*** Aiko ***
Hirakata hummed with the quiet pulse of a city winding down for the night. Neon signs blinked promises of ramen, karaoke, and pachinko, their light spilling onto the wet pavement from an earlier drizzle. The sidewalks were still busy, though the rush had thinned to scattered clusters of salarymen, students, and the occasional cyclist weaving confidently through the crowd.
Aiko adjusted the strap of her bag and kept her head down, her footsteps quick but measured. She’d learned to walk with purpose when leaving the kyabakura, her work heels tucked into the bag and replaced with practical sneakers. Her co-workers teased her for it—“too sensible for a hostess,” they’d laugh—but it was a necessity. The club was in a nicer part of town, but drunks and opportunists didn’t keep to one district.
She passed a mother ushering two young children home, their sleepy faces turned up toward her. Aiko forced a polite nod.
The streetlights flickered.
Aiko stopped mid-step, her brow furrowing. Above her, the fluorescent hum of the city dimmed, then cut out completely, plunging the city into darkness. A collective murmur spread among the pedestrians, their confusion rippling outward. Aiko reached for her phone, the comforting weight of it a tether to normalcy.
Nothing.
The screen stayed black, no matter how many times she tapped or held the power button. Around her, others were pulling out their phones, their faces lit briefly by dead screens. Some cursed under their breath; others held their phones up, as though the higher altitude might coax them back to life.
“A blackout?” someone asked behind her.
Another voice chimed in, “But even the cars aren’t working…”
Aiko turned toward the street. The usual line of taxis crawling toward Hirakata Station had become a parade of stalled vehicles. Drivers leaned out of windows, their faces painted with frustration, while passengers climbed out to inspect the sudden failures. A bicyclist wobbled dangerously as their electric-assist motor cut off, forcing them to dismount and push.
What the hell is going on?
She started walking again, the shadows of unlit vending machines casting unfamiliar shapes onto the narrow streets. The absence of sound struck her more than the darkness—no humming power lines, no train horns, no ambient music spilling from the konbini up ahead.
The store was swarming with people. Aiko hesitated, staying just outside the fluorescent glow of its emergency lights. Shouts echoed from inside as a flustered clerk, no older than herself, waved his arms in a futile attempt to manage the growing chaos.
“If you don’t have cash, you can’t buy anything!”
The response came sharp and fast: “How are we supposed to use cash if the register isn’t working?”
Aiko stepped back, the press of the crowd sending a wave of unease through her chest. Grabbing supplies was tempting—her dorm room was hardly stocked for a disaster—but the energy here was sharp and fraying, the threads of politeness unraveling. She’d seen it before during the rare typhoon: quiet panic blossoming into chaos.
*
By the time she turned onto the narrow street leading to her dorm, Hirakata had transformed into an unfamiliar place. Shadows swallowed the familiar landmarks, and she found herself glancing over her shoulder, an unwelcome habit she hadn’t practiced since leaving home for university.
The alley shortcut loomed ahead, a darkened tunnel she typically avoided at night. But her legs ached, and the weight of her bag pulled at her shoulders like lead. She hesitated for a moment before stepping into the gloom, quickening her pace.
The voices hit her ears before she saw the figures.
“Hand it over!”
“It’s not yours! Don’t mess with me!”
Aiko’s breath caught as the argument grew louder. Her fingers tightened around her bag strap, and she dipped her head slightly, muttering “excuse me” as she passed.
The men didn’t seem to notice her—or maybe they didn’t care. Her sneakers slapped against the pavement, her pulse thundering in her ears until she reached the next street, the emergency lights from distant high-rises painting pale, flashing rectangles on the asphalt.
She exhaled, her shoulders relaxing just enough for the fear to give way to irritation. Why did I even take the shortcut? Stupid.
*
Her dorm was silent when she arrived, a dark silhouette against the starless sky. Emergency lights flickered weakly in the stairwell, casting long, eerie shadows as she climbed to the third floor.
The hallway smelled faintly of burnt plastic, and she passed several open doors where neighbors whispered in hushed tones.
“If the electricity doesn’t come back, what do we do?”
Aiko didn’t linger. Her room was as she’d left it, the futon unrolled in the corner, her textbooks neatly stacked on the desk. She closed the door behind her, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet.
Her flashlight lay in a drawer by the bed. The weak beam cut across the room, illuminating her shelves of carefully organized notebooks and the small photo of her grandmother perched on top. Aiko picked up the photo, her thumb tracing the edge of the frame.
“Grandma…” she whispered, the words catching in her throat.
Outside, the city stretched out in darkness, a hushed, alien landscape. Aiko clutched her hands together, her knuckles white, and stared into the void. Whatever this was, it wasn’t temporary. She could feel it—a hollow certainty settling deep in her chest.
The world had stopped. And nothing was going to turn it back on.
*** Michael ***
In the Arizona sky, the molten disk of the sun had just finished rising over the desert horizon. Morning shadows stretched long across the construction site, their edges jagged and sharp against the dirt. Michael Yazzie wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his glove, squinting at the half-finished house in front of him. Two hours into the work day, and it was already uncomfortably warm.
“Break time, Yazzie!” the foreman barked from his truck. The man hadn’t stepped out of his air-conditioned cab since the shift had started at 3am.
Michael pulled off his gloves and shoved them into his back pocket. He stretched his shoulders and glanced at the morning sun lifting over the horizon.
The backhoe loader behind him groaned to life as a coworker maneuvered it into position. Michael was about to head to the air-conditioned break trailer when the engine gave a sputter and died. The silence that followed was unnatural, like someone had thrown a blanket over the world.
“Hey, what the hell?” The operator banged the controls. “Stupid thing’s busted again!”
Michael frowned, turning to watch. One by one, the other machines around the site faltered and stopped: the cement mixer, and even the old truck the foreman used to haul supplies. Engines stuttered, choked, and went silent, their mechanical rhythm replaced by the soft hiss of the desert wind.
The foreman’s door creaked open, and the man leaned out, his sunglasses reflecting the morning light. “Did the generator blow?”
“No, boss,” someone shouted back. “It’s everything.”
Michael pulled out his phone instinctively, tapping the screen. Nothing. No glow, no vibration, not even the familiar flicker of a dead battery. He turned it over, as though the answer might be written on the back. Around him, the other workers were doing the same—pulling out phones, flipping switches, fiddling with radios.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“It’s not just the machines,” Michael said aloud, his voice cutting through the rising murmurs. “It’s everything.”
*
The helicopter was the final straw.
Michael hadn’t noticed it at first, the faint hum blending with the noise of the site. But when the hum disappeared, replaced by the unmistakable sound of metal screaming against air, every head turned skyward.
The chopper, perhaps a half-mile in the distance, spiraled down. Its trajectory was jagged and desperate. Michael’s gut clenched as he tracked its path, a dark smudge against the pale orange sky. When it hit the ground, a plume of smoke rose like a question mark, twisting into the air.
“Jesus,” someone whispered.
The foreman cursed under his breath. “Alright, pack it up! Everyone head home until this gets sorted!”
A few of the workers nodded and headed for their cars. Michael stayed back, watching as one by one, the vehicles failed to start. Engines coughed weakly before falling silent, leaving the men stranded.
Michael slung his bag over his shoulder. “Guess I’m walking.”
*
The desert stretched out before him, an endless expanse of sagebrush, sand, and jagged peaks. Michael’s boots kicked up little clouds of dust as he trudged along the shoulder of the empty highway. The heat radiated up from the pavement, wrapping around him like a suffocating blanket.
He reached for his water bottle, taking a measured sip. The water was warm, but it soothed his dry throat. He capped the bottle and slid it back into his bag. A little over half full—not great, but enough to get him home.
The silence of the desert was different now. Normally, there’d be the distant hum of cars on the highway, the low rumble of a freight train, or the faint crackle of a radio. Now, there was nothing but the occasional rustle of wind through the sagebrush. It felt like the earth itself had stopped breathing.
*
Michael’s thoughts drifted as he walked.
His mother would be waiting at home, probably pacing the front porch, her face lined with worry. It was a Saturday, so he guessed his little brother, Sam, would be home on a glued to the window, watching for him, while his sister, Kenzie, would try to keep them calm.
He thought about the argument he’d had with his mom last week. She wanted Kenzie to join the track team—“It’ll be good for her confidence,” she’d said—but Michael had shut it down.
“We can’t afford new shoes and uniforms right now,” he’d snapped. “We barely have enough for groceries.”
Her response had stung: “You’re too young to sound so bitter.”
Now, walking under the weight of a silence too big to ignore, Michael felt the sharp edges of guilt pressing into him. He’d never meant to take his frustration out on her, but the stress of holding everything together sometimes felt like it would crack him open.
He muttered a quiet prayer in Navajo, the words slipping from his lips like a memory. The old chant his grandfather had taught him, calling for the spirits’ blessing, wasn’t a solution, but it helped.
*
The gas station came into view as the sky began to shift from the crisp morning azure to the pale white-blue of early afternoon.
Michael slowed his pace as he saw the crowd gathered around the pumps. People were yelling—some waving money, others brandishing tools. A man in a tank top was holding a crowbar, pointing it threateningly at anyone who’d look his way.
Michael kept his head down, his steps steady and deliberate. The key to avoiding trouble was not looking like you wanted any.
“Hey, you got anything that works right?” the man with the crowbar called out, stepping toward him.
Michael didn’t stop. “No, I don’t.”
The man muttered something, but Michael didn’t catch it. He was already past the station, the tension sliding off his shoulders as he put more distance between himself and the chaos.
*
When he finally reached home, the sky was draped in navy blue of early evening, and already dotted with stars that felt sharper and closer than usual.
The house was dark except for a few flickering candles in the windows. Sam and Kenzie were sitting on the porch steps, their faces lit by the faint glow.
“Michael!” Sam called, jumping to his feet.
Michael dropped his bag and pulled his brother into a quick hug. Kenzie stayed seated, her arms crossed, but relief softened her expression.
Their mother appeared in the doorway, her hands wringing an old dish towel. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Michael said. “What’s going on?”
Her voice was low and uncertain. “Nothing’s working. The stove, the water pump, the phones… It’s all just… stopped. There’s no news – no TV, no radio – nothing.”
Michael looked past her to the darkened house, the walls closing in like the edges of a box. He glanced at the sky, where the stars seemed to stretch forever, and felt the weight of the silence pressing in again.
“What the hell is going on?” he muttered.
No one answered.
*** Neha ***
The jewelry shop hummed with quiet efficiency, a rhythm as predictable as the tides. Neha Rao’s fingers moved methodically over the velvet-lined trays, adjusting the delicate gold bangles so their intricate designs caught the warm glow of the overhead lights. The shop smelled faintly of polish and old wood, mingling with the spice-laden air that drifted in from the street outside.
Her father stood by the cash counter, chatting with a regular customer. His voice carried the practiced warmth of a businessman, a tone he rarely used at home. Neha kept her head down, nodding politely whenever a customer glanced her way. She knew her role: quiet, competent, unassuming.
“Neha, the blue bangles—third tray,” her father said without looking up. She slid the tray toward him, resisting the urge to sigh.
The shop was her world, whether she liked it or not. Her father’s pride and joy, passed down from her grandfather, now resting on her unwilling shoulders. She had a degree in computer science, but no one in Mumbai seemed eager to hire a woman programmer. The shop, her father had declared, was her true calling.
The ceiling fan above her slowed to a stop.
At first, Neha barely noticed, her hands still arranging necklaces on the display. Power cuts were part of life in Mumbai, as common as the honking of horns or the calls of street vendors. She reached for her phone to check the time.
It didn’t turn on.
Neha frowned. The battery had been nearly full. She pressed the power button again, harder this time, as though force would make a difference.
“Baba, my phone isn’t working,” she said.
Her father barely glanced up. “It’s a power cut. Don’t panic.”
The customer at the counter muttered something and pulled out his own phone. His face darkened as he tapped the screen, then shook it, as if that might coax it back to life. “Mine’s not working either.”
Neha straightened, her eyes flicking to the street outside. The bright signs above the shops were dark, and the usual chaos of traffic seemed to have frozen in place. She walked to the glass door and pushed it open.
*
Outside, the street had transformed.
Rickshaw drivers leaned out of their vehicles, muttering to one another. A woman tugged her child closer, scanning the crowd with wide, nervous eyes. The constant, familiar hum of Mumbai had vanished, leaving only fragments: hurried footsteps, raised voices, and the occasional clatter of something dropped.
Neha stepped back inside, her heart beginning to race.
“Baba,” she said, louder this time. “The whole street is out. It’s not just power.”
Her father waved her off, his tone brusque. “It’s fine. These things happen.” He turned back to the customer, offering a well-rehearsed apology for the inconvenience.
The cash register emitted a soft click, then fell silent.
Neha caught her father’s expression falter for a split second before he recovered, his voice smooth again. “We’ll handle it manually,” he said, pulling out a small notebook and pen. “It’s just temporary.”
The customer wasn’t convinced. He leaned across the counter, his voice rising. “How will I pay you if the register doesn’t work?”
Neha’s hands curled into fists at her sides. She bit back a sharp retort, knowing her father would disapprove of her speaking out. Instead, she turned toward the back room, her mind racing.
*
By 7:00 p.m., the shop was empty, its doors locked against the growing tension outside.
“Baba, we should go home,” Neha said. She kept her tone measured, though the knot in her chest tightened with every passing minute.
Her father glanced up from the ledger he’d been scribbling in. “We’re fine here. People panic during outages, but it will pass.”
She stared at him, incredulous. “This isn’t an outage. Look outside—nothing is working. Not the lights, not the cars, not even the phones. We can’t just sit here and wait for—”
“For what?” he snapped, his voice sharper than she’d expected. “To lose everything we’ve worked for? To watch thieves break in and take what’s ours?”
Neha swallowed hard, her gaze falling to the tray of gold bangles on the counter. Without a word, she began gathering them, her movements quick and deliberate. She slid the tray into the safe and spun the dial.
“What are you doing?” her father asked, his voice softer now.
“Preparing,” she said simply.
*
The streets were darker than Neha had ever seen them.
The usual neon lights and advertisements were gone, leaving the city in shadow. People moved in uneasy clusters, their voices too loud in the silence. A woman near a fruit cart clutched her child tightly, her face pale under the faint glow of a candle.
Neha walked close to her father, her bag held tightly against her side. The gold she hadn’t managed to lock away felt like a dead weight.
“Neha,” her father said, his voice cutting through her thoughts. “It will be fine. Mumbai is resilient. This city has survived worse.”
She didn’t respond.
As they passed a bakery, she noticed a crowd banging on its locked shutters. “Open up! We need food!” one man shouted, his fists slamming against the metal. The owner stood just inside, shaking his head and refusing to meet their eyes.
A man stepped out of the shadows ahead, blocking their path.
“What’s in the bag?” he asked, his eyes fixed on the jewelry bag in her father’s hand.
Neha’s heart pounded. Her father stepped back, shaking his head. “Just some clothes,” he said, his voice calm but firm.
The man didn’t move. “Let me see.”
Before her father could respond, Neha stepped forward, holding up her phone like a shield. “Back off,” she said, her voice trembling but loud enough to carry. “Leave us alone.”
The man hesitated, his gaze flicking between her and her father. With a muttered curse, he stepped aside, disappearing into the darkened street.
*
When they reached their apartment, Neha locked the door behind them, her hands shaking.
Her younger brother sat cross-legged on the floor, a candle flickering beside him. “No power, no water,” he said. “The neighbors say their phones don’t work either.”
Her father lit a small diya and placed it on the windowsill, murmuring a quiet prayer as the lamp began casting a soft glow. Neha didn’t join him. She sat in a swing chair, rocking slowly.
Mumbai’s usual chaos had always felt alive, like a beast with its own rhythm. Now it was silent, broken, and alien.
On the distant horizon, faint orange flames licked at the night sky.
This was only the beginning.