The countdown ticked like a cheap alarm clock in the air:"3… 2… 1…"
Then silence.
Like a prank host pulling the final lever, the Core of Nothingness expanded. Not an explosion—an implosion. Everything folded inward, vacuumed away by the largest cosmic Hoover.
The cracked world's "streets," "mazes," and "sky" collapsed like cardboard props, layered sheets sucked into the black whirlpool.
Ethan and Carl's fused form floated at the center, listening as the world vanished. Not with roars, but with mundane sounds—rip, snap, plop—like someone tearing shipping boxes, popping bubble wrap, dumping soup. The apocalypse sounded more like housecleaning.
"So this is devouring?" Ethan smirked. "I expected epic special effects. Instead, it's like the recycle bin being emptied."
Carl's voice stuttered in his head, glitching: "Don't… underestimate… it… This is the void's cleanup protocol. We… are… just the switch."
"Great. For once, I feel like an appliance. And of course, stuck on the worst setting." Ethan sighed.
Around them, teammates—those still alive, or just corrupted remnants—dissolved one by one. No screams, no awareness. First, color drained; then they became pencil sketches; then erased, line by line, until blank.
Absurdity peaked. Ethan thought: if someone filmed this with upbeat jingles, it'd make a killer commercial for "World's End Cleaner."
The sky peeled away like stage curtains. Behind it lurked deeper darkness, occasionally flashing massive eyes, cold as surveillance cams, merely checking progress.
"Ever wonder," Ethan said darkly, "if this is just entertainment for some bigger being? We struggle, uncover secrets, forge the key—only to hit the 'destroy world' button. Like a kid smashing his Lego castle."
Carl gave a fractured chuckle: "At least… we've got lines. Lego men don't."
Their banter, black comedy's echo, made the apocalypse even crueler.
The world shrank. Horizons folded in, mountains collapsed like origami, rivers slurped up like soda through a straw.
Ethan felt his memories sucked out too. Faces of his parents—gone. His first day at the Bureau—gone. Even how he and Carl became friends—blank.
"Even the loser's backstory gets erased." He laughed bitterly.
"That… is the void's aim," Carl rasped. "Erase… all. No trace… no meaning."
Ethan barked a laugh. "Erase meaning? Fits perfectly. Humanity never figured out what the hell 'meaning' was anyway."
Already his legs were gone, body turning transparent like ice under hot water.
The cracked world shattered entirely, shards glowing faintly before vanishing into the Core. All that remained were two shadows—Ethan and Carl's residue.
"Are we… finished?" Carl's signal fizzed like static.
"Finished? Ha…" Ethan chuckled. "I'd bet good money this is just another opening act. Void doesn't let us die this cheap."
The last ground crumbled. They floated in sheer darkness.
The vortex swallowed all. The fractured world ceased to exist.
The void had taken its first bite, like a greedy diner whetting his appetite.
And Ethan heard it—a voice colder than any countdown:
"Cleanup complete. Next target: the real world."