scrolled beside the fashion trends and market updates. The future looked bright.
Occasionally, there were rumors of solar flares, end-of-the-world panic, or some flu spreading like wildfire. But I dismissed them. Humans solve problems. Cause logic always wins.
I tapped my stylus. "Now, about the trophy design costs—"
Outside the towering windows of Northwood Academy, the afternoon sun gleamed unnaturally bright, painting the skyline in an eerie gold. I glanced up from my datapad, frowning. Something in the air felt… wrong. The light was too sharp, too harsh like the sun was screaming silently from behind a veil.
Then the datapad in my hand buzzed violently.
Lines of static broke across the screen, and a high-pitched distortion pierced the air. The interface glitched once then the system crashed into a hard reboot.
A low, mechanical voice crackled through the speaker:
[Emergency Broadcast System]
"This is an emergency alert. A Class X solar flare has been detected. Estimated impact in T-minus 5 minutes. All unshielded electronics will fail. Seek underground shelter immediately. Repeat: this is not a drill."
A cold knot formed in my chest.
Outside the window, the sky darkened around the edges, colors twisting, as if painted by a trembling hand. Flickers of aurora danced across the horizon where no aurora should ever be.
The datapad stuttered again.
[Emergency Broadcast System:]
"Warning: radiation levels will spike beyond safe thresholds. Surface exposure is lethal."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Suddenly, every speaker embedded across the city, on street poles, in public terminals, and classroom intercoms, crackled to life in unison. The cold voice of the Civil Defense System overrode all frequencies.
> "ALL CITIZENS: EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY TO YOUR NEAREST NUCLEAR VAULTS."
A pause. Then it repeated louder, more urgent.
> "I REPEAT—ALL CITIZENS EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY TO YOUR NEAREST NUCLEAR VAULTS."
> "THIS IS NOT A DRILL. I REPEAT—THIS IS NOT A DRILL."
The air shifted. My office, once a sanctuary of order and authority, now glowed with an eerie golden hue. The sunlight beyond the windows pulsed unnaturally, vibrating against the glass like a living thing.
Then, it vanished. Darkness. And then chaos.
Students screamed in the halls. Alarms wailed. Shoes pounded across marble floors as the order of Yamashiro institute collapsed in seconds. Panic devoured the corridors like fire on paper.
I stood frozen for a breath too long, until instinct, training, and duty snapped me into motion.
"Form orderly lines!" I shouted. "Proceed to the designated emergency exits!"
But my voice was lost in the growing sirens and screams of the people.
The academy's advanced communication systems were dead. No holographic announcements.
Everything I had lived by, everything I had planned for…Gone. My meticulously scheduled life. My five-year academic roadmap, it was coloured and optimized for hours I made alone. My strategy outlines for the national debate championships, the victory speeches I had already rehearsed in my mind.
All of it…are now meaningless. What's the purpose of plans now?
For the first time in my life, a cold, paralyzing wave of helplessness took hold of me.
I, Seraphina Valerius, who always had the answer for everything and always accounted for my final words, I was no longer in power, people in this crisis no longer listen to anyone.
And that terrified me more than anything else.
For a moment, the chaos outside became a distant blur, shouting, running, the shatter of glass. I could barely hear it over the pounding of my own heart and the crackle of an old radio unit one of the teachers had salvaged from a backup cabinet.
Then it began.... a low static, like a dying machine breathing its last. A few of us crowded around the device, clinging to it like a lifeline.
The voice that came through was ragged, half-smothered by interference.
[Emergency Civil Defense Broadcast – Standby Override]
> "...This is the Emergency Civil Defense Network. Repeat: this is not a test."
Our blood froze.
> "A new pathogen, unofficially dubbed the Crawler Plague, is spreading across multiple sectors at an alarming rate."
> "Symptoms will begin within hours of exposure: fever, convulsions, and extreme joint dislocation... followed by severe neurological distortion. Infected individuals become highly aggressive and exhibit unnatural locomotion crawling or twisting toward uninfected targets."
Someone gasped behind me. A strangled sound sharp, raw. Another teacher, pale and trembling, began to mutter a prayer under his breath.
> "Do not attempt to aid anyone or restrain infected persons. Avoid all contact. They are no longer human."
The broadcast crackled violently. The words blurred into static, but beneath the distortion, something else emerged.
Students froze. Heads turned slowly toward the open windows.
Then came the scream.
A distorted, unnatural shriek ripping through the air like metal tearing against bone.
[Static intensifies. A low growl or distant scream can be faintly heard in the background.]
"...If you are receiving this message, shelter in a safe place. Barricade all entrances. Destroy bridges or tunnels if possible to cut their route of exposure in other areas. We repeat—containment has failed. This is a full biological threat classification Omega."
"...May God help us all."
[Transmission cuts to static.]