Ethan stared out the window, watching the faint glow of the rising sun bleed through the overcast sky. The streets of Henderson were quiet at this hour—empty sidewalks, the occasional distant hum of a passing car. It was a peaceful morning, but that peace felt like a mockery.
He pulled away from the window and glanced at the notebook on his desk. The list of tasks stared back at him, a stark reminder of the monumental challenge ahead. This wasn’t just about survival; it was about changing fate. Nine months wasn’t much time, but it was better than nothing.
Ethan slumped into the creaky chair at his desk, running a hand through his hair. His fingers brushed against the soft, uncalloused skin of his palm, and a shiver ran through him. He’d forgotten what it felt like not to have hands hardened by years of wielding weapons, scavenging supplies, and fighting for survival.
His gaze drifted to his reflection in the dusty mirror above the desk. "You’re weak," he muttered to himself. The words felt sharp, cutting into the fragile remnants of his self-esteem. He looked at the soft lines of his face, the rounded jaw, the shoulders that slumped under the weight of his insecurities.
This wasn’t the Ethan Graves who had survived the apocalypse. This was the Ethan Graves who had been mocked, bullied, and dismissed as a nobody.
But he wasn’t that kid anymore—not inside.
He clenched his fists, the familiar spark of determination flickering to life. "Weak or not," he said through gritted teeth, "I have nine months to fix it."
Ethan stood, his legs still shaky, and stepped out into the hallway. The smell of coffee brewing drifted through the air, a comfortingly mundane reminder of his brother’s morning routine.
As he entered the kitchen, he found Dakota sitting at the table, scrolling through his phone with one hand and cradling a steaming mug of coffee in the other. His older brother looked up and raised an eyebrow.
"You’re actually out of bed," Dakota said. "Thought you were gonna pass out again."
"I needed to think," Ethan replied, grabbing a glass and filling it with water from the tap. He drank deeply, trying to calm the nerves that still buzzed beneath his skin.
Dakota watched him for a moment before setting his mug down. "You look... different," he said, his tone softer. "What’s going on with you?"
Ethan hesitated. He couldn’t tell Dakota the truth—not yet. But he couldn’t brush him off either. He needed his brother on his side.
"I just... realized I’ve been wasting a lot of time," Ethan said, choosing his words carefully. "I don’t want to be the guy who’s always lagging behind anymore."
Dakota raised an eyebrow. "Since when do you care about that?"
"Since now," Ethan said firmly. "I’m tired of being useless. I want to be better. For us."
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There was a flicker of surprise in Dakota’s eyes, but he didn’t question it. Instead, he nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Alright. I don’t know what brought this on, but... good for you. Just don’t overdo it, okay? We don’t need you collapsing on us."
Ethan nodded, forcing a small smile. "Thanks, Dakota."
Ethan’s next priority was his small circle of friends—his lifeline in the coming chaos. They weren’t the strongest or the smartest, but they were loyal, resourceful, and trustworthy. He knew their strengths, and he knew how to harness them.
He grabbed his phone from his desk and stared at the screen. The group chat was still active, filled with the usual chatter about video games, movies, and complaints about school. It felt so distant now, like looking at a snapshot of a life that no longer fit him.
Taking a deep breath, Ethan typed a message:
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Ethan: Hey, you guys free to hang out later?
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The responses came quickly.
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Kyle: Uh-oh, the hermit speaks. What’s the occasion?
Mason: Did you finally finish Elden Ring or are you still stuck on the tree sentinel?
Ethan: Just want to talk. Seriously.
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The joking stopped after that, replaced by genuine curiosity.
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Mason: Sure. My place?
Ethan: Perfect.
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He set the phone down, his mind racing. Mason, Kyle, and their crew were his best bet for building a team. Mason was a chemistry whiz who could turn any scrap of material into something useful—explosives, medicine, you name it. Kyle was practical and grounded, with a knack for logistics and planning. The others... they’d find their place.
But first, he had to convince them.
Before heading out, Ethan rummaged through his closet, pulling out a pair of old running shoes. He winced at the sight of them—they were practically falling apart, the soles barely intact.
He slipped them on anyway and stepped outside into the crisp morning air. The neighborhood was quiet, the streets empty except for the occasional jogger or dog walker.
Ethan started running—or at least, he tried to. His legs protested immediately, his breath coming in ragged gasps after just a few blocks. The weight he’d carried in this body dragged him down, making every step feel like a struggle.
He collapsed onto a bench, his chest heaving as sweat poured down his face.
"This is pathetic," he muttered, burying his face in his hands. "How am I supposed to survive like this?"
But as he sat there, his mind replayed the images of the apocalypse—the blood, the screams, the monsters that tore through everything he held dear.
He couldn’t let that happen again.
Grimacing, Ethan forced himself back to his feet.
"One step at a time," he told himself.
Later that afternoon, Ethan made his way to a local pawnshop—a small, dingy place tucked into a strip mall. The bell above the door jingled as he stepped inside, and the faint smell of dust and metal filled the air.
"Morning, kid," the shopkeeper grunted from behind the counter. He barely looked up, his attention focused on a magazine.
Ethan nodded and began browsing the shelves. Most of the weapons were overpriced junk, but he spotted a few items that caught his eye—a sturdy hunting knife, a collapsible baton, and a machete that looked like it had seen better days but was still serviceable.
He placed them on the counter and slid over the cash he’d been saving for months. The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask questions.
"You heading on a hunting trip or something?" he asked casually.
"Something like that," Ethan said, his voice steady.
As Ethan left the shop, the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the streets. He tightened his grip on the bag in his hand, feeling the weight of the weapons inside.
The world around him still looked normal—calm, ordinary, almost boring. But Ethan knew better. He could feel the clock ticking down with every passing second.
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Time Until Cataclysm: 273 Days, 12 Hours, 32 Minutes.
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Ethan glanced at the horizon, his jaw set.
"No one’s ready for what’s coming," he said under his breath. "But I will be."