Part 1 — A Night That Refused to End
The rain fell like it wanted people gone.
Not the kind of rain you could tolerate. Not something you could endure with patience. It struck the asphalt relentlessly, each drop carrying the weight of exhaustion, hammering the city into submission.
Argha stood alone beneath an almost-empty bus stop.
The thin metal roof rattled above him. A single neon lamp flickered weakly, casting broken shadows across the wet floor. His hoodie was soaked through, clinging to his skin, useless against the cold creeping into his bones.
I should've been home by now.
He shoved his hands into his pockets—not to stay warm, but out of habit. A small gesture, a quiet lie to himself that things were still under control.
Across the street, a streetlight blinked endlessly, its reflection trembling in puddles. Each flicker felt like time slowing down on purpose. The night wasn't done with him yet.
He had just finished overtime.
His back ached. His eyes burned. His stomach twisted with hunger he'd ignored for too long. In his mind, there was only one thought left.
Get home. Take a hot shower. Sleep. No dreams.
His life was ordinary.
Painfully so.
Argha wasn't special. At work, his name was rarely remembered. He wasn't incompetent—but never remarkable either. Every day blurred into the next: work, commute, repeat.
He once had dreams. Big ones.
Somewhere along the way, they shrank. Faded. Replaced by quiet acceptance.
This is just how it is.
And that night, standing under the rain, he believed it.
Part 2 — A Broken Sky
The air changed first.
Not wind. Not cold.
Something prickled along his arms. Argha frowned. Then he smelled it—sharp metal, like dried blood mixed with ozone after lightning.
What… is that?
The rain vanished.
Not softened.
Gone.
As if the world had muted itself.
His heart raced. His chest tightened—not panic, but instinct screaming that something was terribly wrong.
He looked up.
The sky was… damaged.
Between flashes of white lightning, dark lines split the heavens. Not clouds. Not shadows. The sky itself looked fractured, like glass struck by an unseen force.
A black crack tore across the night.
It wasn't light.
It wasn't darkness.
It was a wound.
From it descended a bolt of pitch-black lightning, darker than the night itself, swallowing light and erasing the rain it touched.
Argha froze.
What stole his breath wasn't just the sight.
It was the people.
A man in a suit ran past, shielding his bag. A couple laughed under a shop awning, faces glowing from their phones. A motorcycle sped by, water spraying from its tires.
They kept living.
Under a dying sky.
Why… am I the only one seeing this?
"…What is that?" he whispered.
The black lightning moved.
Not falling.
Turning.
Like something alive.
Choosing him.
Part 3 — Erased
Run.
That was the only word in his mind.
His body didn't listen.
His legs refused to move. Muscles locked. His thoughts screamed, but there was no time left.
Not me. Please—not me.
The black lightning struck.
There was no explosion.
No heat.
No pain.
Only a sensation—like being peeled away from reality itself. Layer by layer, his existence was stripped apart.
His thoughts shattered.
And then a voice echoed inside his mind.
Not from the sky.
Not from outside.
From within.
Cold. Calm. Emotionless.
As if it had been waiting.
Argha wanted to scream. To ask. To resist.
But the world collapsed first.
Everything turned black.
Not darkness.
Emptiness.
No sound. No time. No self.
Only nothingness—
devouring everything.