Prologue: The Ending Is Always A New Beginning.

The rumbling of the Xilum’s engines vibrates through the dirty, cracked glass as my gaunt fingers rest against it. The rocket speeds toward the dark sky, trailing a fiery flame.

With a heavy sigh, I stumble to the tattered, moth-bitten chair and collapse into its worn embrace. This armchair, once used by mission control officers during the Second Solar War, is now just a relic of a bygone era.

I fumble around on the antique mission deck, flipping switches to send a final farewell message to the rocket’s passenger. My finger shakes as I press the half-broken buttons.

“Hey, Lylla,” I begin, my voice barely above a whisper. A lump forms in my throat, making it hard to speak. “Rohan and Rina are safe—they’re on rockets of their own. It’s just me, Julia, and Amari left behind. I’m sorry… for everything. I broke my promises to you. But… this was the only way.”

I take a deep breath, fighting against the pain. “You remember that warehouse we scouted? What was that, seven or eight days ago? It’s all a blur now. We thought it was clear, so we took off our masks for a quick water break. That’s when it happened. A kid fell from the rafters, screaming and crying as she landed on us. We… panicked. We shot her three times before we realized she was just a kid. It was too late.”

I pause, letting the memory wash over me. “It’s one thing to watch the world die around you, but seeing a kid... well, that’s different. Not that she would have lived longer, not after catching the infection.”

My voice falters, but I push on. “I hope you never have to see what CORS does to a kid. It’s a nightmare. And with our messed-up immune systems, it was just a matter of time before we got it, too. That’s why I kept my distance, why I was always wearing my mask. I couldn’t tell you the truth. We couldn’t. We were cowards.”

“In the end, we made a plan. We always knew that three of us would have to stay behind. Three rockets, six friends—someone had to draw the short straw. So the three of us, who had already been infected, chose to stay. It was the only choice that made sense.”

A weak laugh escapes me, but it’s tinged with bitterness. "Last night, while making dinner, I slipped some sleeping pills into your meal. I did not want to tell you. I just wanted you to be safe. So I dragged you to the car, loaded you into the Xilum, and prepared it for launch as quickly as my dying body would allow. That is why you are unconscious right now, strapped into that chair and headed into space."

Another fit of coughing brings up mucus and blood, which I spit out. The metallic taste lingers, a constant reminder of what’s coming for me.

“I don’t regret what I did. I’d do it all over again if it meant giving you a chance. But I do regret breaking my promises. I wanted to keep them, I really did.”

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Tears blur my vision, but I keep talking. “The time I spent with you... those were the best days of my life. Even if it took the world ending for us to get close.”

I manage a faint smile, remembering the joke we used to share. “And hey, when you see those rich pricks out there, give them the middle finger for me, okay? Mission control… signing off.”

With that, I try to lift my finger off the button, but it’s numb, unresponsive. I switch to my other hand, feeling the weight of exhaustion setting in.

I swallow the pills I had ready beside me and pull out the memory drive from the nape of my neck, slotting it into the transfer port. Leaning back into the chair, I watch as my journal—the one I’ve kept for the past two years—begins to upload.

A bloody laugh escapes me as I see the opening and closing pages displayed side by side on the cracked screen. My whole life, reduced to just over one hundred and twenty pages.

My eyelids grow heavy, and the edges of my vision blur as sleep pulls me under. I let go of the pain, letting it drift away as I sink into a long, never-ending slumber.

After all, in the end, we’re all just stories. Some are told and retold, etched into history. Others, like ours, are whispered in the winds, carried away into oblivion. But in every ending, there’s a new beginning.

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The apocalypse always comes in three waves.

The first wave was the Earth’s magnetic field going out, flipping direction. It destroyed or disturbed all of humanity’s pride: technology. Satellites lost their orbits, planes fell out of the sky, and power grids collapsed catastrophically. The chaos that followed was instantaneous and merciless.

The second wave came when the sun’s radiation slammed directly into Earth, turning sizeable areas into nuclear wastelands. Those caught outside were burned, and the sky burned with an otherworldly hue. A vast expanse of land became uninhabitable because of radiation permeating everything: soil, water, and air.

The third wave comprises the horrific diseases breaking out in the refugee camps. Without technology to aid us, we were thrown back into a pre-industrial state, vulnerable to even the smallest infections. Dysentery, cholera, and other diseases we once thought vanquished returned with terrifying force. But they were not the worst. That prize goes to CORS.

Cerebral Overload Response Syndrome, or CORS, was a cruel joke of fate. It spread like wildfire through the camps, preying on those whose immune systems were already compromised by radiation. We had all witnessed its devastating effects—how it reduced once-healthy people to husks of their former selves in a matter of days.

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Six friends.

Three live.

Three die.

Once is unlucky; twice is a coincidence; but three times?

Three times is a pattern.

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