Rapture Shock: Judgment Unleashed – A Rapture and End Times Story

Discussing current events and how they relate to Biblical prophesy. What are some critical signs are pointing to the imminent Rapture of the Church?

When millions vanish overnight, a skeptical journalist, a ruthless trader, and a hunted underground pastor must navigate a world spiraling into chaos—where the end isn’t just near, it’s already here.

Below is the full book version:

Rapture Shock: Judgment Unleashed Chapter 1: The Last Warnings

Tokyo, Japan

The glass skyline of Tokyo stretched before Kenji Nakamura, a breathtaking symphony of light, ambition, and power. From the top floor of Nakamura Securities, he could see the city’s veins pulsating with endless movement, ceaseless drive—a perfect reflection of his own philosophy. Wealth was survival. Wealth was control.

And he was at the top.

The ticker tape scrolled across his six-monitor setup, numbers flashing in a hypnotic rhythm, feeding his insatiable hunger for the next big trade.

His heart thrummed as his AI trading bot executed a split-second transaction, netting him another ¥100 million.

Another victory.

Another godlike moment.

“Kenji-san,” a soft voice interrupted, pulling him back to earth.

He didn’t turn. He didn’t have to. Naomi Kato had been his personal assistant for five years, and in that time, she had never once disturbed him during market hours.

Until recently.

Kenji exhaled. “Not now, Naomi.”

She hesitated, and that alone made him turn. Naomi never hesitated.

She was clutching a Bible, its worn pages peeking from under her arm like a contraband secret.

Kenji’s jaw tensed.

“Kenji-san,” she began again, quieter now, “this is important.”

His eyes flicked back to the numbers, needing the calm, rational movement of the market to drown out the ridiculous conversation he knew was coming.

But Naomi pressed on.

“Kenji-san, look at the pattern—this isn’t a crash. Something is hijacking the market itself.”

He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Let me guess—judgment, fire, brimstone?”

Naomi didn’t laugh.

Instead, she took a step forward.

“You’ve seen the market numbers,” Naomi pressed. “Not just the crash—”

She pulled out her phone, flipping to a leaked memo.

“Anomalies in the algorithm. Patterns that don’t follow human trading. The AI doesn’t know where the money’s going.”

Kenji snatched the phone, scanning the data.

It wasn’t just a collapse.

It was a rerouting—like something was controlling the flow of wealth itself.

“The world isn’t just breaking, Kenji,” Naomi said, her voice quieter. “Something is taking control of it.”

Kenji leaned back in his chair, studying her. “The world is always coming apart, Naomi. That’s why I bet against it.”

She didn’t react to the cynicism, only set her Bible on his desk, opening it with gentle reverence.

“This isn’t just another cycle. This is prophecy.”

Kenji rolled his chair away from her, turning his gaze back to the market graphs.

“I don’t have time for this,” he muttered.

“Then make time,” Naomi said firmly.

Kenji sighed, rubbing his temples. He had spent his entire life building walls around himself, separating faith from fact, superstition from real power.

And real power had nothing to do with invisible deities and predictions written thousands of years ago.

“Naomi.” He looked at her now, meeting her steady, unwavering gaze. “How long have you been working for me?”

“Five years.”

“And how many times have I fired people for wasting my time?”

She swallowed. “Many.”

“Then why,” he asked, voice dangerously low, “are you still standing here?”

She lifted her chin. “Because I care about you, Kenji-san.”

A slow, invisible weight pressed against his chest.

She shouldn’t have said that.

That was dangerous.

Kenji turned back to his computer monitors, dismissing the conversation.

The market was shifting again, and the next move would be critical.

A news alert flashed on his screen:

BREAKING: GLOBAL ECONOMIC INSTABILITY INCREASES – WORLD GOVERNMENTS SCRAMBLE FOR RESPONSE. Markets unresponsive. Central banks issuing conflicting statements. “We’re working on stabilizing the situation,” a UN spokesperson stammered, but the panic in his voice betrayed the lie.

A second alert blinked. Financial regulators issue emergency response. International cyber task force assembled.

Kenji’s stomach dropped. If they were already responding, that meant—

This was bigger than just him.

Bigger, but not controlled. There was no clear response. Governments weren’t “meeting.” They were scrambling. If the entire system had been hijacked, there was no telling who—or what—was in control now.

Kenji clicked the video link, watching as a suited figure—a rising global leader rumored to be the answer to the world’s instability—spoke from a press conference in Geneva.

A second alert blinked. Financial regulators issue emergency response. International cyber task force assembled.

Kenji’s stomach dropped. If they were already responding, that meant—

This was bigger than just him.

“Now, more than ever, we must unite.”

Kenji’s brow furrowed. Something about this man unsettled him.

“A new financial system will restore balance to the markets…”

Kenji’s AI bot hesitated. A fractional delay—0.02 seconds. Then another. The numbers flickered, the algorithm scrambling for a counter-strategy. Code blurred, fragmented. ERROR. ERROR. UNDEFINED SEQUENCE.

On the financial news ticker, analysts scrambled to explain the phenomenon. ‘We’re seeing unprecedented algorithmic failures—trading firms are reporting system overrides across multiple exchanges. This is… we don’t have an explanation yet.’

His backup servers should have kicked in. For the first time in his career, the data in front of him didn’t make sense. Not just market forces, not just global manipulation—something deeper, something rewriting the laws of control themselves. The AI should have recalibrated. Instead, the system remained unresponsive.

Then—his offshore account balance plummeted.

¥9.8 billion. A half-second delay.

He toggled his emergency firewall. No response. Tried rerouting funds manually. Nothing.

Then—¥7.2 billion. A blink.

Kenji’s pulse pounded. No human hacker could execute trades this fast. This wasn’t a cyberattack. It was something else.

Then—¥3.1 billion.

His breath hitched. This wasn’t just a drain. This was a controlled rerouting. Someone, somewhere, was pulling the strings.

His money was vanishing—transferred, rerouted—before his eyes.

A cyberattack. A hack. An impossibility.

He toggled his system’s failsafe. No response. The emergency firewall—nonfunctional. He tried rerouting through his offshore backups. Nothing.

Something was overriding his entire network.

Panic churned low in his gut. No human hacker could do this in real time. This was precision. This was control.

He lunged for his phone, dialing his security team. The line was dead.

Kenji rubbed his jaw, shifting in his chair. His stomach tightened. His instincts—honed over years of reading markets—screamed at him. This wasn’t just wrong. This was unnatural.

It wasn’t just the market, wasn’t just the political climate.

It was something deeper.

Something spiritual.

“Kenji-san,” Naomi said softly, still watching him. “You’ve already seen it. The world shifting beneath your feet.”

His stomach clenched.

He almost nodded.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he scoffed, shaking his head as he pushed the Bible back across the desk.

“Markets crash, Naomi. That’s life. It’s not God, and it’s not prophecy.” But the numbers on his screen weren’t recovering. His algorithm should have adjusted, recalibrated. Instead, the code continued to glitch. The hair on his arms stood on end. Just a coincidence, he told himself.

She sighed, as if she’d expected this.

But her voice lowered, a whisper barely above the hum of his monitors.

“When the time comes,” she said, “remember this conversation.”

Then, without another word, she turned and left.

Kenji watched her go, an unsettling tightness forming in his chest.

Then his phone buzzed.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: “It’s closer than you think.”

His breath hitched.

Another buzz.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: “Watch the sky.”

Kenji’s pulse hammered. He grabbed his phone—

The lights flickered.

The air in the room changed, a charged weight pressing against his skin.

He looked out the window.

And then—

Tokyo’s skyline went dark.

New York City

The lights of Manhattan glowed like a sea of artificial stars, distant, detached, untouchable. Jessica Reynolds watched from the glass wall of her high-rise office, her reflection superimposed over the skyline.

She smirked. “God’s not in that sky,” she murmured to herself, taking a sip of her espresso.

Behind her, the newsroom buzzed with electricity. Phones rang. Keyboards clacked. Information was a living, breathing thing here, and Jessica was its master.

Her latest exposé—a brutal takedown of conspiracy-theorist-turned-Christian-blogger Dan Shepherd—was nearly done.

Just one more quote from the man himself, and she would tear down yet another dangerous zealot feeding the hysteria.

A new headline flashed across her screen:

BREAKING: United Nations Calls Emergency Summit on Global Instability

Jessica sighed. The world was always unstable. That’s what kept people like her in business.

But this hysteria was new.

And she was about to put a bullet in its head.

She pulled out her recorder, dialing Shepherd’s number.

The line clicked. A voice picked up immediately.

“I was expecting your call.”

Jessica raised an eyebrow, momentarily thrown. “Well, that makes one of us.”

A chuckle. “You think you have me figured out, don’t you?”

Jessica smirked. “Oh, I do. Doomsday prophets are predictable. They see wars, earthquakes, political chaos, and suddenly, they’re Nostradamus.”

Silence.

Then, Shepherd’s voice came through, quieter. Sharper.

“You feel it, don’t you?”

Jessica’s smirk faltered.

She cleared her throat. “What exactly am I supposed to feel?”

“The shift. The tension. The feeling that something is coming.”

Jessica forced an exhale, steadying herself against the creeping unease.

“Let’s cut the cryptic act. My readers deserve the truth. Why are you stirring up fear? Why this obsession with prophecy?”

Shepherd sighed. “I’m not stirring up fear. I’m telling people the truth. You just don’t want to hear it.”

Jessica leaned forward, her grip tightening on the phone.

“You’ve built quite the brand, Dan.” Jessica tapped her pen against her notepad. “Fear sells. You know that better than anyone.”

“I’m not selling fear.”

“No?” She arched an eyebrow. “Then why do your donation numbers triple every time there’s a disaster?”

Dan’s jaw tightened.

“And why,” she pressed, “do your followers always think this time is the final one?”

Dan exhaled, shaking his head. “Because one day, Jessica, it will be.”

Jessica smiled. Got him.

Silence.

Then—

“The Lord has already called, Jessica. You’re just not listening.”

Jessica stiffened.

How did he—?

She shook it off, forcing a laugh. “Cute. But save your theatrics for your followers. I deal in reality.”

Shepherd’s voice was calm, steady.

“Then explain this.”

A soft ping echoed in her headphones.

A new email notification appeared.

She hesitated, then clicked.

Jessica frowned. “What did you just send me?”

“Reality.”

Jessica hesitated, her cursor hovering over the file.

She shouldn’t open it.

But curiosity was a vice she had never been able to shake.

She clicked.

The screen flickered. A video popped up—grainy security footage from a research facility labeled OFFICIAL – UNRELEASED.

A scientist sat at a console, reviewing seismic data—until he suddenly froze, his eyes going wide.

He grabbed his radio, his voice trembling.

“This isn’t natural. These patterns—they’re in sequence. Like a code.”

Another scientist leaned in, analyzing the screen. His face drained of color.

“It’s… the Book of Revelation.”

Jessica’s breath hitched.

The footage ended.

Shepherd’s voice returned, calm, unshaken.

“Reality.”

Reality. Jessica let out a sharp laugh, but it caught in her throat. She had spent years debunking charlatans, exposing religious hysteria. But this wasn’t hysteria. This was data. And data didn’t lie.

Jessica stared at her screen, her mind spinning. No. No, this wasn’t real. There had to be an explanation. Deepfakes. AI manipulation. A hoax—except… her hands were shaking. When had that started?

“Believe what you want, Jessica. But you feel it, don’t you? The shift. The unraveling.”

Jessica’s hand trembled. She rewound the footage. Paused.

The scientist’s mouth—still moving, even after the audio cut.

Her breath caught.

They had cut the sound.

She played it back, watching his lips. She wasn’t an expert, but she knew enough.

He hadn’t said “it’s the Book of Revelation.”

He had said, “It’s the key.”

“I have everything I need for my article,” she snapped. “Enjoy your last fifteen minutes of relevance.”

Shepherd chuckled, but this time, there was sadness in it.

“Time’s almost up, Jessica. I hope you’re ready for what comes next.”

The line went dead.

Jessica exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. She should report this. Contact an expert.

But—

Who do you report something like this to?

She stared at the screen, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. Just ask one tech guy.

But what if this wasn’t just tech?

She closed the file, ready to erase every trace of it—

Her screen glitched.

Jessica froze.

Lines of code streamed across her monitor, faster than she could comprehend.

The cursor moved on its own, opening a new message.

UNKNOWN SENDER: “You’re looking in the wrong place, Jessica. But keep digging. You’re close.”

A chill snaked down her spine.

She lunged for her keyboard, trying to shut the message down.

But the words changed.

UNKNOWN SENDER: “Don’t trust your own reflection.”

Jessica’s breath caught.

Her computer screen turned black.

Then—

A new image appeared.

Jessica frowned. Her reflection should have blinked with her. It hadn’t. A trick of the light. Had to be.

She forced a laugh, but it sounded wrong. Too thin. She waved a hand in front of the mirror.

The reflection hesitated—just a fraction of a second.

Her chest tightened. That wasn’t just stress.

She turned away. Left the bathroom. Forgot about it.

Until two hours later—when she scrolled through her phone’s camera roll.

She tapped through the gallery. The last photo—a bathroom selfie from last night. She blinked. Her reflection wasn’t facing the right way.

Jessica sat there, her heartbeat thundering in her ears.

Shepherd’s words echoed in her mind.

“Time’s almost up.”

Her fingers hovered over her keyboard.

For the first time in her career, she didn’t know whether to hit publish—

Or delete everything.

Shanghai, China

The hum of the city pulsed through the walls of Lin Mei’s apartment, a relentless reminder of the world she was trying to navigate. Shanghai never slept, and neither did the eyes that watched it.

She glanced at her watch—10:42 p.m.

They would be starting soon.

Lin Mei paced the room, her fingers pressing into her palm as she debated what she had already spent weeks agonizing over. The underground house church had been meeting for months, gathering in secret like the early believers of the Roman era—whispering scriptures, praying in hushed tones.

But the government was watching.

She knew it.

And now, she had to decide.

Would she stay silent—or risk everything?

A faint knock came at the door.

Lin Mei hesitated, then exhaled sharply. She pressed her eye to the peephole.

Wei Zhang. Relief flooded through her—then faltered. But it wasn’t his usual nervous energy.

Too stiff. Too rehearsed.

He wasn’t afraid. He was waiting.

She unlocked the door quickly, stepping aside to let him in. The young pastor slipped inside, his usual smile replaced by tension.

“We are not alone in this room tonight,” he murmured, keeping his voice low.

Lin Mei’s chest tightened. “How do you know?”

Wei glanced toward the windows, then pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, placing it on the table.

Lin Mei unfolded it.

GOVERNMENT NOTICE: UNAUTHORIZED RELIGIOUS GATHERINGS ARE ILLEGAL. INFORMANTS ARE IN PLACE.

Lin Mei swallowed hard. Something was wrong. Wei’s shoulders were too stiff, his hands too still. She had known him for years. He never stood like that.

“They know,” Wei said, his expression dark. “Someone inside our church is reporting us.”

Lin Mei’s mind raced.

Her father had warned her about this before he died. The Party controlled everything—faith was allowed, but only their version of it.

Now, she was faced with a decision.

If she stayed, she risked imprisonment—or worse.

But if she left, she was abandoning the truth.

Wei’s voice softened. “Lin Mei, I know you’re afraid. But we need you. Your teaching strengthens them.”

She swallowed hard. “What if I put them in danger?”

Wei paused, then looked her directly in the eyes.

“They already are.”

The words cut through her like a blade.

Faith had never been about comfort. It had always been about truth.

Lin Mei curled her fingers, nails pressing into her palm. Would she run? Or would she stand?

An hour later, they stood in a small basement room, the air thick with anticipation.

Candles flickered. Shadows danced.

A small group of believers—maybe fifteen—huddled in a circle, their voices rising in soft but unwavering prayer.

Lin Mei swallowed as she took her place.

She could feel the fear in the room. They all knew the risk.

Still, they were here.

She took a deep breath and opened her Bible.

“Let’s begin,” she whispered.

The room fell silent.

She had barely started reading when—

A loud crash erupted above them.

Heavy boots pounded against the ceiling.

The door splintered open.

Lin Mei’s heart stopped.

Shouts filled the air.

The police.

They had been betrayed.

Someone had given them up.

Lin Mei’s mind screamed at her to run.

Then, she saw him.

Wei Zhang.

Her closest friend. Standing beside the officers.

Not in cuffs. Not being dragged away.

Standing.

Watching.

“Wei?” Lin Mei’s voice cracked.

He wouldn’t meet her eyes.

Lin Mei’s legs locked. Her breath came short, fast. Run. That was her instinct. Her whole life, she had been careful—measured.

But then she saw them. The others.

Their hands clasped in prayer, even as the door crashed open. Their faith unshaken.

Could she abandon them?

Wei grabbed her hand. “We have to go—NOW.”

Lin Mei saw their faces. The believers. Their lips moving in whispered prayers even as boots thundered above them.

They weren’t running.

They were standing.

Her heart pounded, but she already knew.

She was staying.

She was going to stand.

She just never thought it would happen this soon.

Dhaka, Bangladesh

The call to prayer echoed across Dhaka’s skyline, a reverberation of devotion rippling through the densely packed city. From his small apartment balcony, Rahim Hassan could see the throngs of men gathering at the mosque below, their white taqiyahs bobbing as they moved in unison toward the evening Maghrib prayer.

He should have been among them.

Instead, he stood frozen, his Bible hidden behind his back, pressed against the chipped paint of the railing.

One mistake. One slip. That’s all it would take.

His family would disown him. His community would turn on him.

And worse—if the wrong people found out, he might never be seen again.

Rahim’s pulse pounded as he turned back inside, swiftly locking the door behind him.

His small one-room apartment was sparse, a necessary precaution. No crosses, no verses, no outward sign of his faith. The only evidence was hidden beneath his mattress—a worn Bible, its cover cracked from secret readings in the dark.

He knelt beside his bed, fingers trembling as he pulled it free.

Tonight, he needed the words.

He flipped through the pages, stopping at Matthew 10:33:

“But whoever denies Me before men, him I will also deny before My Father who is in heaven.”

Rahim swallowed hard.

He was denying Him—every single day.

A knock at the door sent his heart slamming against his ribs.

He shoved the Bible under his pillow and forced his breathing to steady.

“Rahim, open up!”

His brother.

Rahim forced a smile as he swung the door open, greeting Javed with a nod.

Javed, always the golden son, stepped inside, his eyes scanning the small space.

“Why didn’t you come to prayer?”

Rahim exhaled carefully. “Work kept me late.”

Javed’s dark eyes narrowed. “Lies don’t suit you, brother.”

Rahim’s blood ran cold.

Does he know? Has someone told him?

Javed’s gaze lingered on the bed. On the slightly lifted corner of the pillow.

A single breath of wind could expose him.

“Father says the imam is asking about you,” Javed continued, stepping closer. “People have noticed your absence.”

Rahim clenched his fists. “I don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

Javed studied him for a long moment, then sighed. “I know you, Rahim. You’ve changed. And if I know, others will too.”

Rahim’s stomach knotted.

“I haven’t changed,” he said, lying to protect himself.

Javed nodded slowly, but Rahim could see the doubt in his eyes.

“I hope that’s true,” his brother said. “For your sake.”

And with that, he was gone.

Rahim sagged against the wall, shaking.

He had barely survived that conversation.

But next time, would he be so lucky?

That night, Rahim slipped into the dark alleys of Dhaka, moving with purpose and fear.

He navigated through twisting corridors, past street vendors closing shop, past beggars curled against the walls, until he reached a small, windowless house on the outskirts of the city.

He knocked once, then twice, then three times—the secret code.

The door cracked open.

A pair of wary eyes studied him before the latch released.

Inside, a small group of believers sat in a tight circle, their faces illuminated by a single candle.

No lights. No windows. No sound beyond whispers.

This was what faith had become. A secret. A risk.

Pastor Asad Karim, a former imam turned underground Christian leader, looked up as Rahim entered.

“We were beginning to worry,” Asad said, his voice heavy.

Rahim took his seat, his heart still racing from the encounter with Javed.

“They’re watching me,” he admitted. “My family. The imam. They know something’s different.”

Murmurs spread through the room.

Everyone knew what that meant.

A woman named Sabeen, clutching a sleeping child, whispered, “They found Faisal last week.”

Rahim’s gut twisted.

Faisal—another secret Christian—had vanished without a trace.

Pastor Asad’s expression darkened.

“The government is tightening its grip. They are hunting us.”

Silence fell.

For a moment, the weight of their situation was crushing.

Then Asad’s voice softened.

“But we must remain faithful.”

He opened his Bible, turning to John 16:33.

“In this world, you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”

The words sent shivers down Rahim’s spine.

He wanted to believe them.

But how much longer could he survive?

As the meeting ended, Asad pulled Rahim aside.

“You must decide soon,” the pastor said. “Will you stand for your faith, or will you hide?”

Rahim’s mind screamed the answer—HIDE.

But his heart said something different.

He looked at the tiny gathering, at the people risking their lives for a truth they couldn’t deny.

And then he thought of Javed’s words.

“I hope that’s true. For your sake.”

Rahim nodded, a new determination settling over him.

He wouldn’t hide forever.

But when the time came… would he have the courage to stand?

Delhi, India

New Delhi was a city of contradictions. A place where ancient temples stood in the shadows of glass skyscrapers, where tradition collided with modern ambition, and where power was inherited, not earned. Priya Sharma knew this well.

As the daughter of Arun Sharma, one of India’s most influential political leaders, Priya had grown up in the heart of it all—the wealth, the prestige, the carefully curated public image.

Yet here she was, sipping espresso at a high-end café in Connaught Place, enduring yet another one of Ruth Daniel’s sermons.

“I’m telling you, Priya, everything is happening exactly as the Bible said it would.”

Priya sighed, staring at the perfectly foamed heart floating atop her cappuccino.

“Ruth,” she said, not even looking up, “I think you’ve been reading too many conspiracy blogs.”

Ruth’s eyes flashed with frustration.

“It’s not a conspiracy,” she insisted, lowering her voice. “The wars, the global unrest, the alliances being formed behind closed doors—it’s all leading up to something.”

Priya set down her cup, finally meeting Ruth’s gaze.

“You sound like my father when he talks about the next election,” she said, voice laced with sarcasm. “Everything is ‘leading up to something.’ Politics, economics, religion—it’s all the same game.”

Ruth shook her head. “This isn’t about politics, Priya. It’s about prophecy.”

Priya exhaled sharply, leaning back in her chair.

She liked Ruth. They had been friends since university, their bond forged through late-night study sessions and shared ambitions.

But this? This was too much.

“Okay,” Priya said, folding her arms. “Let’s assume, for one insane moment, that you’re right. That the world is falling apart and Jesus is about to return on a flying chariot or whatever. What am I supposed to do with that information?”

Ruth’s expression softened.

“Believe.”

Priya laughed, a sharp, bitter sound.

“Believe in what, exactly?” she asked. “A God who lets wars rage? Who lets children starve while politicians steal? Who sits back while people are slaughtered in the streets?”

Ruth didn’t flinch. “That’s not God’s doing, Priya. That’s ours.”

Outside the café, sirens wailed in the distance, another protest erupting somewhere in the city. Tensions were rising everywhere.

Just last week, her father had canceled all public appearances due to threats against his life.

Delhi’s streets were no longer safe, not even for the powerful.

Priya checked her phone. A breaking news alert flashed across the screen.

Riots Erupt in Mumbai Over Religious Tensions. Death Toll Rises.

She felt a flicker of unease.

Maybe Ruth wasn’t entirely wrong.

“I get why you need this,” Priya said, forcing a carefully measured tone. “Religion gives people comfort when the world feels out of control. But Ruth, I don’t need saving. I’m doing just fine without God.”

Ruth studied her for a long moment.

Then, softly, she said, “I think you’re afraid.”

Priya’s jaw tightened.

“Afraid?” she scoffed. “Of what?”

“Of what happens if you’re wrong.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Priya forced a laugh, but something inside her felt unsettled.

“Look, I don’t need a sermon today, okay?” She signaled for the check, eager to end this conversation.

Ruth hesitated, then reached into her bag and pulled out a small, leather-bound book.

A Bible.

Priya rolled her eyes. “Seriously?”

“Just keep it,” Ruth said, sliding it across the table. “If I’m wrong, then toss it in the trash. But if I’m right…”

Priya didn’t touch it.

She wasn’t about to let Ruth turn her into some brainwashed convert.

But later, as she slipped into the backseat of her chauffeured car, she caught herself glancing at it, still sitting on the café table.

A strange chill ran down her spine.

She ignored it.

After all, what was there to be afraid of?

São Paulo, Brazil

The dimly lit warehouse smelled of oil, sweat, and fear. The flickering overhead light cast jagged shadows against the bloodstained concrete. Two men knelt on the floor, their hands bound behind their backs, their faces bruised from the beating they had endured.

Diego Costa stood above them, the gold-plated .45 pistol gleaming in his hand.

His empire—the Costa Cartel—controlled much of São Paulo’s underworld, and betrayal was a death sentence.

One of the kneeling men, Enrique Silva, had tried to cut a deal with the police. He had whispered names—Costa’s operations, suppliers, routes—to men who would have gladly burned the cartel to the ground.

Costa lifted his gun, pressing the barrel against Enrique’s forehead.

“Beg,” he said.

Enrique’s breath came in short, terrified bursts, his eyes darting toward Lucas, Costa’s lieutenant—the only man in the room with the courage to speak against this madness.

Lucas stepped forward. “Diego, wait.”

Costa turned his glare on him. “What did you say?”

Lucas swallowed hard but didn’t back down. “I need to talk to you. Alone.”

Costa lowered the gun half an inch.

Then, with a sharp nod, he gestured for the guards to drag Enrique and the other prisoner to the side.

Lucas took a deep breath. This was dangerous. Speaking against Diego Costa was a gamble with death.

Lucas had been with Costa for years. He had seen things that seared his conscience, but tonight, something felt different—like a storm about to break.

Diego’s rage was growing, his thirst for violence insatiable. The man who had once been calculating, strategic, was now reckless. Something was coming. Something bigger than all of them.

“You’re making a mistake,” Lucas said, lowering his voice. “Killing Enrique—like this—it’s not just business anymore. You’re enjoying it.”

Costa scoffed, pacing the floor like a caged predator.

“They set me up, Lucas. If I let this slide, we look weak.”

Lucas took a step closer. “I don’t care about the cartel politics. I’m talking about your soul.”

Costa froze mid-step.

A dangerous silence stretched between them.

“Careful,” Costa said, his voice edged with cold amusement. “You sound like a priest.”

Lucas met his gaze, his heart hammering. “Maybe that’s because I’ve been listening to one.”

Costa laughed—a low, humorless sound. “Let me guess. That pastor? The one who’s always handing out Bibles near the docks?”

Lucas nodded.

“You’ve been talking to him?” Costa asked.

“I have,” Lucas admitted. “And you should too.”

Costa snorted, shaking his head.

“You’ve lost your mind.”

“No, Diego. You’re the one losing your soul.”

Costa’s jaw tightened. “Don’t preach to me, Lucas.”

“I’m not preaching,” Lucas said. “I’m warning you.”

Costa’s lips curled into a smirk, but Lucas could see the flicker of something deeper in his eyes—unease.

“What does this pastor say?” Costa asked, his voice mocking. “That God loves me? That I should repent?”

Lucas held his gaze. “He says time is running out.”

Costa’s smirk faded.

For a brief second, Lucas thought he had gotten through to him.

Then, Costa shook his head and raised the gun again.

“Let me tell you what I believe, Lucas.” His voice was ice.

He turned back to Enrique.

“I believe in power. I believe in fear. And I believe in making an example of traitors.”

He pulled the trigger.

The gunshot echoed through the warehouse, drowning out Lucas’s silent prayer.

Enrique collapsed, lifeless.

Costa exhaled, then handed the gun to one of his men.

“Clean this up.”

Lucas couldn’t move. His pulse roared in his ears as Costa turned back to him.

“Do yourself a favor, Lucas,” Costa said, his voice eerily calm. “Stop listening to that pastor.”

Lucas stared at him, feeling something shift inside him.

The execution wasn’t just business. It was something darker.

Lucas had seen a lot of men die, but tonight, for the first time, he wondered if Costa was already dead inside.

Costa clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. Drinks are on me.”

Lucas didn’t move.

For years, he had stood by Costa’s side, justifying the bloodshed.

But tonight, standing there with the stench of gunpowder and death in the air, he realized something.

He couldn’t do this anymore.

The words of the pastor came back to him.

“You have a choice, Lucas. Darkness or light. You can’t stand in between forever.”

Costa walked away, laughing with the others.

But Lucas stayed where he was.

And for the first time, he knew—he had to get out before it was too late.

Mexico City

Carlos Medina stood at the edge of Plaza de la Constitución, his throat raw from preaching, his hands still gripping the tattered Bible that felt heavier than ever.

The air smelled of exhaust fumes and fried street food, but beneath it lay something else—a weight, an oppression that had been growing heavier each day.

He had once believed that Mexico City could be a place of revival. He had once hoped that his ministry could bring change, redemption, salvation.

But tonight, doubt clawed at his mind.

Carlos had been preaching on this corner for years, calling people to repentance, warning them of the times to come.

And yet—they mocked him.

They laughed.

They passed him by like he was invisible.

He had tried everything. He had pleaded, fasted, prayed.

Had God stopped listening?

Or—had he been wrong all along?

“¡Hey, predicador!”

Carlos turned at the sound of the voice.

A group of young men lounged near a street vendor, their tattoos and jewelry gleaming in the city lights.

The leader—a tall, cocky kid with a cigarette hanging from his mouth—grinned.

“Still talking about the end of the world?” he jeered. “How many people did you save today, huh?”

His friends laughed, nudging each other.

Carlos clenched his fists, his jaw tightening.

He had heard it all before.

But tonight, it cut deeper.

He took a slow breath. “The Lord is patient with us, not wanting anyone to perish.” His voice was steady, but the doubt inside him screamed.

The kid took a mocking step forward, flicking ashes from his cigarette onto the pavement.

“If your God is real, where is He, preacher?” His eyes darkened. “Why doesn’t He do something about this city? About us?”

Carlos stiffened, but he had no answer.

Because wasn’t he wondering the same thing?

The gang moved on, their laughter fading into the hum of traffic.

Carlos exhaled. He was so tired.

Maybe this was it. Maybe tonight was the night he gave up.

Then—he saw her.

A woman stood near the fountain in the square, her long white dress fluttering in the night breeze.

Her face was obscured by the shadows, but something about her radiated peace—a stark contrast to the chaos of the city.

Carlos frowned.

She was watching him.

Slowly, she stepped forward.

“Carlos Medina,” she said, her voice soft yet firm.

A chill crawled up his spine.

“Who are you?” he asked.

She tilted her head. “Why do you doubt?”

Carlos felt his heart pound. “Excuse me?”

“You stand here,” she said, “speaking of judgment, prophecy, and the coming of the Lord—yet in your heart, you wonder if it’s all in vain.”

His fingers tightened around his Bible.

“Who sent you?” he demanded.

Her lips curved slightly, but there was sadness in her eyes.

“Carlos, you must stand firm. The door is closing. Choose before it’s locked.”

Then, in the blink of an eye—she was gone.

Carlos staggered back, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

He turned in circles, scanning the crowd.

She was nowhere to be seen.

Had anyone else seen her?

The city buzzed with life, people moving, cars honking.

And yet, he felt completely alone.

A strange pressure built in his chest—an urgency he couldn’t explain.

And then—a memory flashed through his mind.

A verse from Ezekiel.

“Son of man, I have made you a watchman for the people. When you hear my word, you must warn them.”

Carlos’s throat went dry.

The woman’s words echoed.

“The time is shorter than you think.”

Something was coming. Something bigger than he had imagined.

And if he gave up now, he would never forgive himself.

Carlos turned back to the street.

The same crowds passed him by.

The same mockers, the same indifference.

But he wasn’t the same anymore.

Slowly, deliberately, he climbed onto the steps of the plaza.

He lifted his Bible and took a breath.

Then, with renewed fire in his voice, he cried out to the city:

Carlos’s throat burned. His doubts clawed at him.

But he stepped forward, raising his voice.

“Repent! The Kingdom of God is at hand! Open your eyes before it’s too late!”

The crowd turned. Some mocked. Some listened.

But one woman, clutching a child, dropped to her knees.

And in that moment, Carlos knew.

He had to keep speaking.

People stopped.

Heads turned.

And for the first time in a long time—Carlos knew he was exactly where he needed to be.

Jerusalem

Dan Shepherd stared at the ancient skyline of Jerusalem from his small, dimly lit apartment. The golden dome of the Al-Aqsa Mosque gleamed under the moonlight, the stone walls of the Old City standing silent, unmoved—as they had for centuries.

But he felt it.

Something was coming.

The air felt different, charged with an almost unspoken dread.

For years, Dan had dedicated his life to one mission: spreading the truth about the prophetic timeline unfolding before their very eyes.

He had warned them. He had screamed into the void of the internet, begging people to wake up, to see the signs.

And yet, so few listened.

He rubbed his temple, exhaustion creeping into his bones. His laptop screen cast a pale glow against the dark room, illuminating an open draft of his final blog post.

This was it.

The last warning.

Outside, the tension in Jerusalem was palpable. The streets, normally bustling with tourists and pilgrims, were quieter than usual.

Reports were coming in. Escalations at the Temple Mount. A new peace treaty drafted between Israel and a rising Turkish leader, along with the Vatican.

Dan knew exactly what it meant.

He had studied the scriptures. He had cross-referenced Daniel, Ezekiel, Revelation.

“When they shall say, ‘Peace and safety,’ then sudden destruction cometh upon them.”

It was happening.

He turned back to the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

The cursor blinked.

His heart pounded.

Would this post even matter?

Would anyone listen?

Or was it already too late?

He took a breath and typed.

THE FINAL WARNING

Brothers and sisters, this is it.

The world is at a precipice. The signs are all here—prophecy is unfolding before our very eyes. We are standing on the edge of the greatest event in human history.

The time is up. Be ready.

Look around you. The peace treaties, the rumors of war, the global surveillance, the apostasy spreading through the church. The warnings have been clear, but so few have heeded them.

I have done my best. I have sounded the alarm. But after this, there will be no more posts. No more time for debate.

If you are reading this, I beg you: Repent. Believe. Hold fast.

The moment is closer than you think.

Dan stared at the words, his breath coming shallow.

Was this enough?

Would it wake them up?

A sudden beep from his laptop snapped him out of his thoughts.

Dan frowned.

His laptop flickered. The screen glitched—just for a second.

Then a new email appeared.

No sender. No timestamp.

Just a subject line: YOU ARE BEING WATCHED.

His pulse quickened.

This had happened before.

Ever since his blog had gained traction, he had been receiving threats, warnings to stop.

He hesitated, then clicked.

The message contained only one line:

“Stop posting. You are being watched.”

Dan’s stomach tightened.

He tried a VPN. Nothing. The servers hosting his site were wiped, the archives erased. Whoever they were, they had been waiting for him to post. And they had acted instantly.

He glanced out the window, half expecting to see a shadow in the alley, a silhouette on the rooftop.

Nothing.

But he knew.

Someone was watching.

His phone vibrated.

A call from Ethan Grant, his closest friend, an ex-Mossad agent turned believer.

Dan picked up.

“Dan, listen to me,” Ethan’s voice was urgent, low. “You need to shut it down. Right now.”

Dan gritted his teeth. “I won’t.”

“You don’t understand.” Ethan’s voice was sharp, tight with tension. “They’ve flagged you. Israeli intelligence, global surveillance teams—Dan, you’re on a list.”

Dan let out a bitter laugh. “I’ve been on a list for years.”

“Not like this,” Ethan shot back. “They’re planning something. There’s chatter about ‘problematic voices’ being silenced.”

Dan’s chest tightened.

The darkness outside his window seemed deeper now.

His finger hovered over the publish button.

His mind raced.

If Ethan was right, if this was bigger than just censorship—was this the moment to stop?

But—what if this was his last chance to warn them?

What if someone was still out there, waiting for this post to push them toward the truth?

His throat went dry.

God, what do I do?

A sudden memory flooded his mind—a verse from Ezekiel.

“Son of man, if you do not warn them and they perish, their blood will be on your hands.”

Dan’s breath shuddered.

He knew what he had to do.

Dan ignored the fear clawing at his chest. He ignored the shadow of danger looming outside his door. He took a deep breath—and clicked ‘Publish.’ For three seconds, the post was live. Long enough for bots to scrape it. Long enough for thousands to see. Then the page refreshed. ERROR 451: CONTENT UNAVAILABLE BY LEGAL REQUEST.

Dan exhaled, his heart pounding.

Outside the window, a black SUV idled on the street, its lights off.

And then—

The power cut out.

The laptop screen went dark.

The air turned ice-cold.

And Dan knew—

They had come for him.

The power was dead. His laptop—black screen.

And then—

His phone buzzed.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: “This was your only warning.”

Dan’s heart pounded. He bolted for the back door, his instincts screaming—run.

Washington, D.C.

The Pentagon’s Cybersecurity Command Center was a fortress of glowing screens and murmured voices, a digital war zone where the world’s invisible battles were fought. Tonight, the room buzzed with an unnatural urgency.

Lieutenant Colonel David Carter, eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights, leaned over a technician’s monitor. His gut told him this wasn’t just another cyberattack.

“Colonel, we’ve been seeing fragmented anomalies for three days,” a tech whispered. “Banking systems in Hong Kong flickered last night. Then the UK’s power grid lagged.”

Carter’s gut clenched. This wasn’t a simple breach—it was a stress test. Someone had been pushing the world’s limits before the kill switch.

“Confirmed breach,” the tech said, voice tense. “It’s spreading—Shanghai, Berlin, London, São Paulo—”

Carter straightened. “What exactly are we dealing with?”

The screen flickered. Then the words appeared, stark and unyielding:

THE SYSTEM IS FALLING.

Seconds later, all monitors went dark.

The hum of technology vanished, replaced by a chilling silence.

Then—his screen flashed white. Just for a second. Long enough for him to see something, hidden in the code. A verse. Isaiah 47:11—‘Disaster will come upon you, and you will not know how to conjure it away.’

Tokyo

Kenji Nakamura barely heard the sirens outside his office window as he stared at the screen in disbelief.

The Nikkei 225 was in freefall. But this wasn’t a normal crash. The patterns—Kenji had seen downturns before—this was different. Sell orders weren’t responding. Market safeguards weren’t triggering. His AI’s trading algorithm flashed an error: UNKNOWN VARIABLE DETECTED. That was impossible. His backup servers should have executed automatic stabilizers, but instead, another message appeared: SYSTEM OVERRIDE. EXECUTIVE CONTROL: UNAUTHORIZED. He felt his breath tighten. Someone—or something—had taken control. The stock market, the one thing he had believed was untouchable, was crumbling before his eyes.

The phone on his desk rang.

“Kenji, it’s over,” his friend in New York said, breathless. “The Dow—frozen. Circuit breakers triggered. Crypto’s dead. Banks are closing their doors.”

Kenji ran a hand over his face. No, no—this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

He had bet everything on the stability of the system.

And now the system was gone.

Outside, people poured into the streets, their voices a mix of confusion and rising panic.

The city never stopped, never wavered.

But now?

Now Tokyo felt like a ticking bomb.

New York

Jessica Reynolds stormed into the newsroom, dodging panicked interns and frantic producers.

Every screen in the office had gone black.

Her editor, Grant Hill, barked orders into his phone. “What do you mean we can’t broadcast? The satellites are still up—”

The line went dead.

Jessica pulled out her own phone. No service. No Wi-Fi.

“Grant,” she said, her pulse hammering. “What the hell is going on?”

He looked at her.

For the first time, she saw fear in his eyes.

“I think,” he said, voice hoarse, “we just lost the internet.”

Jessica let out a nervous laugh. “That’s insane. That can’t happen.”

Grant didn’t answer.

Outside, the first sounds of sirens filled the air.

Jerusalem

Dan Shepherd stood on the Temple Mount, watching the crowds move like shadows under the glow of ancient stone.

He could feel it in the air—the world was cracking at the seams.

The chaos had spread too quickly. Cyberattacks. Market crashes. Governments on edge.

And still—no one understood.

His blog post had reached millions.

And yet, they rationalized it.

“Just another financial crash.”

“Just another cyberattack.”

“Just another war on the horizon.”

They couldn’t see it.

Couldn’t see that the fabric of reality was unraveling.

He pulled out his phone. Typed one last message.

IT HAS BEGUN.

Then he looked up.

Across the plaza, a group of men in dark suits watched him.

Waiting.

Moscow

In the Kremlin’s underground war room, General Sergei Volkov exhaled a thin trail of smoke from his cigar.

The world was bleeding.

His aides scrambled to handle the reports—Ukraine’s defenses were failing, Europe was fractured, China had gone dark.

This was their moment.

Volkov smiled.

It was time to move.

He turned to his second-in-command.

“Send the fleet.”

The order would ignite the final war.

And he was ready for it.

Mexico City

Carlos Medina watched the panic spread through the city like a contagion.

Shops were looted, banks were boarded up, families fled.

And yet—his church was still open.

The pews were full, people huddled together, whispering prayers.

Carlos stood at the pulpit, hands trembling.

For months, his faith had waned, doubt eating away at him.

Now—people needed him.

And he didn’t know if he could give them hope.

He closed his eyes.

“Lord… help me believe again.”

Somewhere—in a darkened command center, the man watched it all unfold. His fingers tapped the desk in a slow rhythm. Four heartbeats apart. He turned to the encrypted terminal beside him, the words ‘EXECUTE PHASE TWO’ flashing in red.

Monitors displayed the collapsing world.

The fear.

The uncertainty.

The perfect storm.

He leaned back, fingers steepled.

And he smiled. Slowly, deliberately, he typed a final command. The monitors flickered, shifting feeds. Tokyo. New York. Jerusalem. Mexico City. His voice, unheard, whispered across the screens:

“They think they still have time.”

Everything was going exactly as planned.

His hand hovered over the biometric scanner. ‘Activate Protocol Genesis,’ he murmured. The lights in the room flickered, one by one.

Tokyo

Kenji Nakamura sat in his penthouse office, watching the Tokyo skyline flicker under an ominous haze. The financial crisis had turned from a rumor into a reality, yet he still refused to believe the foundation of his world was crumbling.

His phone buzzed. Another client pulling out.

He sighed, pouring himself a drink.

Then, he noticed it.

The digital stock ticker scrolling across his monitor froze—then glitched.

For a moment, there were no numbers.

Just a single message in red kanji:

“You cannot serve both God and money.”

Kenji blinked, leaning closer. The ticker glitched again—only for a fraction of a second—but this time, he swore he saw another phrase before it vanished. “Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will never pass away.” His pulse jumped. No. That wasn’t real. Just a trick of the light. He rubbed his eyes, but the screen was back to normal.

A chill ran through him.

He grabbed his phone to text Naomi—his Christian assistant who always warned him about these things.

But then he hesitated.

No. It was just a glitch.

New York

Jessica stormed out of the newsroom. The media blackout was suffocating.

No networks. No signals. Silence.

She needed a distraction. Something real, something tangible.

Her feet took her to a nearby coffee shop, one of the last places still open. She ordered a latte and sat in the corner, pulling out her notebook.

Then—the radio behind the counter crackled to life.

No music. No advertisements.

Just static.

Then, a voice.

“Be ready.”

She froze.

“Did you hear that?” she asked the barista.

The guy shrugged. “Hear what?”

Jessica turned back. The static was gone.

She swallowed hard, shaking it off.

Just stress.

Nothing more.

Jerusalem

Dan Shepherd leaned against the ancient stone wall of the Western Wall Plaza, staring at the sun dipping below the horizon.

He had warned them.

And no one listened.

As he exhaled, a wave of fatigue hit him. His spirit felt heavy.

He hadn’t stopped running. From Tokyo to Rome, to here. Jerusalem.

But no matter where he went, the feeling followed him.

He exhaled, rubbing his eyes—and that’s when he noticed it.

The sun had stopped moving.

For a full minute, it did not descend.

The colors in the sky remained frozen, as if time itself had paused.

Dan blinked. Surely, his mind was playing tricks on him.

Then, without warning, the sun continued its descent—as if nothing had happened.

His heart pounded.

This was no illusion.

This was a sign.

And yet, he still wasn’t ready to believe it.

São Paulo

Diego Costa lit a cigar as he stepped into the dim alleyway behind the club. The execution had gone smoothly, no loose ends.

Yet, for some reason, he felt uneasy.

He turned.

For a split second, he saw a figure in the alley—a dark silhouette.

Diego reached for his gun.

“You’ve got five seconds to walk away.”

The figure didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

Diego fired.

The bullet should have torn into flesh.

But the alley remained empty.

A streetlight flickered.

The air around him—wrong. Like stepping into a room right after someone had left. The scent of smoke lingered, but no source. Diego’s fingers twitched on the trigger. Had he missed? Or had there never been anything there?

Diego’s pulse was too fast. He scoffed, shook his head. Just shadows. Just exhaustion.

But his fingers wouldn’t loosen from his gun.

He cursed, shaking off the paranoia.

Just his mind playing tricks on him.

Delhi

Priya stepped out of her father’s campaign event, the neon lights reflecting off her silver dress. The crowd inside chanted his name, oblivious to the chaos gripping the world.

She entered the women’s restroom and froze at the mirror.

Her reflection held its breath—just a half-second longer than she did.

Her stomach dropped. No. No. That wasn’t possible.

She blinked.

And the image was gone.

She exhaled sharply, forcing a laugh, but her throat was dry. It was just stress.

Just a trick of her tired mind.

Then why did the back of her neck feel ice-cold?

She laughed nervously. “You’re losing it, Priya.”

But she didn’t check the mirror again. Didn’t dare.

Dhaka

Rahim knelt on the prayer rug in his family’s home, whispering the words that no one could ever hear.

He prayed to Jesus in secret, hiding his faith in the shadows of a devout Muslim household.

As he finished, He opened his eyes and gasped. A handprint—glowing faintly—was pressed into the rug beside him. Not just faint. Smoldering. Like heat had seared it into the fabric. The air smelled of charred linen.

It wasn’t his. It was larger, imprinted deep into the fibers, as if burned into the very threads.

His breath caught. He reached out—but the print faded before his fingers touched it.

Rahim scrambled back, heart hammering. That was no trick of the light.

For a moment, his entire body went cold.

He blinked.

And the print was gone.

He swallowed hard, stepping away from the rug.

Had God just spoken?

No. It had to be his imagination.

Mexico City

Carlos lit a candle in his tiny church, kneeling before the cross.

His faith had been fading for months.

Now, with the world in chaos, he felt like a fraud standing in this pulpit.

“Give me something, Lord.”

Then—the candle’s flame exploded upward. Not just flickering, but twisting. Contorting. The air around it warped, like heat bending light. Carlos stumbled back, breath ragged.

Carlos stepped back. He had asked for a sign.

But even now, he refused to believe it.

Moscow

General Volkov stood at the Kremlin balcony, drinking in the sight of his empire preparing for war.

The world was teetering—and he was ready to push it over the edge.

Then, he heard whispering.

Soft. Unrelenting.

But no one was there.

He turned back to the city, and for a moment, the skies above Moscow were red.

Like blood.

He rubbed his eyes, and the color was gone.

War was coming.

And it would be his masterpiece.

Somewhere—in a darkened room, beyond the reach of cameras or satellites, a figure watched.

He leaned forward, fingers steepled.

The monitors showed each of them. Doubting. Dismissing. Ignoring.

He smiled.

Tomorrow, they would believe.

He had seen their doubt.

Their dismissal.

Their choice to turn away from the truth.

And he smiled.

Because tomorrow… they would understand.

Tomorrow… the world would change forever.

Chapter 2: The Vanishing

Tokyo

Kenji Nakamura’s eyes burned from the harsh blue glow of his computer screen. Tokyo’s skyscrapers rose like blackened obelisks against the twilight, their steel and glass facades reflecting the dying light. He sat at his desk, fingers trembling slightly as he scrolled through a series of stock reports, each more dismal than the last.

It had been a long day. A long, stressful week. The markets had been volatile—crashes in Europe, military tensions in the Middle East, and Japan’s economy spiraling further into crisis. It felt as if the world was teetering on the edge of something catastrophic, and he couldn’t stop the inevitable.

His assistant Naomi had left hours ago, but not before warning him, again, about the signs of the times. She had been increasingly frantic, clutching onto a belief that Kenji was certain she would soon abandon. The world was ending. The Rapture was coming.

Kenji scoffed, shaking off her words as he glanced at his phone. Another market report. Another headline about the worsening crisis in Syria. Another disaster waiting to unfold.

As he reached for his cup of coffee, the silence of his office shattered. His system chimed—New York’s stock market had just opened, and his screens flashed red. Five points down. Ten. Twenty.

Kenji cursed under his breath, raking a hand through his hair. Naomi’s voice echoed in his mind: It’s happening, Kenji. Everything is falling apart.

A Bloomberg alert flashed across his screen:

“Global Market Panic as Unprecedented Disappearances Reported. Early Estimates: 500 Million Missing.”

Kenji’s gut twisted. He clicked open the article, his eyes scanning frantically.

“United States: 160 million. Nigeria: 60 million. China: 58 million. Brazil: 41 million. South Africa: 37 million.”

The numbers were staggering. The world’s financial backbone—entirely destabilized overnight.

He tried to focus, but the tension in his chest was rising. The warning signs were everywhere, yet the data—the hard numbers—didn’t lie. He had to focus on that.

“Kenji?”

He blinked. Naomi’s voice. He turned his chair, expecting to find her standing at the door, but the office was empty. The call had come through his internal system—a live feed.

Naomi’s face flickered on the screen, pale, her eyes wide with panic.

“Kenji,” she said again, voice strained, barely above a whisper. “You need to listen. The market—it’s not just a crash. It’s connected.”

Hundreds of millions disappeared. Whole church congregations. Financial executives. Leaders.

Kenji stared at the screen, pulse quickening. Her hands were shaking as she reached toward the screen, her fingers brushing the glass as if she could reach him through it.

“Naomi? What are you talking about? Calm down. What’s going on?”

Her voice cracked, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I—I can’t explain it, Kenji. I’ve been praying, and… and there’s a shift. Something’s about to happen. It’s bigger than any of us. I can’t see it clearly, but I know it’s coming. There’s a prophecy—a biblical warning about this day. Kenji, nearly 500 million people were just… erased. And most of them? They were Protestants.”

Kenji laughed nervously. “Stop it, Naomi. I can’t have this conversation now. The market is crashing.”

He stole another glance at the figures on screen.

The United Kingdom—34 million Protestants.

Germany—29 million.

DR Congo—32 million.

It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t.

Kenji shook his head. “Coincidence. This is just a market reaction.”

He waved a hand dismissively, turning his focus back to the blinking graphs. “I’ll deal with this, okay? Focus on your work.”

Naomi’s image wavered, flickering, as though the very pixels of her face were dissolving.

Kenji squinted. His Wi-Fi was stable. The flickering wasn’t lag. It was something else.

He shook his head, pushing the thought away. He was exhausted, that’s all. Stress was making him imagine things.

“You don’t understand, Kenji. The clock is running out.”

And then, suddenly—

The screen in front of him went black.

Kenji sat there, breath caught in his throat, heart hammering in his chest. He reached for his mouse, clicking, dragging—nothing. No signal. Just darkness.

His eyes darted around the office. Something was wrong.

Outside, the city still hummed. Neon lights blinked in synchronization. Traffic flowed beneath the tower. But inside, Kenji felt like he was caught in the eye of a storm, waiting for the chaos to crash in.

He exhaled deeply, trying to shake off the unease crawling up his spine. He leaned back, staring at the blank monitor, fingers gripping the edge of his desk.

And then—

The phone rang.

“Kenji?”

It was his father. His voice, usually confident and assertive, was laced with panic.

“What’s happening with the market?”

Kenji could hear shouting in the background, voices crackling through the line, distant and muffled. His father never sounded rattled.

“Dad, I—I’m not sure. It’s bad. Really bad. The market is—”

A loud crash interrupted him, followed by the screeching sound of metal. Kenji’s pulse quickened.

“Kenji, listen to me. This is bigger than the market crash. People are—”

The line went dead.

Kenji yanked the phone away from his ear, his breath caught in his throat. He stared at the screen—NO SIGNAL. His fingers moved frantically, redialing. No answer.

A hollow, electric fear curled in his gut. Had something happened to his father? Or was this part of something much, much worse?

Shaking, he opened his email, hoping for answers. His inbox was flooded with emergency reports, financial analysts, government notifications.

One message stood out.

From Naomi. Sent minutes ago.

Subject: “It’s Already Begun”

Kenji clicked, hands trembling. The email was short, frantic.

“Kenji, I know you don’t believe me, but something is happening. The market crash is part of it. There’s a supernatural shift. You can feel it in the air. Something is about to happen. Please, pray.”

Kenji’s stomach twisted. Naomi wasn’t one to send conspiracy nonsense. Yet… her fear was raw. Undeniable.

Suddenly, the room felt colder. He glanced around, half expecting someone—something—to materialize out of thin air.

The lights flickered.

A hum, low and vibrating, seeped through the walls. Subtle at first, then louder, resonating through his bones.

Kenji stood, heart racing. A storm was brewing outside, but inside, it was as if the walls themselves were closing in. He staggered to the window, yanking the blinds open—Tokyo was gone.

No neon glow. No traffic. Just a void.

His mind flashed back to the figures on screen—500 million missing.

Kenji’s breath caught. “This can’t be happening.”

A deep, suffocating shadow swallowing the horizon.

His phone buzzed again.

A global news notification:

“Massive cyberattack on global financial institutions. Stock markets crash worldwide. Key executives missing. Governments declare emergencies.”

Kenji’s pulse spiked. His fingers flew to his keyboard, logging into his firm’s trading system. No response. He grabbed his phone, dialing his father again. Straight to voicemail.

The realization struck him like a blow to the chest.

This wasn’t just a market crash.

This was an attack.

And the world was already spiraling into chaos.

New York

Jessica Reynolds stood behind the sleek, silver desk, her fingers drumming impatiently as the teleprompter scrolled the latest headlines.

She barely heard the producer’s frantic voice in her earpiece. The words blurred together, drowned beneath the weight pressing on her chest.

A world in crisis.

But as far as she was concerned, it was just another day. Another story. Another chance to expose the sensational, make a name for herself.

The lights overhead were blinding, casting harsh shadows that softened the sharp edges of her face. She smirked slightly, that same practiced smile she had perfected over the years—calm, controlled, ever so confident. The face of authority.

And yet—

Her stomach tightened as she read the words before her.

“Good evening, New York. I’m Jessica Reynolds, and this is WNYC. Tonight’s top story: Half a billion people have vanished—many of them devout Christians. Is this the work of a cyberattack, or is something far more insidious at play? Global markets are teetering, but is this chaos part of a greater plan, or simply the result of escalating tensions?”

Her voice was steady, but inside, unease stirred like a slow boil.

At first, she had dismissed the reports about the disappearances—tall tales spun from desperation. Another round of manufactured paranoia. But something was different about this. The way the stories were spreading. The silence from government officials. The way these people had vanished, leaving no trace.

She exhaled sharply, looking up at the monitor displaying her guest—Dr. Malik Hayes, a geopolitical analyst. His face, usually composed, looked paler than usual.

“Dr. Hayes, given these strange disappearances and their economic impact, do you believe we’re seeing a coordinated global event?”

The feed flickered. For a moment, just a fraction of a second, static overtook the screen.

Jessica frowned. That was odd.

Dr. Hayes hesitated before answering, his voice measured. “Jessica, the timing of these events is… concerning. It’s not random. The missing? Overwhelmingly Protestant Christians. The numbers are undeniable. What’s more alarming is that key figures in finance, government, and tech have disappeared overnight. Not randomly, but selectively.”

Jessica nodded, keeping her expression neutral, but inside, her pulse quickened.

“You’re suggesting these disappearances are targeted?”

“I’m saying,” Hayes corrected, “that we may be witnessing something beyond cyberwarfare. These people didn’t just vanish—they left no trace. No security footage. No movement. It’s as if they… stopped existing.”

She had reported on disasters before. Wars. Pandemics. Economic collapses. But this?

This wasn’t a crisis.

This was an extinction event.

A live feed from Lagos, Nigeria, flickered onto the screen—churches standing eerily empty. The anchor’s voice cracked:

“Sixty million Protestants gone. Nigeria’s entire spiritual backbone… wiped out overnight.”

The control room erupted—producers shouting, phones ringing, someone already cutting the feed.

And then—

“Jessica!”

The voice wasn’t from her earpiece. It wasn’t Dr. Hayes.

Jessica’s head snapped up.

It was Thomas, her cameraman.

His voice held an edge of panic she had never heard from him before.

“Jessica, something’s wrong.”

She turned. Thomas stood just behind the camera, his face drained of color.

“Thomas, we’re live,” she hissed, irritation creeping into her tone. “We need to focus.”

“No—look!”

Jessica turned back to the screen just as the Tokyo stock exchange feed flickered into view. The massive trading floor, bustling with high-powered executives moments ago, was eerily still.

The camera zoomed in on a high-ranking executive. His face was pale. His mouth parted—

And then, in a blink, he was gone.

One second there. The next… nothing.

Jessica’s breath hitched.

The camera panned. Empty seats. Deserted desks.

And then—

The feed cut to black.

A sharp static hiss filled her earpiece.

“Cut it, cut it, cut it!” Jessica shouted, leaping from her seat.

The producer was already scrambling to switch to another segment, but Thomas—

Thomas wasn’t moving.

Jessica turned back toward him, her skin prickling. Thomas’ expression contorted—eyes wide, lips moving, but no sound escaped.

And then—he wasn’t there.

No sound. No light. Just… gone.

Her voice barely carried.

The camera was still rolling. Still broadcasting.

The camera rolled on.

Jessica’s heart slammed against her ribs.

She staggered backward, gripping the desk to steady herself.

“Thomas?!”

No response.

No security footage captured his exit. No one saw him leave. He had not left.

Jessica turned to the newsroom beyond the glass. The crew—frozen. Staring.

And then—

The static on the studio monitors shifted.

Flickered.

And a face appeared.

A woman, barely visible through the distortion. Her lips were moving, but the audio was garbled.

Jessica felt ice trickle down her spine.

The woman looked directly at her.

The static momentarily cleared.

“Jessica, it’s happening—”

The words cut out.

And then the entire newsroom plunged into darkness.

The last thing Jessica saw before the feed died—

Her own reflection in the monitor.

But the eyes looking back at her…

Weren’t hers.

Shanghai

The walls of the dimly lit basement trembled with the rhythm of whispered prayer.

A small group of believers knelt on the cold stone floor, heads bowed, eyes shut tight in reverent silence. The candlelight flickered, casting restless shadows on the cracked concrete walls.

Lin Mei clutched her Bible, its frayed edges pressed against her chest.

Something was wrong.

She had never felt this kind of tension before. Not even when she heard China’s underground church had lost nearly 60 million believers overnight.

Tonight, the air itself felt… heavy.

A weight settled in her stomach, cold and unmoving. She could feel it—an unseen presence curling through the damp air, coiling tighter with every passing second.

Across the room, Mei Ling knelt in prayer, her lips moving soundlessly. Usually, her face held warmth, a quiet resilience. But tonight—

Tonight, her eyes flickered with something else.

Fear.

Lin Mei inhaled deeply, forcing steadiness into her trembling fingers.

The last train to the safe house had already left.

If the police came—when the police came—there would be no escape.

The distant wail of a siren pierced the night.

Low at first.

Then louder.

Lin Mei’s breath caught.

She turned to the group, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Stay quiet.”

The siren grew, a rising crescendo. Then—

Footsteps.

Not distant. Not approaching.

Right outside.

The door at the top of the stairs shuddered.

Lin Mei froze.

The metal handle rattled.

A slow, deliberate knock echoed through the silent room.

They’re already here.

Her pulse pounded in her ears. She turned to the others, motioning toward the back exit, but—

It was too late.

Boots thundered down the stairwell.

The door exploded open.

Figures poured in—masked, armed, ruthless.

Lin Mei scrambled backward, shielding Mei Ling behind her.

The officers moved with terrifying precision, sweeping through the room like a flood, dragging believers from their hiding places.

Cries rang out.

A young man clutched his Bible as an officer wrenched him upward.

An elderly woman collapsed, pleading in hushed Mandarin, her hands lifted in surrender.

Lin Mei couldn’t move.

A hand grabbed her arm—rough, unyielding.

She fought back.

She kicked, twisted, thrashed against the grip, but the officer held firm.

A voice—cold, authoritative—barked a command.

“Take them all.”

And then—

A flash.

Blinding white light burst into the room.

Lin Mei gasped, staggering backward, her vision seared with brilliant radiance.

And then—

Silence.

The officers stood motionless.

Their bodies rigid. Their faces—blank.

Their weapons—lowered.

The elderly woman stared.

The young man stopped struggling.

Lin Mei’s breath hitched.

In the center of the room stood a man.

Not an officer.

Not one of them.

An old man, draped in simple robes, hands clasped behind his back.

His eyes—black as ink.

He shouldn’t be here.

Lin Mei knew everyone in this church. She knew every face.

But this man—

“Who are you?” she whispered.

He did not answer.

The light pulsed.

Lin Mei felt it—a presence far beyond what she could comprehend.

The officers trembled, as if held by invisible chains. Then—one by one—they disintegrated into nothingness.

No struggle. No sound.

Just… gone.

The last officer—the one who had grabbed Lin Mei—locked eyes with her.

And then—

He disappeared.

Lin Mei stood alone in the silent room.

The others—the believers—remained.

Her breath came in shuddering gasps.

The old man turned, locking eyes with her.

His voice—deep, resonant, absolute—spoke:

“Prepare. The time is now.”

And then—

He was gone.

Vanished into the air.

Lin Mei staggered.

Mei Ling clutched her sleeve, voice trembling.

“Lin Mei… what just happened?”

Lin Mei didn’t know.

Her hands shook as she pressed them to her chest, where her Bible still lay.

Had she just witnessed… a miracle?

Or—

Something far more terrifying?

The weight in the air remained.

She turned toward the others.

“We have to leave.”

No one argued.

One by one, they fled into the night, silent shadows in the darkness.

But as Lin Mei ran, she knew—

This wasn’t over.

Something had been set in motion.

And she wasn’t sure if they had just been saved…

Or marked.

Dhaka

The scent of lentils and cumin filled the small kitchen, curling through the dim air like a familiar embrace.

Rahim leaned against the counter, watching his mother stir the pot. The soft sound of her humming mixed with the distant buzz of traffic outside, the familiar symphony of Dhaka at dusk.

His younger sister, Ayesha, sat at the wooden table, her face buried in a book.

A peaceful, ordinary night.

Yet, Rahim felt it.

A pressure in his chest. A tension in the air.

Something was wrong.

He turned toward the window, pushing aside the thin curtain. Outside, the streets were alive—cars weaving, people moving, vendors shouting over each other. The city’s pulse, steady as ever.

Yet… something gnawed at him. A whisper on the news:

“India—19 million Christians missing overnight.”

His uncle’s letter had come this morning. A warning wrapped in formalities. Things are shifting, Rahim. London is uneasy. People are disappearing.

He hadn’t wanted to believe it.

But the fear in his uncle’s words had lingered in his mind, gnawing at him all day.

“Rahim, come eat,” his mother called.

He pushed the thoughts away, forcing a smile as he stepped toward the table.

Then—

A sound.

Low. Mechanical.

A soft thud.

It wasn’t from the street.

It came from inside the apartment.

Rahim stopped.

Ayesha frowned. “Did you hear that?”

His mother barely glanced up, her hands still moving over the pot. “Just the neighbors, beta. Always making noise.”

Rahim wasn’t so sure.

The air felt charged.

The lights flickered once—a blink of warning.

And then—

His phone buzzed violently on the counter.

He grabbed it, fingers tightening as he read the words glowing on the screen:

MASSIVE CYBERATTACKS REPORTED WORLDWIDE. STOCK MARKETS COLLAPSE. KEY POLITICAL FIGURES MISSING. GOVERNMENTS DECLARE EMERGENCY.

Rahim’s throat went dry.

“Rahim?” his mother’s voice, this time with concern.

He barely heard her.

The walls seemed to close in.

A sharp pop cracked through the air—not outside. Not from the street.

It came from behind him.

Rahim turned.

His mother was reaching for him.

Her lips parted. Her eyes—widened.

And then—

She was gone.

No light. No sound.

Just gone.

The wooden spoon she had been holding clattered to the floor.

The scent of lentils lingered in the empty air.

Ayesha screamed.

“Mama?!”

Rahim staggered backward, his breath coming in sharp, broken gasps.

No.

No, no, no.

This wasn’t happening.

His mother had just been there.

He could still feel the warmth of her presence in the room.

“Rahim? Ayesha?”

His father’s voice rang from the hallway, heavy footsteps rushing toward them.

Rahim spun toward the door, his pulse hammering in his ears. “Papa! Mama—she—she’s—”

His father froze in the doorway.

His eyes swept the room. The fallen spoon. The empty space.

“Where is she?” his father demanded.

Rahim couldn’t answer.

His father’s face darkened—not with grief, but something else.

Rage.

He took a slow step forward, his voice like ice. “You were the one who caused this.”

Rahim’s stomach dropped.

“What?”

“You and your foolish beliefs!” his father spat. “You brought this curse upon us!”

Rahim reeled back, the words hitting like a slap. “I—I didn’t do anything!”

But his father wasn’t listening.

“You were warned!” His voice cracked with fury. “Your God has left us!”

“Stop it!” Ayesha sobbed, clutching Rahim’s arm.

She was shaking.

Rahim looked at his father—the man who had always been unshakable. The man who had raised him to be logical, to reject faith, to believe in what he could see.

And now—

His father was breaking.

Not from grief.

From fear.

The lights flickered again.

The air hummed.

A pressure pressed down on Rahim’s chest, suffocating, crushing.

The apartment walls seemed to pulse.

“Rahim…” Ayesha whimpered.

A shadow moved in the corner of the room.

Rahim turned sharply—

And froze.

There, in the dim light, a figure stood.

Tall. Motionless. Cloaked in shifting blackness.

No face.

No eyes.

Just… watching.

Rahim’s blood turned to ice.

“Papa…” his voice barely a whisper.

His father turned—

And the figure moved.

In an instant, Rahim’s father vanished.

No sound.

No struggle.

Just gone.

The void where he had stood hung thick in the air, pressing against Rahim’s ribs, squeezing the breath from his lungs.

The figure shifted, its form blurring.

And then—

It spoke.

A voice like cracking stone.

“The time is at hand.”

A pulse of energy ripped through the room.

Rahim and Ayesha collapsed to the floor, clutching their heads as the sound pierced through their skulls.

The lights died.

The city outside went silent.

And then—

The figure was gone.

The apartment was empty.

Rahim lay on the cold tile, his heartbeat slamming against his ribs.

Ayesha sobbed into his shoulder.

The scent of lentils still filled the air.

His mother’s voice still echoed in his mind.

But the world had changed.

And he knew—

They were never coming back.

Delhi

The newsroom buzzed with frantic energy, the chaos of a city on edge bleeding through every flickering screen.

Priya Sharma sat stiffly at her desk, fingers hovering over her keyboard. The latest reports scrolled past her monitor in a blur—governments collapsing, markets imploding, people disappearing without a trace.

The weight of it all pressed against her ribs.

“This isn’t just another crisis.”

She knew it.

She felt it.

Her best friend, Ruth, leaned against the doorframe. Her dark eyes flickered with concern. “You’ve been on edge all week.”

Priya swallowed. She wanted to brush it off.

“I’m fine.”

A lie.

Ruth studied her. “You’re carrying the weight of the world, Priya.”

Her words hit deeper than she realized.

For years, Priya had been the rational one, dismissing conspiracy theories, silencing whispers of prophecy.

But now?

Every logical answer felt hollow.

She rubbed her temples. “I just—something’s wrong. I can feel it.”

Ruth didn’t laugh.

She should have.

Instead, a shadow crossed her face. As if she had felt it, too.

A sudden vibration rattled Priya’s phone on the desk.

She grabbed it, heart hammering.

MASSIVE DISAPPEARANCES REPORTED IN MULTIPLE COUNTRIES.
POLITICAL FIGURES VANISH. GOVERNMENTS INITIATE MARTIAL LAW.

Her breath caught.

“No… no, no, no.”

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

A cold shiver crawled down her spine as she opened the link.

The world was coming apart.

“Ruth, look at this.”

But Ruth wasn’t looking at the screen.

She was looking behind Priya.

And she was trembling.

“No… no…” Ruth whispered, her voice barely audible.

Priya turned—

And froze.

The newsroom had gone silent.

Everyone was staring.

Not at her.

At the monitors.

Her breath turned to ice as she followed their gaze.

The screen—her own reflection stared back at her.

But something was wrong.

The image flickered, her features warping, twisting—

And then, she saw it.

It wasn’t her.

Not really.

It was something else.

Her own face distorted in agony. Mouth moving. Whispering something she couldn’t hear.

Priya staggered back, her chair crashing to the floor.

“What—what is that?”

The newsroom erupted in panicked voices.

And then—

The screens glitched to static.

The air grew thick, suffocating.

A low hum vibrated through the walls.

Something was coming.

A sudden crash shattered the silence.

The newsroom door slammed open.

Their editor, Karan, stood pale-faced in the entrance.

“Get to the basement. NOW.”

The urgency in his voice cut through the panic like a blade.

Priya snapped out of her daze.

“What’s happening?” she demanded.

Karan didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

His eyes said everything.

The newsroom wasn’t safe anymore.

They ran.

Down the stairwell. Through the dim corridors.

The building shook as if something unseen was pressing against its walls.

Priya’s heart pounded. This wasn’t just panic.

This was something else.

They reached the basement. A cluster of reporters, staff, terrified faces stared at the glowing screens.

And then—

The broadcast cut to red.

BOLD, FLASHING LETTERS FILLED THE SCREEN.

NATIONAL EMERGENCY.

Priya’s blood ran cold.

Her fingers trembled as she typed a frantic message to her father.

“Stay inside. Please.”

Her breath hitched.

No signal.

The walls seemed to press in.

And then—

A new broadcast flickered on.

A man appeared on screen.

Arif Demir.

The former Prime Minister of Turkey.

Priya’s stomach twisted.

She had written about him before. But he had disappeared years ago.

Now, he was back.

His voice, smooth and controlled, filled the room.

“The time of chaos is upon us. The world is collapsing. But do not fear—peace is coming.”

Priya’s gut twisted.

“Something’s wrong,” Ruth murmured.

Priya agreed.

She didn’t trust that man.

Didn’t trust his eyes.

They were too calm.

Too empty.

“We have a chance to rebuild,” Arif continued. “A new order, a better world.”

The room was silent.

Some faces stared in awe.

Some in fear.

Priya felt sick.

Her instincts screamed this wasn’t salvation.

This was something else.

And then—

The screen flickered.

Arif’s smile deepened.

And for the briefest second—

Something moved behind his eyes.

Something inhuman.

Priya’s breath stopped.

She wanted to look away.

She couldn’t.

The hum in the air grew louder.

She felt it.

A presence.

Something watching.

She turned to Ruth.

“Do you feel that?”

Ruth nodded. Eyes wide.

And then—

The lights went out.

The basement plunged into darkness.

Something had arrived.

And Priya knew—

They weren’t ready for it.

The heat inside the warehouse was suffocating.

Diego Costa leaned against a rusted metal column, arms crossed, pistol heavy at his hip. His empire had been built on fear, blood, and power.

Tonight, all of it felt fragile.

The neon glow from São Paulo’s skyline filtered through the cracked windows, casting eerie shadows across his men. They stood silent, uneasy.

Marcos, his second-in-command, stepped forward. His voice was low, urgent.

“Everything’s in place, boss. No sign of interference so far.”

Diego barely nodded. His instincts twitched.

Something was wrong.

He could feel it.

For years, he had trusted his gut. It had kept him alive when others fell. Tonight, it screamed at him.

A whisper of movement.

Diego’s gaze flicked toward the far end of the warehouse—toward the thick metal doors.

The shadows felt deeper. Thicker.

And then—

Julio vanished.

One second, his lieutenant stood near the crates, muttering orders. The next—gone.

No sound. No warning. Just absence.

A cold dread crawled up Diego’s spine.

“Julio!” His voice cut through the warehouse.

No response.

Marcos spun, eyes wide. “What do you mean gone?”

“He was right there!” Diego snapped.

His men stared. Confused.

Then—

Carlos disappeared.

Right in front of them.

One blink—there.

Next blink—nothing.

The warehouse turned deathly silent.

Diego’s grip tightened around his pistol.

“WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING?!”

Marcos staggered backward. The other enforcers looked ready to run.

The air grew heavier.

Something was here.

A deep, thrumming hum vibrated through the concrete floor.

Diego’s pulse thundered.

And then—

The doors creaked open.

A man stood in the entrance.

Cloaked. Motionless. Face hidden beneath a deep hood.

Diego’s blood ran cold.

He wasn’t sure why.

He had stared down killers, assassins, entire cartel armies.

This was different.

The air bent around the figure. Like reality was warping in his presence.

Diego’s instincts screamed.

“Who the hell are you?!”

The figure didn’t answer.

Instead—he lifted his hand.

A slow, deliberate gesture.

Not a gun. Not a threat.

A beckoning.

Diego’s throat went dry.

His hand shook on his pistol.

Then—the whispers started.

Not spoken.

Not heard.

Inside his head.

Thousands of voices. Layered, overlapping. Ancient. Familiar. Wrong.

His breath hitched.

His men staggered. Clutching their skulls.

“GET OUT OF MY HEAD!” Diego roared, aiming his pistol.

A pulse of energy.

Unseen. But felt.

Diego’s legs buckled. His vision blurred.

The figure took a step forward.

Then another.

Diego gritted his teeth. Forced himself to move. To fight.

He fired.

Point blank.

Straight into the figure’s chest.

The bullet never hit.

It stopped mid-air.

Suspended.

Like time itself had paused.

Then—

It turned.

Diego watched in horror as the bullet rotated. Slowly.

Then—

Fired back.

Straight into Diego’s shoulder.

The pain exploded.

He hit the ground. Hard.

Marcos screamed. The other men broke.

Ran.

But they didn’t get far.

They vanished.

One by one.

Swallowed by the darkness.

Diego gasped. His vision swam.

The cloaked figure loomed over him.

“What… are you?” Diego choked out.

The figure crouched.

Close enough for Diego to see the faintest sliver of a face.

And in that moment—

Diego realized.

It wasn’t a man.

It never had been.

The whispers turned to words.

Not spoken. Transmitted.

“You’ve been warned.”

Diego’s heart stopped.

A sharp pulse of cold radiated from the figure—

And then, he was alone.

The warehouse was silent.

His men. Gone.

The figure. Gone.

Diego shook.

He had survived wars. Assassinations.

But this—

This was something else.

His phone buzzed.

He flinched. Fumbling to grab it.

A single message.

“This is not the end. It’s only the beginning.”

Diego sat there, blood dripping from his shoulder.

The world had changed.

And he knew—

He would never be in control again.

The streets of Mexico City were never silent.

Even before sunrise, the air pulsed with the chaos of a city that never truly slept. Vendors set up their stalls. Traffic snarled. The voices of a thousand conversations mixed with the distant hum of engines and street music.

But today—

Something was wrong.

Carlos felt it in his bones.

He walked fast, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his pulse uneven.

His phone buzzed.

A message from his sister, Ruth.

“Are you coming to the prayer group today?”

Carlos exhaled.

She wouldn’t stop.

Always pushing, always believing, always insisting that the world was on the verge of something big.

A rapture. A reckoning. A divine event she swore was imminent.

He had dismissed it.

Until now.

Because today—

Something was off.

His phone screen flickered. Glitched.

For half a second, a different message appeared.

“Carlos, it’s happening.”

His breath hitched.

And then—

The screaming started.

Carlos’ head snapped up.

Just ahead, a small group knelt on the sidewalk, hands raised in prayer. He recognized them.

Ruth’s friends. The underground believers.

His gut twisted.

He had always kept his distance.

But today—

Something felt wrong.

He stepped closer—just in time to see one of them vanish.

Right in front of him.

His brain refused to process it.

One blink—she was there.

Next blink—nothing.

No flash. No sound. No body. Just—gone.

Carlos froze.

His mind screamed.

“What the—”

Another man disappeared.

Then a third.

Then—Ruth.

Carlos reached for her.

“RUTH!”

But—

She was gone.

Carlos stood, hand outstretched, touching nothing.

The prayer group vanished before his eyes.

Terror clawed at his chest.

The world tilted.

No—no, no, no.

This wasn’t possible. This wasn’t real.

And yet—

His sister. His blood.

She had evaporated.

Something ancient and primal screamed in his skull.

He turned wildly—looking for someone—anyone—who had seen.

The city continued as if nothing had happened.

Cars moved. Vendors sold. Life went on.

Like it hadn’t just ripped apart.

Carlos stumbled back.

His hands shook.

His lungs refused to breathe.

His phone buzzed again.

“The time is at hand.”

Carlos dropped it.

The message was from Ruth’s number.

But Ruth was gone.

Dan Shepherd was already dead.

At least, according to the news.

His apartment in Jerusalem sat in eerie silence. A dim glow from his laptop screen was the only source of light, illuminating a half-written blog post. The cursor blinked. Waiting.

But Dan—

Was gone.

His chair was empty. His coffee, still warm. His phone, buzzing endlessly.

Breaking News: “Dan Shepherd, journalist and conspiracy theorist, has vanished. His final post has shaken the world.”

Ruth stared at the screen, chest tightening.

He had warned them.

He had written it.

And now—he had disappeared.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, eyes scanning the last words he had typed.

“The time is up. Be ready. We are entering the final hour.”

The words sat there, ominous. A death sentence on the world.

And the scariest part?

They were true.

Her phone buzzed again.

“Dan is gone. It’s happening.”

The sender—Carlos.

Her pulse spiked.

Carlos never believed. Not in the rapture, not in the warnings, not in any of it.

Until now.

Ruth pushed back from the desk, breath shallow.

Outside, the city continued—unaware.

People walked. Cars honked. Conversations drifted through the air like nothing had changed.

But Ruth knew better.

She grabbed her phone, heart pounding, and dialed Dan’s number.

Ring.

Ring.

Click.

The line connected.

But there was no sound.

Just static.

A heavy, suffocating silence.

Then—

A voice.

Not Dan’s.

Low. Ancient. Wrong.

“You were warned.”

Ruth’s stomach plunged.

The static grew louder.

“They are already here.”

She yanked the phone away from her ear, heart slamming against her ribs.

The screen—

No caller ID. No trace of a call.

Just the words—

“The time is at hand.”

The same message Carlos had received.

Her breath shook.

She looked back at Dan’s laptop.

The screen glitched.

For half a second, the words changed.

Not the blog post.

A new message.

“They took him. They will take you next.”

Ruth bolted.

She grabbed her bag, her keys—anything to get out.

The apartment felt smaller.

The air, too thick.

She reached the door—

But stopped.

A shadow flickered beneath the crack.

Not a person.

Not human.

Something else.

Something waiting.

She backed away, pulse hammering in her ears.

Her phone vibrated again.

“Run.”

Ruth ran.

The world screamed.

Air raid sirens howled across New York. London. Tokyo. São Paulo.

The emergency broadcast cut into every TV. Every phone. Every radio.

“THIS IS A GLOBAL EMERGENCY. REMAIN CALM. REMAIN INDOORS.

Current estimate: 494 million missing, predominantly Christians.”

No one remained calm.

People vanished mid-stride, leaving only shoes. Clothes. Cars abandoned in intersections.

A plane crashed into the Hudson River.
A subway train in Paris barreled into a dead stop—half empty.
A hundred-car pileup in Beijing—drivers missing.

Global satellites flickered. World leaders vanished from live feeds.

Everywhere—chaos.

Los Angeles burned.
Washington was on lockdown.
The stock market imploded in real-time.

In the White House situation room, President Harris gripped the table edge.

“How many?” His voice was raw.

The Pentagon aide, face ashen, whispered—

“Millions, sir.”

A chill ripped through the room.

The Secretary of Defense’s tablet screen flashed red.

Encrypted message: “REVELATION INITIATED.”

“What the hell is this?” she whispered.

Nobody answered.

Because nobody knew.

Jerusalem

Ruth burst onto the street, lungs burning.

The city looked normal. But it wasn’t.

A little girl sat alone on the curb.

Her hands trembled.

“Mommy?” she whispered.

Ruth’s chest clenched.

Her mother—gone.

Across the street, a cab driver screamed into his hands.

The backseat?

Empty.

His passenger—gone.

A man clutched his phone, staring at a blank screen.

“Where’s my wife?!”

Ruth didn’t stop.

She couldn’t.

“Ruth, WHERE ARE YOU?” – Carlos.

She skidded into an alley, typing with shaking hands.

“I saw the message. It’s real.”

Three dots.

Carlos was typing.

“It’s happening everywhere. You need to get out. NOW.”

She sucked in a shaky breath.

“Where do I go?”

“I don’t know. Just RUN.”

A shadow moved.

Not a person.

Something else.

Watching.

Waiting.

Her phone buzzed again.

“They took Dan. They’re coming for us next.”

The air crackled.

The streetlights flickered.

Ruth’s vision blurred.

The world was coming undone.

New York

Jessica gripped the desk.

Her earpiece screeched.

“Jessica, we’re losing the feed—”

Then the screen cut to static.

The newsroom plunged into darkness.

Jessica whirled.

The cameraman was gone.

The producer—gone.

Everyone.

Vanished.

The only sound?

Her own shaking breath.

The studio lights flickered back on.

A message glowed across the screen.

“It has begun.”

Jessica’s stomach twisted.

This wasn’t news.

This was a warning.

She was next.

London

Elliot crammed into the crowded Tube.

Until—

The train screeched to a stop.

The lights flickered.

People gasped.

Then—

Half the passengers vanished.

Gone.

Not a sound.

Not a sign.

Just empty seats.

A woman collapsed, sobbing.

“My husband—he was right here—he was RIGHT HERE!”

Elliot’s heart slammed against his ribs.

His best friend, Scott, had been standing beside him.

Now?

Only his wallet lay on the floor.

Elliot’s breath hitched.

“THEY TOOK THEM.” – Unknown sender.

His vision swam.

Who?

Who took them?

And why were some left behind?

Washington

In the Oval Office, the President’s hands shook.

Worldwide emergency meetings had been called.

Except—

Half the world leaders never answered.

Because they were gone.

His phone buzzed.

“We knew this was coming.” – Anonymous

The President froze.

“The prophecies were true. And you failed to prepare.”

He nearly dropped the phone.

He could feel it now.

The shift.

The undoing.

And the creeping, terrible realization.

This wasn’t an attack.

It was a reckoning.

Mexico City

Carlos sat on the curb, shaking. His sister—gone. His church—empty. And then the realization hit.

It wasn’t random. It was them. The believers. The ones who had always warned him.

And the ones who had mocked them?

Still here.

“The time is up.” – Unknown

Carlos swallowed hard.

Had Ruth made it out?

“Are you safe?” – Carlos

No response.

His hands shook.

He had spent his whole life ignoring the warnings.

Dismissing the signs.

Mocking Ruth.

Now—

He was still here.

And he finally understood.

He had been left behind.

“THIS IS A GLOBAL EMERGENCY. PLEASE REMAIN CALM.”

Cities burned.
Governments collapsed.
The world unraveled.

And the ones who saw it coming?

Were gone.

The truth was no longer a theory.

The world had entered its final hour.

And the ones who remained?

Had to face what came next.

The world was collapsing.

Sirens screamed across cities, their wails swallowed by the rising chaos.

Fires burned unchecked in major capitals. Governments issued frantic decrees, but there was no one left to enforce them.

Now, something worse was taking shape.

A new figure had emerged—one who had waited for this moment. One who had known it was coming.

Arif Akin.

Istanbul

The screen flickered. The world was watching.

Arif Akin stood before a darkened council chamber, flanked by unseen advisors. His voice was calm, measured, devoid of panic.

“People of the world, we stand at the edge of something new.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

“Our systems have failed. Our leaders are missing. The old world is crumbling before our eyes.”

In the White House situation room, the President leaned forward, every muscle in his body rigid.

Arif Akin continued.

“But we need not fear. We can rise from this.”

A hushed murmur rippled across governments, military bases, and corporate boardrooms.

“We must unite. A single order. A single vision. We cannot allow chaos to consume us.”

His voice was magnetic. Resolute.

The leaders still remaining exchanged uncertain glances.

“This is the time for a new world,” Arif said. “And I will lead it.”

A slow realization crept through the halls of power.

This was not a man reacting to disaster.

This was a man who had been waiting for it.

New York

Jessica Reynolds sat in the abandoned newsroom.

She was the only one left.

The cameras still ran, but no one controlled them. The newsroom floor was empty. The city outside was silent.

She wiped the sweat from her forehead and forced her voice to remain steady.

“This is Jessica Reynolds, WNYC.”

Her hands trembled.

“For those still listening… if you’re out there… something has happened.”

A pause.

No one to confirm the facts. No producer in her ear. Just the cold, hard truth.

“We don’t know how many are missing. We don’t know why. But the disappearances are worldwide. Leaders. Families. Entire flights. Gone.”

She inhaled sharply, her heartbeat thundering in her ears.

“The governments are collapsing. And now, a man named Arif Akin has declared that he will bring order.”

She rubbed her temples.

“If you’re still watching, if you can still hear me…”

She glanced at the empty studio, her own reflection staring back at her in the glass.

“You’re not alone. But I don’t know how much time we have.”

The screen cut to static.

The President paced the Oval Office.

Around him, the last of his advisors whispered in frantic tones.

“Arif Akin is making a move,” the Secretary of Defense said, her voice sharp.

“He’s already consolidating military control in Europe,” a general added. “He’s calling for a unified global force. A peacekeeping initiative.”

The President clenched his fists.

“This isn’t peace,” he muttered. “This is a takeover.”

The Secretary of State rubbed his temples. “Many of the world’s leaders are missing. The public is desperate. And Akin is stepping in with a plan.”

A pause.

“He’s not asking for permission.”

The President turned to his advisors, his face pale.

“Then what is he asking for?”

Silence.

Because they all knew.

Nothing.

He was taking it.

Jerusalem

Ruth stood in the alley, pressing herself against the cold brick.

She had seen the video. She had heard Arif’s words.

Her fingers clenched around the phone.

She typed a message to Carlos.

“I don’t trust him.”

A long pause.

Then Carlos responded.

“Neither do I.”

She exhaled, her breath shaking.

The streets were too quiet.

She had lived in Jerusalem all her life. It had never been this silent.

A chill ran down her spine.

Something was coming.

London

Elliot sat in his flat, watching the broadcast replay.

Arif Akin’s voice echoed through the television.

“The time for division is over. We must come together under a single banner.”

Elliot turned the volume down.

Outside, the city had an eerie stillness, broken only by the occasional wail of sirens.

He grabbed his jacket.

He needed to get out of the city.

Mexico City

Carlos stared at his phone.

Every news station was broadcasting the same thing.

Arif Akin.

A name he had never thought about before today.

Now, it was everywhere.

He turned the TV off.

His sister was gone. His church was gone.

Now, a man he didn’t know was rising to power.

And the world was following him.

Governments scrambled for control.

Cities burned.

Families searched for their missing loved ones.

And Arif Akin’s voice rang in every ear.

“Trust me.”

The choice was no longer theirs.

The new world had already begun.

Chapter 3: The Aftermath & Deception

The neon glow of Tokyo had always been Kenji Nakamura’s sanctuary. From the penthouse of his Marunouchi office, he had ruled the markets, a silent god manipulating digits that dictated the rise and fall of empires. But tonight, the city outside his window looked different—distant, unfamiliar. A skyline built on illusion.

The world had changed.

And so had his place in it.

Kenji leaned forward, his breath shallow as he scanned the six monitors before him. The Nikkei had flatlined. The forex market was frozen. Crypto, supposedly untouchable, had evaporated into digital ether. Everything he had built, erased in the span of a breath. He wasn’t bankrupt—he had been deleted.

Theoretically, this should have been impossible. Kenji had spent years hedging against black swan events—distributed assets, algorithmic redundancies, AI-driven risk mitigation. Yet, every firewall, every hidden failsafe, had collapsed at once.

His fingers raced over the keyboard—but there was nothing to access. No balances. No networks. The offshore servers had gone dark, as if they had never existed. The entire financial system had been rewritten while he slept.

Kenji’s stomach clenched. This wasn’t possible. He had war-gamed financial collapses, trained his AI against manipulations. But the system had not been manipulated—it had been rewritten. The numbers weren’t just falling—they had been surgically erased. Every redundancy, every protective measure, obliterated at once. He opened another terminal, feverishly keying in security overrides, trying to locate where his money had gone.

The security override should have worked. It was a triple-layered encryption sequence, quantum-protected. Yet, some invisible force had already rewritten the root protocol.

ACCESS DENIED.

He exhaled, rubbing his temples. Stay rational. Think.

A chime. His phone.

The number was hidden.

Kenji hesitated, then answered. “Who is this?”

A voice, smooth as silk, but with an edge sharp enough to cut. “Kenji Nakamura. Former titan of industry. Now, nothing more than a statistic.”

Kenji stiffened. The voice wasn’t robotic, but it was precise—like an AI that had learned how to mock. “What do you want?”

“It’s not about what I want, Nakamura-san. It’s about what you no longer have.”

The call ended.

Kenji pulled the phone away, his pulse thudding against his ribs. A notification blinked.

Unknown Message: YOU’VE BEEN WATCHING THE WRONG MARKET.

His throat tightened. He swiped the message—deleted. No trace of its existence.

Kenji shot up from his chair, his movements rigid. He grabbed his coat. He had to get to Nakamura Securities, had to get in front of his team, his servers—there had to be an explanation.

As he reached for the door, a soft chime sounded from his monitors. The screens, once filled with financial chaos, glitched. For a second, they displayed a series of numbers. Not stock data.

A Bible verse.

“For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?”

Kenji’s breath hitched.

Then—the screen went black.

A violent knock on his door made him whirl. “Kenji-san!”

Naomi.

His assistant’s voice trembled, something he had never heard before. He yanked the door open, finding her drenched from the Tokyo rain. Her normally pristine demeanor was shattered—hair clinging to her face, hands trembling over the Bible she still carried despite his mockery.

“Naomi, what the hell is happening?”

She looked past him, at the black monitors. Then back at him.

“You already know,” she whispered.

The streets of Tokyo were not in panic—not yet—but the air had changed. Kenji could feel it. The meticulous order of Japanese society had fractured at the edges, and beneath the surface, something darker simmered. He saw it in the way people clutched their phones, refreshing financial apps in vain. The way businessmen stood outside banks, fists tight, demanding explanations from clerks who had none.

The economy wasn’t collapsing.

It had already collapsed.

Naomi walked beside him, silent but urgent. “We need to talk.”

Kenji shook his head. “Not now.”

“Now is the only time we have,” she pressed, gripping his wrist. “Kenji-san, please, just listen.”

He met her gaze. Something in her eyes unsettled him—not fear, but certainty.

She lowered her voice. “It’s all connected. The disappearances, the financial reset, the—”

Kenji yanked his arm away. “Enough.”

“It’s prophecy.”

He clenched his jaw, scanning the crowds. He needed to think. He needed to get to Nakamura Securities, to fix this. But as he turned a corner, he saw the truth.

A towering digital billboard loomed over the street, displaying a live speech. A man stood behind a podium in Geneva, his voice calm, commanding.

“The world is at a turning point,” the leader declared, his face flickering across every screen in the city. “This chaos is not an end—but a new beginning.”

Kenji had seen him before. The charismatic figure who had risen overnight—a so-called solution to global instability.

“We must unify,” the leader continued. “The old systems have failed. A new order must rise.”

Kenji felt the first real shiver of fear coil through his chest.

Nakamura Securities was in lockdown.

Security officers lined the lobby, keeping out furious investors and employees demanding answers. Kenji flashed his credentials, ignoring the desperation around him. He had to get to the top floor, had to access the mainframe.

“Kenji.”

The voice came from the shadows of the hallway. A man stepped forward, flanked by two others in dark suits. They weren’t corporate security. They owned corporate security.

Kenji’s pulse quickened. “Who are you?”

The man smiled, offering a hand. “A friend.”

Kenji didn’t take it.

The man chuckled, slipping his hand back into his coat. “You had quite the empire. Wealth beyond measure. Control over markets. But all gods fall eventually, don’t they?”

Kenji’s hands curled into fists. “What do you want?”

“I want to help you.”

Kenji scoffed. “No one is helping anyone.”

The man’s smile widened. “That’s where you’re wrong. The old system is dead. A new economy will rise, but only for those who choose to adapt.”

Kenji’s chest tightened. “And if I don’t?”

The man’s expression darkened. “Then you’re nothing. No access. No power. No future.”

Kenji swallowed hard.

The man reached into his coat, pulling out a sleek, black device—a biometric chip, no larger than a grain of rice. “With this, your access is restored. Your wealth? Returned.” He held it between his fingers, like an offering. “It’s simple, really. Just accept the new order.”

A sensation coiled in his stomach—wrong, invasive, as if something had already decided his fate.

His mind screamed at him to take it.

To get back what was his.

But then—

Naomi’s voice.

Soft. Steady. Final.

“Kenji,” she whispered. “Don’t.”

He turned, and in her eyes, he saw something terrifying.

The truth.

This wasn’t a reset.

It was a choice.

One he couldn’t undo.

His fingers twitched. His breath shallowed.

The man tilted his head.

“So?”

Kenji exhaled, his heart hammering.

And he knew—whatever he decided, nothing would ever be the same.

The newsroom was in chaos.

Jessica Reynolds sat frozen at her desk, staring at the teleprompter script that had just been uploaded to her station. The bright lights of the New York City skyline gleamed beyond the massive glass windows of Global News Network, but for the first time in her career, she felt trapped inside a cage of flickering monitors and hushed, frantic voices.

Her hands trembled as she scrolled through the breaking news copy. ALIEN ABDUCTIONS: THE GLOBAL EVENT EXPLAINED.

This couldn’t be real.

She had spent the past twelve hours scrambling for any rational explanation—mass disappearances, entire families vanishing mid-step, a world teetering on the edge of insanity. The chaos had spilled into the streets, governments were issuing emergency declarations, and Jessica had fought her way through the thick fog of misinformation, desperate to get ahead of the story.

But this?

She clenched her jaw, gripping the sides of her chair as the words on the screen blurred.

“Jessica!”

She looked up sharply. Grant Hill, her senior producer, stormed toward her, his face slick with sweat, his shirt sleeves rolled up like he’d been putting out a hundred fires at once.

“Tell me you’re ready for this,” he barked.

Jessica swallowed. “Grant, we—this doesn’t make sense.”

Grant exhaled sharply. “It doesn’t have to make sense, Jess. It just has to be believable.”

Her stomach twisted.

“They’re really going with the alien angle?” she asked, voice quieter now.

Grant gave a bitter chuckle. Jessica’s gaze locked onto a timestamp at the top of the document. The directive hadn’t been issued after the disappearances—it had been drafted three days before. Her stomach twisted.

Jessica frowned. “That’s not journalism. That’s centralized control. No dissenting reports, no conflicting narratives—just one unified script.”

“Not happened to, Jess. They were told to.” And that meant someone had been preparing this lie long before the disappearances.

She stared at him.

The pieces clicked together in her mind with terrifying speed.

This wasn’t about reporting. This wasn’t journalism. This was control.

She traced the encrypted memo’s author. The signature was a single letter: “D.” Her pulse spiked.

Grant’s expression darkened. He scanned the room, then leaned in. “You don’t want to ask that question.”

Jessica sat behind the anchor desk, staring into the camera’s black lens like it was the barrel of a gun.

The countdown flashed on the teleprompter. Ten seconds to air.

Her earpiece crackled with the voice of the control room director. “We’re live in three… two…”

Jessica inhaled sharply as the red ON AIR light blinked to life.

She forced her features into a mask of composure. The prompter fed her the words, and she began.

“Good evening. I’m Jessica Reynolds, and we begin tonight with an unprecedented event that has left the world in shock. Overnight, millions of people vanished without warning. Scientists, governments, and intelligence agencies are working together to analyze what some are calling ‘The Event.’”

She hesitated.

Grant stood beyond the cameras, his face set in stone, watching her like a hawk. Stick to the script.

Jessica swallowed. “In an emergency summit earlier today, world leaders discussed the growing evidence that these disappearances may be linked to an extraterrestrial phenomenon.”

The words tasted like ash in her mouth.

“We have obtained classified footage,” she continued, barely keeping her voice steady. “Satellite imaging from multiple locations shows unexplained bursts of energy in major population centers just moments before the disappearances. Experts are now reviewing the possibility that a non-human intelligence may be responsible.”

The newsroom behind the cameras was silent. No keyboards clacking, no whispered chatter—just an unnatural stillness, as if everyone knew the truth but had been ordered to swallow it whole.

She forced herself to keep reading.

“The Secretary-General of the United Nations has called for calm, urging citizens to trust the global task force investigating this event. In the meantime, officials warn against misinformation and speculation, urging the public to avoid religious conspiracy theories that may incite fear and panic.”

Jessica’s pulse pounded.

Religious conspiracy theories.

She knew what they were trying to erase.

The Rapture.

The moment she finished the segment, the ON AIR light dimmed, and the newsroom exploded. Producers barked orders. Phones rang nonstop. Screens updated with government-issued press releases.

Jessica ripped the earpiece from her ear.

“Good work,” Grant muttered, clapping her on the shoulder.

She flinched.

“Grant, that was a lie,” she hissed under her breath. “They’re manufacturing a cover-up in real time, and we’re just… pushing it.”

Grant’s expression turned hard. “Jess, let me explain something to you.” He leaned in, voice low. “You and I don’t decide the truth. “Truth” isn’t what we report. It’s what they manufacture.”

Jessica recoiled, her heart hammering.

“Who gave it to us?” she pressed.

Grant didn’t answer.

But Jessica saw it—the flicker of something in his eyes. Fear.

“They’re watching,” he muttered, and then he walked away.

Jessica stood there, feeling the weight of unseen eyes pressing down on her.

Who?

The newsroom wasn’t just silent. It was orchestrated silence—the kind that meant everyone had already made their choice.

She turned back to her desk and pulled up the official government memo.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

She hesitated—then typed:

What happens to journalists who don’t follow the script?

Her screen glitched.

For a fraction of a second, the entire newsroom flickered.

Then—her monitor went black.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. She reached for her phone—no signal. The newsroom lights flickered.

Then, a message appeared on her screen.

One sentence.

YOU’RE NOT SAFE.

Jessica’s breath hitched.

She spun in her chair, scanning the room. No one else reacted. No one else saw it.

She turned back—the message was gone.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for her notepad, scribbling in frantic shorthand:

• Who is behind the “alien” narrative?
• Why are all media outlets aligned?
• Who sent the message?
• What happens to those who resist?

She stopped, her pen hovering over the last question.

Something deep inside her whispered a truth she didn’t want to acknowledge.

They disappear.

That night, Jessica sat in her apartment, staring at the city lights.

Her television played the same footage over and over. World leaders standing side by side. The Turkish diplomat delivering a perfect speech about unity. About a new order.

The world was shifting.

A single narrative was being woven like a net—and she was trapped in it.

Her laptop sat open on the table, cursor blinking in a new, blank document.

For the first time in her career, she didn’t know what to write.

Was she a journalist—or just a mouthpiece?

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

If I publish the truth, what happens to me?

A cold wind slithered through the crack in the window.

Somewhere, deep in the shadows of the city, she felt them watching.

Waiting.

Jessica closed her laptop.

She wasn’t ready to be the next one to vanish.

Not yet.

The rain fell in rhythmic sheets against the neon-lit streets of Shanghai, blurring the city’s electric glow into a smeared watercolor of red, blue, and gold. Lin Mei pressed her back against the cold alley wall, her breath coming in sharp gasps as she clutched the small, leather-bound Bible to her chest. It was the only possession she had left.

Her world had collapsed in a single, terrible night.

First, the disappearances—millions, gone without a trace. Then, the government’s response: sweeping declarations of emergency, a new global task force, and a single, terrifying decree that sent ice through her veins.

“Religious extremism is a threat to unity. Those who spread dangerous beliefs must be identified and reeducated.”

In less than twenty-four hours, Shanghai’s underground Christian movement had been exposed. AI surveillance, facial recognition, biometric scans—there was nowhere to hide.

And now, they were hunting her.

She peered around the corner, the marketplace ahead eerily vacant. It should have been bustling at this hour, vendors shouting, the scent of dumplings and fried pork filling the air. Instead, only the occasional government drone hovered overhead, its lens sweeping the streets like a watchful eye of judgment.

Lin Mei had worked with artificial intelligence before. She knew exactly how sophisticated the system had become. Shanghai’s entire infrastructure had transformed into a digital cage. There were no police kicking down doors anymore. That was crude. Now, the government’s AI knew where you’d be before you even moved.

She turned down another street, forcing herself to stay calm. No running. Running flagged you as suspicious.

A commotion erupted near the Bund. Lin Mei’s heart leaped into her throat as a group of civilians were herded into transport vehicles, their protests drowned out by the synthesized voice of a government official broadcasted through street speakers.

“Do not resist. Reeducation is for your safety.”

Lin Mei clenched her jaw. She recognized one of the men being forced into the van. Pastor Zhang. He had baptized her when she was sixteen.

His eyes met hers.

A silent plea.

Then, the doors slammed shut.

Lin Mei turned, swallowed her scream, and forced herself to keep walking.

She slipped into a narrow doorway beneath an abandoned tea shop, tapping the sequence of knocks they had memorized. A single breathless moment passed before the door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit stairwell.

Two figures stood inside.

A young woman—An Li, barely twenty, tears streaking her face. And beside her, Zhou, the former cyber-security specialist who had defected after seeing the darkness growing behind China’s surveillance state.

The door shut behind her.

“Mei,” Zhou exhaled in relief. “I thought you were—”

“I almost was,” she said, still panting. “They have Zhang.”

A silence fell over them.

An Li wiped at her eyes. “Did they… take him to the camps?”

“Not yet.” Lin Mei hesitated. “They’re rounding up leaders first. The house churches are gone. The only ones left are us.”

Zhou swore under his breath, running a hand through his dark hair. “It’s happening faster than I thought.”

Lin Mei set her Bible down and looked at him. “Zhou, if they’re tracking us through facial recognition—”

“They are,” he confirmed.

“Then why haven’t they found us yet?”

His jaw tightened. “Because I’ve been erasing us.”

Zhou led them to a back room where multiple screens glowed in eerie blue light. Code scrolled in endless columns, encrypted messages flickering between hidden channels.

“They’re running AI predictive algorithms on all known believers,” Zhou explained. “It’s not just our faces anymore. It’s movement patterns, spending habits, even the way we type on a keyboard. They are building a probability map of where we will be before we even decide to go there.”

Lin Mei stared at the screen. A digital map of Shanghai flickered before her, thousands of red dots blinking across the city. Each one a believer marked for capture.

She clenched her fists. “How do we stop it?”

Zhou exhaled. “I’ve been corrupting their algorithms. Every time they track us, the system reroutes them to fake IDs with different movement patterns. One by one. But it won’t last. They’re evolving too fast.”

A warning flashed across the screen.

POTENTIAL THREAT DETECTED. LOCATION TRIANGULATING.

Zhou’s face drained of color. “They found us.”

Lin Mei’s heart slammed against her ribs. “How?”

“I don’t know—”

The lights in the safe house flickered.

Then, the power cut out completely.

A distant thud echoed through the alley.

Footsteps.

Zhou grabbed a backpack and yanked out a burner phone, shoving it into Lin Mei’s hands. “Take the east exit and don’t stop. And Li, with me—south route.”

Lin Mei hesitated. “We can’t just—”

“They have heat signatures. They’ll know we’re here.” His voice was tight. “If we scatter, some of us make it out.”

Lin Mei’s throat tightened.

An Li grabbed her hand. “We’ll see you again.”

A lump formed in Lin Mei’s throat. She squeezed An Li’s hand, then turned toward the emergency exit.

Then—

The door burst open.

A flood of armed officers, faces obscured by biometric masks, swept in.

Lin Mei bolted.

She hit the stairwell at full speed, heart hammering, leaping down two steps at a time as gunfire erupted behind her.

She felt the presence closing in. Something unseen, pressing, crawling against the edges of reality itself.

A darkness.

Not just human.

She forced herself to keep running.

She hit the alley, pushing past garbage bins, her breath ragged. A drone zipped overhead, its lens fixating on her, scanning—

Then, the phone in her hand vibrated.

A message.

It wasn’t from Zhou.

It wasn’t from anyone she knew.

“RUN, LIN MEI. RUN NOW.”

Her stomach knotted.

She looked up—and saw a figure standing at the end of the alley.

A man.

Not an officer.

Not masked.

Just watching her.

She knew, instinctively, that he wasn’t human.

Then—his lips moved.

A whisper, carried by a wind that shouldn’t exist.

“He is coming.”

A pulse of energy surged through her bones. A pressure she couldn’t explain.

Lin Mei turned—and ran.

Into the storm.

Into the unknown.

Dhaka

The prison cell reeked of sweat, blood, and the faint, acrid scent of decay. Rahim Hassan sat against the cold concrete wall, his wrists raw from the tight metal cuffs that bit into his flesh. His breath was steady, but his pulse thundered in his ears.

A single bulb flickered overhead, its light barely reaching the dark corners of the cell. He was alone. For now.

The interrogation had lasted for hours. The guards—no, his own people—had thrown every accusation at him. Terrorist. Extremist. Traitor.

Not for plotting violence. Not for any crime.

But for speaking the name of Jesus.

He flexed his fingers, ignoring the dull ache in his joints. His mind kept replaying the last moments before his arrest. The pounding on the door. His father’s face—etched in betrayal, rage twisting his features as he called the authorities.

“You are no son of mine.”

Rahim closed his eyes, grief pressing against his ribs like a vice.

The guards had come quickly, dragging him from his home as neighbors whispered from their doorways. His mother’s cries still echoed in his ears.

“Please, don’t take him! Please!”

They hadn’t listened.

And now, here he was.

Alone.

Marked.

Awaiting judgment.

The heavy iron door groaned open.

Rahim tensed as two uniformed officers entered. Behind them, a figure in a suit—a government agent. A man of authority.

The officer on the left—a broad-shouldered man with a thick mustache—smirked. “Still praying, Hassan?”

Rahim met his gaze but said nothing.

The man’s smirk widened. “Then your God has failed you.”

Rahim exhaled slowly, steadying his heart.

The agent in the suit stepped forward, adjusting his tie. His voice was smooth, practiced. “Rahim Hassan. You are charged under the Religious Protection Act for spreading divisive ideology and inciting public unrest.”

Rahim’s jaw tightened. “I shared the Gospel with a friend.”

The man chuckled. “Exactly.”

He pulled out a sleek tablet and tapped the screen. A holographic image flickered to life—security footage from a surveillance drone. It showed Rahim on a street corner, speaking to a small group. His voice came through the speakers, distorted but unmistakable.

“Jesus is the only way. He has not abandoned us.”

The video cut off.

“An AI program flagged your conversation within seconds,” the agent said. “Your words were dangerous.”

Rahim’s heart pounded. They were listening to everything.

The agent tilted his head. “We know your browsing history. Your doubts. Your past failures. You called yourself a Christian, but you lived in fear. The AI says there’s an 87% chance you’ll break.”

Rahim’s fists clenched.

“Even in university, you kept your faith secret. You craved approval. We can give you that. Walk out of here as a hero, and no one will ever know you hesitated. Just sign.”

Rahim’s throat tightened. He couldn’t.

Because something had changed.

Because the disappearances had shaken him to his core.

Because for the first time in his life, he believed.

He lifted his chin. “Because Jesus is real.”

The agent sighed, almost bored. “And for that, you’ll die in here.”

Rahim expected a beating. Maybe another round of interrogations.

Instead, the agent stepped closer and held up the tablet again.

A new image appeared.

His father. Sitting in the waiting room of the detention center, speaking with an officer. His face was calm.

Rahim’s stomach churned.

“Your father has offered a solution,” the agent said smoothly. “He has agreed to erase this foolishness from your record. The charges can be dropped. Your life can go back to normal.”

Rahim’s breath came shallow. He could feel the trap.

“What’s the condition?”

The agent smiled. “You simply have to sign a document denouncing Christianity. Publicly.”

Rahim’s pulse pounded in his ears.

“The choice is simple,” the agent continued. “Renounce your faith, walk free. Or…” His smile faded. “Continue down this path and see how quickly you disappear.”

Rahim’s mouth went dry.

The choice loomed before him like a blade.

He thought of his mother’s tears. Of the pain this had caused his family. Of the sheer fear clawing at his chest.

Wouldn’t it be easier to sign?

To nod. To whisper the words. To escape this nightmare?

His hands shook.

But then—

A memory.

Not his own.

A vision.

The cell vanished.

In its place—a desert. Vast, endless, under a sky streaked with blood-red fire. A great multitude stood before a throne, dressed in white, their faces radiant with an otherworldly glow.

And before them—a Lamb.

Rahim fell to his knees, trembling as power surged through his veins.

Then, a voice.

“They overcame him by the blood of the Lamb and the word of their testimony.”

The words rippled through his soul, etching themselves into his bones.

And he knew.

He knew what would happen if he signed.

He would walk free. He would return to his family, his old life. But something inside him would die.

A slow, quiet death.

The kind that kills the soul.

The vision faded.

The cold returned. The prison. The guards.

The screen flickered—his father’s voice, deepfaked, staring at him from the monitor.

“My son, just sign it. It’s what your mother would want.”

Rahim lifted his head, his heart pounding with a new strength.

He turned to the agent.

And smiled.

The agent’s expression faltered. “What?”

“I refuse.”

The air crackled.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then—rage.

The mustached guard struck him across the face, sending him sprawling to the floor.

A boot crashed into his ribs. Once. Twice.

The pain was sharp, but Rahim didn’t cry out.

He only prayed.

The agent sighed. “So be it.”

He turned to the guards. “Make sure he doesn’t die. Yet.”

They dragged Rahim to his feet, his body aching.

But his soul was free.

As they pulled him down the corridor, past cells filled with other prisoners—some weeping, some whispering prayers—Rahim whispered under his breath.

“Jesus, give me strength.”

He didn’t know what came next.

But he knew he had made the right choice.

And he was not alone.

The air in New Delhi had changed.

The city, once chaotic with life, now moved in eerie synchronicity. Uniformed officers patrolled every street corner, their expressions neutral but their hands firm on their weapons. Massive digital billboards flickered across the skyline, displaying the face of the man the world now trusted—a charismatic leader whose words promised peace but whose eyes carried something deeper, something unseen.

Priya Sharma watched from the balcony of her father’s penthouse, gripping the iron railing as if it could keep her from falling into the abyss that had opened beneath her feet.

She had never felt so lost.

Her father—Prime Minister Arun Sharma—was inside, preparing for the moment he had waited for his entire life. A global promotion. A position of unprecedented power.

And she couldn’t stop shaking.

Inside the penthouse, the air was thick with perfume and tension. High-ranking officials milled around, sipping expensive scotch and congratulating themselves on the greatest deception ever orchestrated.

Priya moved through the room, her stomach twisting at the carefully curated laughter, the whispered deals made behind half-smiles.

The Rapture—though no one dared call it that—had given the world an excuse.

A crisis that demanded order.

A disaster that required a savior.

And her father was stepping into the role with terrifying ease.

“Priya.”

She turned, her father’s voice pulling her from the fog. Prime Minister Arun Sharma was a man of undeniable presence—tall, commanding, his silver-streaked hair perfectly styled. He had always been respected, but tonight, he was something else.

A chosen one.

“It’s time,” he said, his tone softer than she expected. “The world is watching.”

Priya forced a smile. “You always wanted this.”

He studied her, then gestured for her to follow.

She didn’t have a choice.

They entered his private study, where a sleek, holographic screen flickered to life.

A man appeared on the screen.

Priya’s breath caught in her throat.

He was unlike anyone she had ever seen—charismatic, elegant, with an unsettling calm that made her feel exposed. His presence commanded the room, even from thousands of miles away.

Priya had never met him in person. But she knew who he was.

The man who had risen from nowhere. The one the world now called its leader.

The Antichrist.

The man smiled. “Prime Minister Sharma. Congratulations.”

Her father bowed his head slightly. “I am honored to serve.”

The Antichrist’s smile deepened. “The world is changing. We stand on the precipice of unity, of peace. And you, my friend, will be one of the architects.”

Priya’s throat went dry.

Her father was one of the Ten Kings.

She had heard the prophecy before. She had ignored it before.

But now, it was unfolding before her eyes.

The Antichrist turned his gaze to her.

“Priya,” he said smoothly. “I have heard much about you.”

She didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

“Your father tells me you are… skeptical.”

Her father’s expression hardened, but Priya saw something else beneath it—fear.

The Antichrist leaned forward slightly, as if peering into her soul. “The world is filled with uncertainty. But we are building something new. Something stronger. You are an intelligent woman. You see the necessity of what we are doing.”

Priya’s pulse pounded.

He was testing her.

Her father’s gaze burned into her. Choose the right words.

She swallowed. “I see that the world is desperate.”

A pause.

Then—a slow, approving nod.

“Indeed,” the Antichrist said. “And desperate people need a savior.”

His words sent a chill through her bones.

The connection ended.

The moment the hologram flickered out, her father rounded on her.

“Why do you insist on defying me?” His voice was low, sharp.

Priya clenched her fists. “Because I remember the warnings. And I know exactly what comes next.”

Her father’s nostrils flared. “You know nothing. This is the future. This is order. Security.”

“This is control,” she whispered.

Her father exhaled sharply, stepping closer. “You think you’re so wise. You and your Christian friends, whispering nonsense about prophecy. Look outside, Priya.”

He gestured toward the skyline, where thousands had gathered beneath the massive digital screens.

“They are grateful for this new world,” he continued. “While you cling to fairy tales.”

Priya’s chest ached. She remembered being twelve, watching her grandmother kneel in prayer, whispering prophecies she once dismissed as fairy tales. “One day, the whole world will believe a lie,” she had said.

“You used to believe.”

A flicker of something—regret? No. Rage.

“That was before,” he snapped. “Before I saw the truth.”

The silence between them stretched, thick with everything left unsaid.

Her father exhaled, forcing his anger down. “Priya, listen to me. The world has changed. You have a choice.”

She stiffened.

“Come with me,” he said. “Be part of the solution. There is still a place for you in this new world. You are my daughter. You will be protected.”

Priya’s breath hitched. “And if I refuse?”

The silence spoke louder than words.

She looked at her father—the man who had raised her, the man who had once prayed over her as a child—and saw only a stranger.

“I won’t be part of this,” she whispered.

Her father’s face darkened. “Then you leave me no choice.”

He turned to the guards standing at the door.

Priya’s pulse skyrocketed.

The guards stepped forward.

No. No. No.

Her father gave one last, measured look.

Then, his voice—cold, final.

“Take her.”

Priya moved before they could grab her.

She lunged for the desk, knocking over a chair. The guards reached for her, but she ducked beneath their grasp, slamming into the door.

She ran.

Through the corridor. Down the marble steps. Past stunned diplomats and oblivious partygoers.

RUN.

Behind her, the guards shouted.

Then—alarms.

The security system activated, sealing the penthouse floor by floor.

She wouldn’t make it to the ground.

She had one chance.

She turned toward the balcony.

Fifty stories high.

The wind howled against the glass.

The glass balcony swayed in the storm. She clutched the railing, her mind screaming for logic. She couldn’t jump—not from fifty stories.

Then, the voice again. “Jump.” Her breath caught. It wasn’t fear holding her back—it was certainty. Once she did this, there was no turning back.

She froze.

The voice wasn’t human. It wasn’t in the room.

It was inside her.

A pulse of energy surged through her chest.

The kind of strength she had never known.

She ran toward the balcony—toward the unknown.

And leaped.

São Paulo

The stench of blood and gunpowder thickened the humid air. Diego Costa crouched behind a rusted sedan in the crumbling alleyway, the metallic taste of adrenaline coating his tongue. Sweat dripped from his brow as he reloaded his Glock, the magazine clicking into place with practiced ease.

The city had descended into madness.

For years, São Paulo’s favelas had been ruled by men like him—cartel bosses, warlords with money and power that rivaled the government. But now, the old rules meant nothing.

The world had changed overnight.

With the disappearances came chaos. And with chaos, opportunity.

Gangs were on the move, hunting like jackals. Territory was no longer measured in streets but in who still had bullets left to fire.

Diego knew this fight had been inevitable. A cartel war fueled by the vacuum left behind.

But what he hadn’t expected—what none of them had expected—was the darkness that came with it.

The sound of footsteps echoed off the alley walls. Boots crunching over shattered glass and spent casings.

Diego pressed his back against the car door, gripping his gun tighter.

“Costa!”

The voice—deep, taunting—came from beyond the flickering streetlight.

Diego clenched his jaw. He knew that voice. Miguel Herrera.

Once an ally. Now a traitor.

Miguel had been waiting for this moment.

“The great Diego Costa, hiding like a rat,” Miguel mocked, his voice laced with amusement. “I thought you were stronger than this.”

Diego exhaled through his nose, steadying his pulse. He had fought in wars before. But this was different.

There was something unnatural in the air.

He could feel it—an invisible presence wrapping around his chest, suffocating.

Something dark.

Something watching.

A shadow moved in the periphery. Too fast. Too silent.

A whisper slithered through the alley. Not in a language of men.

Diego’s muscles tensed.

This wasn’t just warfare anymore.

This was something else.

Something beyond the physical.

A gunshot shattered the silence.

Diego rolled to the side, firing twice in response. The alley erupted into chaos as bullets tore through brick and metal.

Miguel’s men swarmed forward. Five. No—six of them.

Diego fired, dropping two before diving behind a dumpster. A burst of gunfire shredded the metal beside him, sending sparks flying.

He was outgunned.

Outnumbered.

And yet—something deep inside him whispered.

“You were spared for a reason.”

His grip tightened around the Glock.

For years, he had lived as a predator—taking what he wanted, crushing whoever stood in his way.

Now, he was the hunted.

And maybe that was justice.

A figure lunged toward him from the shadows. Diego twisted, driving his elbow into the attacker’s jaw before firing a point-blank shot into his chest.

The man crumpled.

More came.

Diego fought like a cornered animal, dodging, striking, killing. His body moved on instinct, but his mind raced.

Why am I still alive?

“Diego!”

The gunfire stopped.

Diego turned, heart hammering as Miguel stepped forward, weapon raised but not firing.

A cruel grin played on his lips. “You’re still breathing. I should be impressed.”

Diego lifted his gun. “You should be dead.”

Miguel laughed. “You always had that temper.”

A low hum filled the air, something unnatural vibrating beneath Diego’s skin.

Miguel tilted his head, almost… listening.

And then, he smiled wider.

“They told me you’d resist,” Miguel murmured.

The blood in Diego’s veins ran cold. They.

His gaze flickered past Miguel—to the shadows shifting behind him.

Not men.

Not human.

They moved wrong, their limbs too fluid, their eyes empty voids.

Diego’s breath caught.

Something inside him recognized them—not from this world, but from the depths of something older.

Something demonic.

The grin widened. “You feel it, don’t you?”

Diego’s hands shook as his old friend—no, the thing wearing his friend—stepped closer.

“I accepted the new order. And you? You’re standing in its way.”

A gust of wind howled through the alley, sending debris flying.

The streetlights flickered—then died.

Darkness consumed the city.

Diego’s pulse spiked.

Miguel didn’t move.

“They offered us a seat at the table, brother,” Miguel said softly. “And you know what I saw?”

His lips curved into something between a grin and a snarl.

“I saw power.”

Diego clenched his jaw. “You saw deception.”

Miguel sighed. “Always so stubborn.”

Then, his voice changed.

Not deeper. Not louder.

But inhuman.

“They are coming, Diego. And there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

The shadows behind him twisted, growing, elongating.

A sound echoed in the alley.

Not a growl.

Not a voice.

Something older.

Something that made Diego’s soul recoil.

Fear, real and raw, crawled up his spine.

He wasn’t just fighting for territory anymore.

He was fighting for his soul.

Diego fired.

Once. Twice. Three times.

The bullets hit Miguel’s chest—but he didn’t fall.

Miguel laughed, his head tilting back, his body absorbing the bullets like mist.

Diego’s breath hitched. No. No, no, no.

Miguel took a step forward. “Come with me, brother.”

Diego’s body screamed for him to run.

But his mind raced.

This wasn’t just a cartel war anymore.

This was war between heaven and hell.

A whisper brushed his ear.

“Run.”

Diego’s body reacted before his brain did.

He turned, sprinting down the alley as Miguel’s laughter followed him.

Bullets whizzed past his head.

The shadows slithered after him, their forms moving unnaturally fast.

Diego leaped over a crumbling fence, his lungs burning, his heart pounding.

Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed.

Somewhere deep in his chest, a prayer he hadn’t spoken in years formed on his lips.

“God, if You’re real… help me.”

The shadows shrieked.

And then—a flash of light.

Brighter than the streetlights. Brighter than the city itself.

For a moment, Diego swore he saw something else in the sky.

Not darkness.

But fire.

And the battle had only just begun.

The sky over Mexico City burned in hues of crimson and gold, casting long, jagged shadows across the abandoned streets. Carlos Mendoza stood at the edge of Plaza de la Constitución, staring at the wreckage of what had once been the beating heart of his country. Smoke curled from the husks of overturned cars, and the air carried the acrid scent of desperation—of a world suddenly broken.

The Rapture had come.

And Carlos had been left behind.

He clenched his fists, the weight of that truth pressing against his chest like a slab of stone. Millions vanished. Cities thrown into chaos. Governments scrambling to contain the unrest. Yet, somehow, in the midst of it all, a new order was already rising.

And Carlos knew—deep in his soul—that he stood at a crossroads.

Footsteps echoed behind him.

Carlos turned, his grip tightening around the handle of the pistol he’d taken off a dead soldier hours before. The man approaching him—Mateo, a wiry teenager from his neighborhood—halted, raising his hands.

“They found another one,” Mateo said, his voice hoarse from too many hours without water. “A pastor. He was hiding in a church basement.”

Carlos swallowed hard. “They take him?”

Mateo nodded. “Government patrols. They’re calling it the Unity Order now. Any ‘troublemakers’—they disappear.”

Carlos glanced toward the smoldering ruins of the cathedral at the plaza’s edge. Only a few days ago, thousands had prayed inside, crying out to a God they never imagined would abandon them.

Now, the church was nothing but ash.

And faith?

Faith had become a crime.

Carlos had never been a religious man. He grew up in the slums, surviving by his fists and his wits, never trusting anything he couldn’t see. But the past week had shattered everything he thought he knew.

People didn’t just vanish. Not like that.

And what scared him more than the disappearances was what came after—the silence.

No churches ringing bells. No priests preaching hope.

Just the cold, calculated voices of the new government, calling for order, compliance, and an end to dangerous beliefs.

But something in Carlos wouldn’t comply.

He looked back at Mateo. “Where did they take the pastor?”

Mateo hesitated. “Carlos, you don’t want to—”

“Where?” Carlos snapped.

Mateo exhaled. “South district. They turned the police station into a detention center. No one who goes in comes out.”

Carlos nodded, the decision forming before he could stop it.

The world was changing.

And he had to change with it.

By nightfall, the city belonged to the shadows.

Carlos moved quickly through the streets, avoiding the armed patrols that now worked under the Unity Order’s banner. Cameras tracked every major intersection, their lenses sweeping like the eyes of some all-seeing entity.

He stuck to the alleyways, gripping his pistol with steady hands. He had spent his youth running drugs, dodging death, learning how to move unseen.

Now, he would use those skills to fight something far darker than any cartel.

He reached the detention center—once a police station, now a fortress. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter, rifles slung over their shoulders, eyes cold and distant.

Carlos pressed himself against a crumbling wall, scanning the courtyard.

A truck pulled up.

The back doors swung open, and they dragged the pastor out.

Carlos didn’t know his name. Didn’t know his story.

But when he saw the bruises on the old man’s face, the blood staining his torn shirt—he knew the truth.

The pastor had refused to submit.

And for that, he would die.

Carlos’ jaw clenched.

Not tonight.

A voice slithered through the air.

Not human.

Not spoken.

Something else.

Carlos felt it before he heard it—a wave of nausea, like an unseen force pressing against his chest.

He knew that feeling.

He had felt it before, long ago, when he stood on the edge of a deal that would cost him his soul.

“Let it happen.”

The thought wasn’t his own.

“Stay in the shadows. Survive.”

Carlos gritted his teeth. “No.”

The word came out in a breath, barely audible. But it was enough.

He moved.

Fast.

Two guards patrolling the eastern corridor—silent kills with a blade he had carried since he was fifteen.

A climb up the fire escape—quick, practiced, invisible.

Inside now. The cold, sterile halls stank of sweat and fear.

He heard the pastor’s voice. Weak but steady.

Praying.

Then—the sharp crack of a rifle butt slamming into flesh.

Carlos’ vision blurred with rage.

He stepped into the room.

The guards barely had time to react.

Three shots.

Two bodies fell.

The last guard spun, raising his rifle—

Carlos lunged, slamming his fist into the man’s throat. The rifle clattered to the floor. Carlos grabbed it, pressing the muzzle against the guard’s temple.

“Where are the others?” he demanded.

The guard wheezed, clutching his throat. His eyes shifted—not with fear, but with something else.

Recognition.

Like he knew what Carlos was.

What he would become.

A slow, sick smile curled the man’s lips.

“They’re already waiting for you.”

Carlos pulled the trigger.

The pastor was barely conscious. Blood dripped from a cut above his eye, his body broken from the beating.

Carlos knelt beside him. “Can you stand?”

The old man’s lips parted. He was smiling.

“You came,” he whispered.

Carlos hesitated. “Why does that surprise you?”

The pastor exhaled. “Because I saw it.”

Carlos frowned. “Saw what?”

The pastor’s fingers trembled as he reached for Carlos’ hand.

“You,” he rasped. “Leading them.”

A chill ran down Carlos’ spine.

“You don’t understand,” Carlos said, shaking his head. “I’m not a leader. I’m—”

The pastor’s grip tightened. “You are chosen.”

The words rang in Carlos’ skull, reverberating into the marrow of his bones.

He looked down at his hands—hands that had killed, stolen, destroyed.

And yet, somehow, this man saw something else in him.

Something greater.

The sirens screamed.

More soldiers were coming.

Carlos hauled the pastor up, slinging the old man’s arm over his shoulder.

“We have to move,” Carlos said.

The pastor only nodded.

As they fled into the night, Carlos felt something stir deep inside him—a battle not of flesh and blood, but of spirit.

The world had fallen into darkness.

But maybe—just maybe—he was meant to lead the light.

The great hall of the United Nations shimmered under the flood of golden chandeliers, an opulent display of power and wealth in a world suddenly fractured beyond repair. The flags of nearly every nation still fluttered in place, but they no longer represented sovereignty.

Not anymore.

A new power had risen.

And tonight, it would be sealed.

Prime Minister Arif Demir of Turkey stood at the head of the conference table, his dark eyes scanning the room with the patience of a man who knew he had already won.

To his right sat Pope Innocent, Pontifex Maximus, his white robes edged with gold, hands folded in serenity. Yet beneath his composed facade, there was a hunger, something ancient, something waiting.

The delegates—leaders of nations, military generals, economic strategists—sat in silence. They had all played their parts, maneuvering through the chaos of the disappearances, quelling riots, silencing dissent.

But now, they were here for finality.

The official end of the world they once knew.

Demir placed his hands on the table, leaning forward. This moment had been foretold.

“Today,” he began, his voice smooth, measured, “we complete the first true step toward global unity.”

The words rang with undeniable authority.

Gone were the old arguments, the clashing ideologies, the threats of war. Nations had been broken by the Rapture, by the disappearances, by the sheer terror of the unknown.

Now, the only question that remained was who would rule the ashes.

Demir continued, “The world has suffered. Billions are lost. Economies are in ruin. But we have been given an opportunity—a divine mandate—to bring order.”

A murmur swept through the hall. Some nodded. Others remained still, weighing their options, their loyalty.

The Pope exhaled, then spoke. His voice was gentle, yet heavy with something that commanded obedience.

“We were chosen to lead in this time,” he said, his words like honey laced with steel. “To replace the false faiths that divided us, to restore what was lost. We do not call for conquest.” He smiled, eyes alight with calculated compassion. “We call for peace.”

There it was. The lie wrapped in silk, the deception that would lead millions down a path they could never return from.

A peace not of God, but of men.

And it was beginning now.

Demir turned toward the screen behind him. A digital map of the world pulsed with deep crimson.

“This is the new division of power,” he said. “Each continent will retain a governing body, overseen by a single unifying authority.”

“The Unity Order.”

The name settled over the room like a suffocating fog.

The Pope smiled. “One world. One church. One truth.”

Carlos Rivera, the UN representative from Spain, cleared his throat. “And… what of those who refuse to accept this new world order?”

The Pope’s smile didn’t waver. “We will show them the light.”

A beat of silence.

Then Demir added, “And those who continue to resist?” He exhaled, folding his hands behind his back. “They will be dealt with.”

The room was quiet. But in that quiet, a new war was beginning.

Not a war of armies.

A war for the soul of the world.

In a darkened corridor outside the chamber, Daniel Klein adjusted the earpiece in his ear, listening intently.

He had infiltrated the Unity Order weeks ago, barely escaping the street purges when faith became a crime. Now, standing in the shadows of the most powerful men on Earth, he felt the weight of a terrible revelation.

Everything was happening exactly as prophecy had warned.

And now, the world had just crossed the point of no return.

A voice crackled through his earpiece. “Klein, do you copy?”

He pressed a hand to his ear. “I’m here.”

“We just intercepted a military communique. The Unity Order is mobilizing. They’re rounding up the remaining resistance cells in every major city.”

Klein’s stomach twisted. He turned his gaze back toward the chamber doors, where the future of humanity was being decided without them.

“How much time do we have?”

A pause. Then—

“None.”

The line cut dead.

Back inside the grand chamber, the Pope lifted a hand.

“My friends,” he said. “Let us make it official.”

He gestured toward the golden tablet in the center of the room.

The signatures of the world’s rulers would be written in digital ink, binding them to the covenant of a new age.

Demir stepped forward first. He pressed his thumb against the screen, his name appearing in glowing red beneath the emblem of the Unity Order.

One by one, the leaders followed.

And as the final name was signed, the lights flickered.

The chandeliers swayed.

And then the chandeliers trembled—not from wind, not from movement, but as if the very air had warped.

For the first time that night, Demir felt fear.

He turned to the Pope, but the man remained utterly still, his face lifted ever so slightly, as if he were listening to something unseen.

And in that moment, Demir realized something terrifying.

This was not a simple political alliance.

It was a ritual.

A covenant.

And they had just sealed it.

Daniel Klein moved fast.

He sprinted down the hall, gripping the encrypted hard drive tucked inside his jacket. The files contained everything—the secret communiques, the government directives, the execution orders that had already been drafted.

If the world knew the truth, maybe some would resist.

But as he reached the emergency stairwell, a figure blocked his path.

Tall. Unmoving.

A man dressed in a black uniform, the insignia of the Unity Order gleaming against his chest.

Klein’s breath hitched.

The man smiled.

But his eyes—

His eyes were not human.

A whisper coiled through the air. Not a voice, but something deeper.

“You cannot stop what has already begun.”

The lights exploded.

Darkness swallowed the corridor.

And then—a scream.

Back in the grand chamber, the leaders stood in silence, staring at the contract they had just signed.

A contract not just of politics.

But of something greater.

A single world authority, governed by the most powerful rulers of the age.

And behind them—something unseen, something waiting.

The Pope finally exhaled, lowering his hands.

Demir glanced at him. “It’s done?”

The Pope’s eyes gleamed.

“Yes.”

And in that moment, across the entire world, the hunt began.

Kenji Nakamura sat at the very back of the packed auditorium, his fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms. The polished steel and glass structure of the Tokyo International Conference Center gleamed around him, a monument to progress—and now, a bastion of control.

The world’s most powerful leaders had gathered here for the unveiling of his former company’s greatest achievement. The technology he had helped design.

And now, he was watching them use it to enslave the world.

The stage glowed with soft blue light as Takashi Mori, the CEO of Nexus Corp, stepped forward, his designer suit crisp, his presence magnetic. The screen behind him flickered to life, displaying a pulsating digital grid overlaying the entire planet.

Kenji’s stomach twisted.

“No. No, no, no.”

He knew what was coming.

“This,” Mori announced, gesturing to the display, “is UnityLink—the first fully integrated, biometric-global tracking system designed to ensure absolute security and order in this new era.”

A wave of applause rippled through the hall. Kenji barely heard it over the pounding in his ears.

UnityLink.

The system that Nexus had once marketed as a revolution in connectivity had become something far darker. A digital prison.

Mori continued, “With millions vanishing overnight, nations collapsing, and lawlessness rising, we needed a solution. A system that could track, identify, and unify humanity under one network.”

Kenji’s hands shook.

This wasn’t just a tracking system. It was total surveillance.

Real-time biometric scanning. AI-powered behavior prediction. A neural interface that mapped a person’s location, identity, and even thoughts before they could act.

And they were selling it as salvation.

The screen shifted. A small, circular device appeared in the air, rotating in high-definition.

“The Quantum ID,” Mori announced. “A biometric implant that allows seamless interaction with all aspects of modern infrastructure—currency, employment, transportation, and security.”

The audience erupted in applause.

Kenji’s breath hitched. He had read the internal documents, the hidden clauses.

The ID wasn’t optional.

It was the key to participating in society.

Without it? You ceased to exist.

A wave of nausea hit him.

He needed to get out of here.

But then he saw her.

At the edge of the stage, Mei Lin stood in a sleek gray suit, her expression unreadable.

His former colleague. The woman he had once trusted.

She was here—working for them.

Kenji’s world spun.

They had designed this system together, back when they still believed it would be used for medical advancements, fraud prevention, and safety measures.

Not for global domination.

And yet, there she was, standing with the people who had twisted their work into a tool of oppression.

Kenji felt something inside him snap.

She had known.

She had known, and she had chosen to stay.

Mori continued, his voice rising. “With global cooperation, every citizen will soon be registered and connected to UnityLink.”

Kenji could barely breathe.

He had heard whispers. The underground churches had spoken of this moment. The prophecy from Revelation.

“No one can buy or sell unless they have the mark.”

He had dismissed it as paranoia, conspiracy theories.

But now?

It was happening before his eyes.

The system was so perfect, so efficient, so inescapable—it was almost supernatural.

Kenji looked at Mei again. For a fleeting second, their eyes met.

She hesitated.

Just enough for him to see it.

Fear.

Maybe she wasn’t as loyal as she pretended to be.

Maybe she was trapped, just like him.

The lights in the auditorium dimmed, and for the briefest moment, Kenji felt something shift.

Not in the room.

In the air.

Like something unseen had stepped closer.

A voice—not his own—slid through his mind.

“Run.”

Kenji flinched. He turned his head, scanning the crowd.

No one had spoken.

And yet, he had heard it.

His heart pounded. His instincts screamed at him. Leave. Now.

He moved fast.

Weaving through the rows of delegates, slipping between the security personnel, making his way to the exit before the final phase of the demonstration began.

But before he could reach the doors—

“Mr. Nakamura.”

He froze.

A uniformed officer stood in his path, his face expressionless, his eyes too empty.

Kenji swallowed. “I was just leaving.”

The officer smiled. “No, you’re not.”

Before Kenji could react, a hand closed around his wrist.

Cold. Unnatural.

His vision blurred for a split second, and a shudder ran through his body.

A whisper coiled around him, unseen.

“You belong to us now.”

Panic surged through him.

Kenji did the only thing he could.

He punched the officer in the throat.

The man stumbled, choking, and Kenji bolted.

Past the guards.

Through the corridor.

Out into the night.

His breath came in ragged gasps as he sprinted through the streets of Tokyo.

Behind him, sirens wailed.

They were already tracking him.

He had designed the system, and now he was running from it.

Kenji ducked into an alley, pressing his back against the cold brick wall, forcing himself to think.

He needed to disappear.

But how do you vanish in a world that sees everything?

He exhaled sharply.

And then, a voice whispered again.

“You won’t survive alone.”

Kenji stiffened.

Because this time, he knew exactly where it was coming from.

Not inside his mind.

Not from his own thoughts.

But from the shadows just beyond the streetlights.

Something was waiting for him.

Watching.

And it had just begun to move.

Kenji forced himself to keep moving.

Somewhere in this city, people were resisting.

Hiding.

Fighting.

If he had any hope, it lay with them.

But first, he had to survive the night.

And he had the strangest feeling that he wasn’t the only one running anymore.

Something else was hunting.

And it wouldn’t stop until the whole world was marked.

Jerusalem

The air over Jerusalem was thick with the scent of smoldering ruins, a ghostly echo of the battle that had left the world gasping. The ancient city stood battered but standing—proof of a war that should have ended in Israel’s annihilation, but had instead rewritten the laws of power.

Gabriel Asher leaned against the stone balcony of his rooftop refuge, his fingers tracing the edges of a crumpled newspaper. The headline, though smudged with dust and blood, still screamed its impossible truth:

“RUSSIA & IRAN ERASED IN FIRESTORM – UNEXPLAINED INTERVENTION SAVES ISRAEL.”

He exhaled slowly, eyes flicking to the skyline. The world had watched in horror as an alliance of nations—Russia, Iran, and their scattered proxies—had launched a full-scale assault against Israel. Missiles had blackened the sky, their payloads destined to carve Israel from the map.

But then—

The impossible had happened.

A sudden burst of white fire, as if the heavens had split open. A storm of unnatural light that devoured the invading armies in an instant. No nuclear fallout, no scorched earth. Just… absence.

The war had ended in a single day.

Some called it divine intervention. Others whispered of hidden weapons, of secret Israeli technology. But Gabriel knew the truth. He had seen the sky open, had felt the raw hum of something otherworldly move through his bones.

The world would never be the same.

Ankara

While Israel celebrated its impossible survival, Europe had taken its own dramatic turn.

The European Union, long fractured by economic turmoil and political infighting, had found its savior in an unlikely candidate: Turkey.

Decades of diplomatic stalemates had crumbled in months. The Middle East’s collapse had forced Europe’s hand—Turkey, with its strategic position and military might, had been welcomed into the EU with open arms.

The trade agreements were finalized within weeks. Turkish military bases, once rogue outposts on the edges of NATO’s influence, were now the spearhead of the new European defense initiative.

The world was shifting. Alliances breaking, new empires forming.

But it was only the beginning.

The first wave came with war.

Nations, desperate and shaken by Israel’s miraculous deliverance, turned on each other. The Middle East collapsed into an inferno of proxy battles and coups. China seized Taiwan in a blitzkrieg that stunned the West, forcing the United States into a war it could no longer afford to fight.

The second wave came with famine.

The wars had shattered supply chains. Starvation crept across continents. Breadlines turned into riots. Food convoys vanished before reaching their destinations. In some places, governments rationed water as if it were gold.

The third wave was plague.
No one knew where it had started. A virus? A bioweapon released in the chaos? Theories spread faster than the sickness itself. Hospitals overflowed. Cities became graveyards. Countries sealed their borders, but it made no difference.

By the time the world realized what was happening, it was too late.

The fourth wave came with the beasts.

With so many dead, nature reclaimed its lost ground. Wolves roamed the ruins of Moscow. Packs of wild dogs took over empty suburbs in New York. In India, leopards hunted the streets of Delhi, dragging the weak into the shadows. It was as if the earth had turned against its inhabitants.

And through it all, the number of the dead climbed.

One billion.

Then two.

Gabriel closed his eyes, letting the wind carry the voices of the city below. 3 ½ years had passed. The world he had once known was gone.

And something worse was coming.

The world watched.

Across every continent, in every time zone, the screens flickered to life. From the high-rises of New York to the ruins of Damascus, from the shattered remains of old Europe to the neon skyline of Tokyo—they all watched.

A single stage. A single podium.

And behind it, a man the world had never known, but would soon never forget.

Arif Demir, Prime Minister of Turkey.

But now, something more.

Jessica ran the numbers again. She had been skeptical at first, but the results were undeniable. Using the ancient Gematria Cipher of Aleph-Bet, Arif Demir’s name translated into the one number she had hoped to disprove—666. The Mark wasn’t just coming. It was already here, hidden in plain sight.

The setting was the Hagia Sophia, a structure that had witnessed empires rise and fall, once a cathedral, then a mosque, now—the heart of something far greater.

The stage was simple, elegant, but calculated.

Behind Demir stood the new Pope, dressed in white, the gleaming insignia of the Unity Order adorning his chest. The two men were flanked by delegates from across the world—leaders who had sworn their allegiance to the new order.

The air crackled with an undeniable presence.

And at precisely 8:00 PM GMT, Demir stepped forward.

The applause that rose was thunderous.

It wasn’t just adoration.

It was worship.

Demir placed both hands on the podium, exhaling slowly as if absorbing the weight of the moment. Then, he smiled.

“My brothers and sisters,” he began, his voice like silk over steel. “We have endured much.”

His gaze swept across the audience, through the cameras, into the homes of billions.

“We have suffered,” he continued. “We have mourned. We have searched for answers in the face of devastation.”

A pregnant pause, perfectly placed.

“But tonight—tonight, I offer you something greater than grief.”

He leaned in, his expression one of pure conviction.

“I offer you a new beginning.”

The Pope nodded approvingly, stepping forward to place a hand on Demir’s shoulder.

“The world has cried out for peace,” the Pope said. “And heaven has heard.”

Demir’s lips curved, just slightly.

The words were meant to sound holy.

But they were not.

“Let me show you.” He lifted his hands, and the lights across the city flickered, dimming for precisely three seconds. Screens everywhere glowed not with his face, but with a pulsating golden symbol—a sacred geometry appearing in unison.

The crowd gasped. A child in the front row collapsed, weeping.

“Miracles,” Demir whispered, smiling. “And this is only the beginning.”

“Many have asked,” Demir continued, “what truly happened that day when so many disappeared. And we have scientific confirmation that it was no mere accident.”

The crowd held its breath.

“But I tell you this—it was an act of mercy.”

Murmurs rippled through the global audience. What was he saying?

“They were taken,” Demir said slowly, “to make way for something greater.”

He let the words settle.

“They did not disappear in judgment,” he continued. “They were merely the first to leave, so that we might finally unite.” The screen behind him flickered, revealing satellite footage. An immense burst of energy, pulsing from Earth’s core, shifting in patterns—a mathematical signature.

“This is the proof,” Demir continued. “It was no accident. The universe itself has called us forward.”

He spread his arms wide.

“And tonight, my friends, we take that first step.”

The screen behind him shifted, revealing the emblem of the Unity Order, a seamless fusion of symbols representing faith, technology, and government.

Beneath it, the words:

ONE WORLD. ONE ORDER. ONE FUTURE.

“This is our covenant,” Demir said. “A world without war, without division, without corruption.”

A standing ovation erupted.

Demir let it ride, then lifted a hand.

“There is only one thing left.”

The crowd silenced instantly.

Demir turned slightly, and the Pope handed him a small, black device—barely visible in his palm.

It hummed with energy.

“This,” Demir said, lifting it, “is the final piece.”

A holographic display flickered above it, revealing the Quantum ID system.

“A simple, seamless connection,” Demir continued. “Not just an ID—a connection. To a living system. A network that learns, adapts. Soon, you won’t just use UnityLink. You’ll be part of it”

Kenji Nakamura, watching from the underground resistance hideout in Tokyo, felt his stomach turn.

“No, no, no…”

He had designed the core technology behind it.

And he knew what it would become.

Demir raised his wrist. A soft chime sounded as he activated the implant beneath his skin.

It was done.

“Brothers and sisters,” he said, smiling, “join me.”

The Pope lifted his own wrist.

The world leaders followed.

The cameras captured every moment, every synchronized submission to the system.

And then—the choice was no longer theirs.

The technology would soon be mandated.

Without it, there would be no buying, no selling, no living.

And as the final name was entered into the global system, the lights dimmed.

A chill rippled through the air.

And somewhere—just beyond the veil—something moved.

In an undisclosed location, a small group of men and women sat in stunned silence.

One of them, Daniel Klein, had seen many things in his lifetime.

But he had never seen this.

“The world just changed,” he whispered.

A woman beside him exhaled sharply. “We just crossed the line, didn’t we?”

No one answered.

But in the pit of his stomach, Daniel knew.

The war was no longer coming.

It had begun.

And they were already losing.

Chapter 4: The Rise of the Beast

Tokyo’s skyline flickered like a dying constellation, its neon glow drowning beneath the storm that churned above. Rain fell in sheets, cold and relentless, as Kenji Nakamura stood on the edge of his penthouse balcony, staring at a world he no longer recognized.

Three and a half years.

That’s how long it had been since the Disappearances—since the day millions of people simply vanished, taking with them the last shreds of normalcy. The world had unraveled in the weeks that followed: financial collapses, martial law, riots that turned cities into war zones.

And then—order.

A new, unyielding order, built on the ashes of the old world.

And now, they wanted him to join it.

Kenji’s fingers tightened around the glass of whiskey in his hand, his knuckles whitening as the ice clinked against the rim. He didn’t need to turn to know he was being watched.

“Do you know what I admire most about you, Kenji?”

The voice was smooth, measured. A shadow moved within the suite.

Kenji exhaled through his nose, swirling the amber liquid before tossing it back. He turned, finally meeting the gaze of the man who had come to offer him the devil’s contract.

Matthias Al-Arif.

The architect of the new financial system. The right hand of the man the world now followed. And tonight, his executioner, if Kenji refused what was coming.

Kenji smirked, leaning back against the railing. “If you’re here to admire me, Matthias, I’m flattered. But you didn’t come all this way to give compliments.”

Matthias grinned, but there was something else in it—a flicker of something almost regretful. Like a man who had once believed in something, but had long since buried it beneath pragmatism and power.

“No,” he admitted. “I came to make you an offer.”

Kenji scoffed. “You people already took everything. My accounts. My assets. My network.” He gestured to the empty penthouse—the once-luxurious suite now stripped of anything of value. The algorithm he had spent his life building, the financial empire he had commanded—gone, erased with a keystroke by the very system he had once believed he controlled.

“I wouldn’t say everything,” Matthias mused, running a hand along the sleek, black-marble counter. “You’re still here, aren’t you? That’s more than I can say for most of your colleagues.”

Kenji didn’t miss the weight behind the words. Most of the old-world financiers had either vanished in the Rapture, been eliminated in the financial purges, or willingly bent the knee to the new regime.

He had done neither. Yet.

Kenji rolled his shoulders, keeping his expression unreadable. “So what’s the deal? I sign over my soul, and in return, you let me keep what little I have left?”

Matthias chuckled. “Come now, Kenji. You know better than that. We don’t want your money. We don’t even want your loyalty.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “We want your mind.”

Kenji narrowed his eyes.

“The world is changing,” Matthias continued. “The old systems were built on chaos—on competition, greed, and blind ambition. But the new world? It demands unity. Efficiency. Control.” He paused, letting the words settle. “And you, my friend, are one of the few who truly understand the mechanisms of power. You know how the algorithms shape human behavior. You built entire empires on it.”

Kenji’s stomach twisted. He had indeed built empires. Had manipulated markets, predicted trends, and controlled wealth flows with nothing more than a well-placed transaction.

It had made him a god in the world of finance.

But now, there was a new god in power.

“You want me to build it, don’t you?” Kenji murmured. “The final system.”

Matthias smiled. “A single, universal economy. No cash. No individual wealth. Just perfect, traceable transactions. A system that cannot be cheated. Cannot be escaped. And you, Kenji… you could be the one to finish what we’ve started.”

Kenji swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth. He had seen the prototypes. The AI-driven currency that tracked every purchase, every interaction, every movement. The biometric verification embedded in every citizen’s ID, ensuring total compliance.

The final step? A direct neural interface.

A world where money wasn’t just digital—it was inside you.

Kenji had seen this coming. The moment his assets were erased, the moment the last of his safe houses had been raided, he had known they’d come. And yet, standing here, facing the choice laid bare before him, it still felt like standing at the edge of a blade.

He wasn’t naïve. There was no such thing as a gift in this world. There was only leverage.

“I don’t do charity work,” Kenji said coldly.

Matthias studied him for a long moment. “Of course not.”

He pulled a sleek, black device from his pocket and slid it onto the counter. A biometric scanner.

“Your accounts. Your wealth. Everything you lost. It can all be restored.” He tapped the device. “One press of your thumb, and you’ll have more than you ever did before.”

Kenji’s pulse spiked—not just from the threat before him, but from the knowledge that once—just once—he had considered building a system like this himself. The efficiency. The control. The absolute order.

And if he said no?

Matthias sighed, almost disappointed. “Then you’ll be left with nothing. No identity. No access. No means of survival.”

Kenji clenched his jaw. He did know. He had seen the camps, the detainment centers disguised as refugee aid zones. People who refused the new system simply… ceased to exist.

Matthias took a step closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “This isn’t about survival, Kenji. It’s about choosing the right side of history. The old world is gone. You can either be part of what’s coming… or be forgotten.”

Silence stretched between them, thick as the storm pressing against the glass. Kenji’s pulse thrummed in his ears.

He could take the deal. Regain everything. Play the game. Maybe even find a way to turn it to his advantage.

Or he could walk away. Lose everything. And take his chances in a world that no longer had room for men like him.

The rain hammered against the windows as Kenji reached for the scanner.

His thumb hovered over the glowing surface.

And then—he hesitated.

Naomi’s voice echoed in his mind.

“The world isn’t just breaking, Kenji,” Naomi said, her voice quieter. “It’s being rewritten.”

He looked up at Matthias, who watched him with the patience of a man who had already won.

Kenji exhaled sharply, forcing a smirk.

“You always were good at selling illusions, Matthias.”

Then, with a calculated flick of his wrist, he knocked the device off the counter.

Matthias didn’t flinch.

Instead, he simply sighed. “I had a feeling you’d make this difficult.”

He snapped his fingers.

The doors behind him opened.

Jessica Reynolds tightened her grip on the small recorder in her lap, forcing her breath to steady as the sleek black sedan carried her through the winding streets of New Rome.

The world had changed.

And with it, so had she.

The skyline outside her tinted window was nothing like the Rome she had visited in her youth. Gone were the historic markets and tourist-packed streets. In their place—sterile efficiency. Polished glass towers, omnipresent security drones, and neon banners displaying the insignia of the Unified World Government.

A single emblem dominated them all:

A golden sigil—an intertwined lion and serpent, forming the shape of an unbroken ring.

Beneath it, the words pulsed in countless languages:

“One World. One Future. One Leader.”

Jessica swallowed hard.

This was not just an interview.

This was a test.

And she wasn’t sure she was going to pass.

The car pulled up to The Citadel—the former Apostolic Palace, now repurposed into the heart of the new world order.

Armed guards—dressed not in military fatigues, but in the black and crimson robes of the Unity Guard—stood in perfect formation. Their expressionless faces unreadable behind biometric visors.

Jessica stepped out, smoothing the lines of her tailored suit.

A guide—a woman with an impossibly symmetrical face and vacant blue eyes—led her inside.

Everything gleamed.

The interior was too perfect. Impeccable. Cold. Sterile.

There were no shadows anywhere.

Even where light should not reach, the air shimmered with an ambient glow, as though darkness itself had been banned.

Jessica’s heels clicked against the marble floor as they passed through a series of tall, gilded doors, each one opening seamlessly as they approached.

The final chamber loomed ahead.

The Hall of Nations.

Inside, a lone figure stood beneath the vast dome of light, waiting for her.

Arif Demir.

The man the world called The Voice of the New Age.

“Miss Reynolds.”

Demir greeted her warmly, his voice like silk wrapped in steel.

Jessica had interviewed presidents, dictators, and kings. She had studied the nuances of power, the subtleties of ego.

But never before had she encountered someone who radiated authority without effort.

Demir was tall, poised, perfect.

His black suit was cut to flawless precision, the pin of the golden sigil gleaming on his lapel. His olive skin was unblemished, his dark eyes hypnotic—as if he could see into her very thoughts.

Jessica extended her hand automatically.

He did not shake it.

Instead, he gestured toward the polished onyx table, two chairs set across from each other.

“Please, sit.”

Jessica complied, unfolding her notepad—though she knew she would never need it.

The cameras embedded in the ceiling recorded everything.

The AI systems monitoring the global network would parse her every syllable, every blink, every shift in tone.

She wasn’t just interviewing him.

He was watching her.

Demir steepled his fingers.

“You’ve had an impressive career, Miss Reynolds. CNN. The BBC. The World Press Guild.”

His lips curved slightly.

“You were one of the first to call the Disappearances ‘an unprecedented evolutionary moment.’ A true pioneer in understanding the transformation of the world.”

Jessica forced a smile. But her stomach turned.

She had never called it that.

The phrase had been scripted.

Fed into the world’s media by the U.W.G.’s vast narrative control division.

She had merely read the words they gave her.

“I try to report truth,” she replied carefully.

Demir’s gaze sharpened—too quickly.

“You believe in truth?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. “Fascinating.”

Jessica’s fingers tightened around her pen.

Something about the way he said “truth” unsettled her.

She cleared her throat.

“The world is eager to understand your vision for the future. What will the next phase of the Unity Order bring?”

Demir exhaled, as if the question amused him.

“The old world was built on division, Miss Reynolds. Governments competing. Religions warring. The illusion of free will, creating nothing but conflict.”

He leaned forward.

“But we have eliminated those barriers. Humanity no longer wanders in chaos. We are building a single, unified civilization—where all will prosper.”

The words were perfect.

But Jessica felt something else beneath them.

Something wrong.

Something inhuman.

Then it happened.

For the briefest moment—less than a blink—the light behind Demir flickered.

It shouldn’t have.

There were no shadows in this place.

And yet—

Jessica’s breath caught.

A shape moved just beyond the light.

A second figure—taller than Demir, unseen but present.

It was as if something else sat in the room with them—something hidden within him.

She blinked.

The light returned.

Demir’s expression never changed.

But his smile widened, ever so slightly.

He had seen her see it.

Jessica forced her breathing to steady.

She had spent years exposing deception, identifying political doublespeak.

But this?

This was not normal.

Her fingers felt cold against the recorder in her lap.

“Your critics,” she managed, “say that religious freedoms have been… restricted. That faith is being replaced by—”

“Faith?”

Demir interrupted smoothly.

He gestured toward the vast, domed ceiling, where the holographic constellations shimmered.

“Miss Reynolds, faith is primitive. It is the desperate grasp of a species searching for meaning in the dark.”

His fingers tapped the table lightly.

“But now, the dark is gone.”

Jessica’s throat went dry.

He leaned in closer, voice dropping to a near whisper.

“You’re afraid.”

It wasn’t a question.

Jessica’s heart pounded.

“I…” she hesitated. “I believe the world still has questions.”

Demir nodded.

“Of course. And you will help them find answers.”

She swallowed.

“What do you mean?”

Demir’s gaze pierced through her, as if peeling away every layer of pretense.

“You will have full access to me, my world leaders, our technology, our systems.”

He smiled.

“We will show you the future. And you… will bring it to them.”

Jessica didn’t move.

She wasn’t being offered a job.

She was being enlisted.

And she wasn’t sure she had a choice.

Lin Mei pressed her back against the damp, crumbling wall of the underground safe house.

Her heart hammered so hard she could hear it over the distant hum of surveillance drones outside.

She wasn’t safe.

Not really.

Not in a world where the Unified World Government’s tracking systems could scan the thermal signatures of human bodies through walls.

Where AI-driven drones patrolled the streets with the cold precision of machines that never tired, never hesitated, never questioned orders.

The Netwatch AI had already flagged her name.

Her face was in the Recognition Grid.

She was a registered dissenter. A fugitive.

One wrong move, and she would vanish—just like the others.

The scent of earth and damp stone filled her lungs as she forced herself to take slow, steady breaths.

Around her, the last remnants of the underground church huddled in silence.

Elder Zhou sat cross-legged on the floor, his gnarled hands resting on an old leather Bible—its pages thin and worn from years of secret study.

Beside him, a young woman—Li Na—clutched a digital tablet, the blue light illuminating Psalm 91 in the makeshift scripture-sharing app they used to bypass government firewalls.

“He will cover you with His feathers, and under His wings, you will find refuge.”

The words flickered across the screen.

Lin Mei wasn’t sure she believed them anymore.

The last time she had prayed, she had watched her brother taken in the Night Sweeps.

The last time she had whispered Jesus’ name, she had been forced to run for her life.

The others exchanged coded phrases of encouragement, their voices nearly lost beneath the steady drip of water leaking from the ceiling.

Then—

A sharp knock at the entrance.

A dozen sets of eyes turned toward the steel door that separated them from the surface world.

Lin Mei’s breath hitched.

No one knocked.

If they were found—if the Unity Enforcers had tracked them here—

It was over.

The room tensed as Elder Zhou nodded toward Da Wei, the broad-shouldered former soldier who had defected from the regime months ago.

He moved swiftly, positioning himself at the doorway, his hand hovering over a concealed weapon beneath his coat.

Another knock.

This one—three short taps, followed by two more.

The signal.

Lin Mei let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Da Wei unlatched the door.

A man slipped inside, sealing it behind him.

For a moment, the only sound was the distant thunder rumbling above the city.

Then the hooded figure stepped forward, pulling back his hood.

Jin Yao.

Lin Mei nearly collapsed with relief.

Jin had been missing for days.

She had assumed the worst.

His face was thinner, his eyes sunken with exhaustion.

A deep gash ran along his temple, barely concealed by hastily wrapped gauze.

He scanned the room, his gaze locking onto Lin Mei’s.

“You need to leave.”

Lin Mei stiffened.

“What?”

Jin swallowed, stepping closer.

“They know you’re here.”

A cold wave of dread rushed through her veins.

“They?” Elder Zhou asked quietly.

Jin hesitated.

Then he whispered the one name that made Lin Mei’s blood run cold.

“The Watchers.”

A heavy silence filled the room.

The Watchers weren’t just government enforcers.

They weren’t just drones or AI security forces.

They were something else.

Something unnatural.

Rumors had spread like wildfire in the underground church—stories of men who did not blink.

Who did not bleed.

Who knew your sins before you spoke them aloud.

Some claimed they were enhanced cybernetic agents, a secret hybrid between AI and human consciousness.

Others whispered of something far older.

Something demonic.

Lin Mei forced herself to steady her voice.

“How do you know?”

Jin exhaled sharply, running a shaking hand through his damp hair.

“I saw them. In the Market District.”

He lowered his voice.

“They were searching for someone matching your profile.”

He looked her dead in the eye.

“They’re moving fast. You have minutes—not hours.”

Lin Mei felt her legs weaken.

Her eyes darted toward Elder Zhou, then to the others in the room.

If she stayed, she would doom them all.

She swallowed hard.

“Then I go.”

Jin nodded.

“I have a way out.”

Elder Zhou reached for her hand.

His grip was frail, but unshakable.

“Lin Mei, you are not alone.”

A lump formed in her throat.

She wanted to believe him.

But even faith seemed fragile under the weight of a world that had turned against them.

Minutes later, Lin Mei followed Jin through the network of underground tunnels, her heart pounding as they moved quickly through the labyrinth beneath the city.

The tunnels had once been part of an abandoned metro system, now repurposed by the underground church as a means of avoiding biometric scans and heat-mapping drones.

Somewhere above them, the world marched toward unity—one currency, one government, one leader.

And she was running in the opposite direction.

A distant metallic thud echoed from behind them.

Lin Mei froze.

Jin grabbed her arm, whispering sharply,

“Don’t stop.”

They ran, slipping through the narrow corridors until they reached a ladder leading upward.

Jin climbed first, emerging into the ruins of an old train station—now a graveyard of broken tracks and shattered glass.

Lin Mei scrambled after him.

Then—

The air changed.

A cold presence crawled up her spine, sending a shudder through her bones.

Jin’s face went pale as he whispered,

“They’re here.”

Lin Mei turned.

At the far end of the station, just beyond the broken pillars of stone and steel—

Two figures emerged.

They wore the robes of Unity Enforcers—

But something was wrong.

Their eyes—

They glowed.

Not with any human light.

But with a pale, unnatural radiance.

And even from this distance—

Lin Mei knew.

They were watching her.

The cold metal of the chains bit into Rahim’s wrists, suspending him just high enough that his toes barely scraped the damp stone floor.

His body ached, muscles trembling under the strain.

The air in the chamber was thick with the scent of blood, sweat, and damp concrete, pressing against him like an unseen force.

Somewhere above him, a slow, rhythmic drip of water echoed, punctuating the silence like a metronome of despair.

A single light flickered overhead, casting long, jagged shadows against the walls.

It wasn’t enough to banish the darkness completely.

But then, that was the point.

They wanted him to feel helpless.

They wanted him to break.

A door groaned open behind him.

Heavy boots scraped against the floor.

Rahim clenched his jaw.

He would not speak first.

He would not beg.

A measured voice cut through the stale air like a knife.

“Rahim al-Farouk.”

The man’s tone was almost amused.

“You’ve been quite the nuisance.”

Rahim kept his eyes fixed ahead.

The interrogator stepped forward, his form finally emerging into the flickering light.

He was tall, clean-shaven, wearing the black insignia of the Unity Enforcers.

The golden sigil of the Serpent and the Lion gleamed on his chest.

Rahim recognized him instantly.

Commander Saleh.

The man who had orchestrated the purge of underground churches in Cairo.

The one responsible for the mass arrests, the disappearances, the executions.

Saleh stopped in front of him, tilting his head slightly.

His dark eyes were unreadable, but Rahim knew what lay beneath the surface.

Sadism.

Control.

“You’re stubborn,” Saleh murmured. “But that won’t last. They all think they can endure it. At first.”

He turned, gesturing toward the table against the far wall.

A row of instruments lay in neat precision—metal clamps, whips, an electric prod.

“But in time,” Saleh continued, “you’ll understand that resistance is—”

He smiled, choosing the word carefully.

“—unnecessary.”

Rahim lifted his chin.

“If you’re expecting me to renounce Christ, you’re wasting your time.”

Saleh chuckled.

“You think this is about your God? No, Rahim. This is about you.”

He took a step closer, lowering his voice.

“We already know what you are. A criminal. A threat to the New Order.”

He studied Rahim’s face.

“You spread lies about a God who has abandoned this world. And yet…”

His eyes narrowed.

“You still believe, don’t you?”

Rahim’s heart pounded, but he met Saleh’s gaze head-on.

“Yes.”

The word hung in the air like a challenge.

Saleh sighed, shaking his head.

“Then let’s begin.”

The first strike sent lightning through Rahim’s nerves.

His body arched violently as the electric prod connected with his ribs.

His breath tore from his lungs in a ragged gasp.

But he did not scream.

He tasted blood in his mouth as his body jerked from another jolt.

The metal chains rattled against the ceiling.

Saleh watched, unimpressed.

“You’ll talk,” he said, adjusting the setting on the device.

“They all do.”

Rahim braced himself.

More pain.

More fire in his bones.

But through it all, his mind clung to a single verse:

“Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul.”

The pain intensified, but so did the prayer in his heart.

“Lord, strengthen me. Let me not deny You.”

Saleh let the silence drag, letting the tension coil like a viper in the room.

Then he spoke again, voice casual, almost conversational.

“You know, Rahim, faith is a funny thing.”

He circled him slowly, the way a predator circles a wounded animal.

“It only takes a little suffering to rip it from a man’s hands.”

He stepped closer.

“But I’m a generous man. I offer you a way out.”

Rahim knew what was coming.

Saleh leaned in, voice a whisper now.

“Sign the Confession. Renounce your God. Swear allegiance to the Supreme Authority.”

He lifted a tablet.

The screen glowed, displaying a pre-written confession—

One that would mark Rahim as a loyal citizen of the New Order.

A single thumbprint was all it would take.

Saleh smiled.

“Do this, and you walk out of here. A free man. With wealth, with status. No more hiding.”

Rahim said nothing.

Saleh tilted his head.

“Or—”

He snapped his fingers.

The door opened.

A guard dragged someone into the room.

Rahim’s breath caught.

Samir.

His younger brother.

Bloodied, beaten, barely conscious.

His face swollen beyond recognition.

Saleh watched Rahim’s reaction carefully.

“Now,” Saleh said, “I will make you an offer you cannot refuse.”

He extended the tablet again.

“Renounce Christ. Swear allegiance. And your brother lives.”

A cold, merciless pause.

“If you don’t…”

Saleh shrugged.

“We finish what we started.”

Samir groaned weakly, barely clinging to consciousness.

Rahim’s mind raced.

The room closed in.

The weight of the moment suffocated him.

A flicker of doubt clawed at his mind.

Couldn’t he just say the words and not mean them?

Wouldn’t God understand?

He clenched his teeth.

No.

“God is faithful. Even unto death.”

And then—

Something shifted.

A presence entered the room.

Rahim felt it before he saw it.

The very air changed, vibrating with power unseen.

And in that moment—

The pain, the fear, the doubt—

It all vanished.

A calm unlike anything he had ever known flooded his soul.

A voice spoke.

Not aloud.

But within.

“Be strong and courageous, for I am with you.”

Rahim exhaled.

His grip loosened.

His body stopped trembling.

Saleh saw the change.

His eyes narrowed.

Rahim lifted his head.

Voice steady.

“I will not deny my Lord.”

The Hall of Power

The vast marble hall shimmered under the artificial glow of ceiling lights, their cold brilliance reflecting off polished surfaces.

Priya Mehta stood near the arched window, her fingers tracing the condensation on the glass as she watched New Delhi’s skyline.

A city transformed.

Drones hovered in the distance, scanning for dissidents, their red lights pulsing like predators waiting to strike.

Digital billboards flashed the image of the Supreme Authority.

The charismatic leader who had risen from the chaos.

Who had promised peace in the wake of the world’s greatest disappearance.

His voice, smooth as velvet, echoed across the city.

“One world. One people. One vision.”

The words curled around Priya’s mind like an iron noose.

Behind her, the heavy doors of her father’s office swung open.

The Minister of Internal Affairs—her father, Arun Mehta— entered.

His presence filled the space— a man whose very existence had become a pillar of the new order.

Priya turned, her heart hammering.

She had overheard everything.

The council had asked him to sign a new law—

One that would criminalize unauthorized religious gatherings.

A law that would brand Christians, underground believers, and all dissenters as enemies of the state.

And her father was about to sign it.

Arun Mehta set his briefcase on the massive oak desk, sighing as he loosened his tie.

He looked exhausted, the weight of power dragging him down like chains unseen.

Priya swallowed hard.

“Father, please don’t sign it.”

Arun paused, rubbing his temples before finally meeting her gaze.

“Priya, you don’t understand what’s at stake.”

“I do,” she shot back, stepping forward. “This isn’t about politics anymore. This is about control. They’re outlawing faith, Father.”

Arun’s jaw tightened.

He turned, pouring himself a drink, the amber liquid swirling in the glass.

“They’re maintaining order.”

Priya felt rage coil in her chest.

“At what cost?”

Her father exhaled.

“The Supreme Authority—”

“Is not God,” she cut in. “And you know it.”

Arun’s grip on the glass tightened.

“Watch your words, Priya.”

She knew she was pushing too far, too fast.

But the urgency gnawed at her ribs.

“They took Aisha’s family last night,” she whispered. “She hasn’t heard from them since.”

Her father’s eyes flickered with something—

Regret? Doubt?

But it was gone in an instant.

“This is bigger than one girl’s family,” he said, voice measured.

“This is about peace.”

Priya laughed bitterly.

“Peace? By silencing anyone who refuses to bow?”

Arun placed the glass down hard, his patience fraying.

“This isn’t up for discussion.”

But Priya wasn’t backing down.

She stepped closer, lowering her voice.

“Father… I’ve seen what happens in the detention centers.”

Arun stilled.

“I’ve seen the prisoners who never come back.”

“I’ve seen the files.”

“The reeducation camps.”

“The executions.”

His hand trembled slightly as he picked up a file from the desk, avoiding her gaze.

“Did you know,” she said, voice now a whisper, “that some of the people arrested for ‘unlawful religious assembly’ were our own family friends?”

Arun clenched his jaw.

“It’s not that simple.”

Priya’s chest tightened.

“It is.”

Silence.

Her father finally looked at her.

For the first time in weeks, she saw the man he used to be.

The man who took her to the old temples before they were destroyed by the new regime.

The man who once told her, as a child, that truth mattered more than power.

But now, he was a man being swallowed by the machine of the New Order.

And she was watching him drown.

The communicator on his desk buzzed.

A voice filtered through.

“Minister Mehta, the council is waiting for your signature.”

Priya’s heart pounded.

Her father reached for the pen.

No.

No, no, no—

“Father, please.”

Her voice broke.

He froze.

For a moment, she saw the war within him.

She saw the man who knew this was wrong.

She saw the father who had raised her to stand for what was right.

And she saw the minister who had been given power—

And was terrified of losing it.

His hand hovered over the document.

Then—

The office doors swung open.

Two men in black uniforms entered.

Their expressions unreadable.

Arun’s entire body tensed.

Priya’s breath caught.

The taller officer stepped forward.

Nodding at Arun.

“Sir, the Supreme Authority has taken a personal interest in this decision.”

His gaze flickered to Priya.

“And in your family.”

Cold.

Sharp.

A veiled threat.

Priya felt her stomach lurch.

Her father set the pen down.

The tension crackled in the air.

The officers watched him.

Waiting.

Priya watched him.

Begging.

And Arun Mehta stood at the crossroads of history—

A single choice away from sealing his fate.

Would he sign?

Would he resist?

The entire weight of the moment pressed upon him.

And in that room—

The soul of a man hung in the balance.

The acrid stench of burning rubber and blood hung thick in the air.

Smoke from the cartel’s latest purge curled into the night sky, blending with the distant glow of Mexico City’s skeletal skyline.

A city once vibrant with life—

Now a battleground.

Criminal factions.

Government loyalists.

And the unseen hand of the Supreme Authority tightening its grip.

Diego Vega ran.

His heartbeat hammered in his ears, drowning out the distant automatic gunfire.

His boots pounded against the cracked pavement of a desolate alley, each step a prayer for survival.

The blood on his sleeve wasn’t his—

But the face of Carlos, his closest friend, flashed in his mind.

Executed.

They had made an example of him.

Diego bit down the rising scream in his throat.

Keep moving.

The cartel had been his world once.

His family.

And now?

They were hunting him.

He pressed himself against the soot-stained brick of an abandoned tienda, chest heaving, eyes scanning the street.

Gone.

Everyone was gone.

The few who remained were either hiding—

Or had already taken the mark.

The digital brand of the new regime shimmered on the forearms of loyalists.

Without it—

You didn’t exist.

No money.

No food.

No life.

And yet, Diego would rather starve in the streets than sell his soul.

His hands trembled as he touched the silver crucifix still hanging around his neck—

A relic from his grandmother, the only one who had ever spoken to him about God.

Now, her words haunted him.

“Mijo, one day you will have to choose whom you serve.”

He hadn’t believed her then.

But he believed her now.

Footsteps.

Diego’s breath hitched.

He ducked into the shadows, eyes darting toward the movement.

A cartel soldier.

One of El León’s men.

The king of the underworld.

Even before the Rapture, the man had controlled half of Mexico’s criminal empire.

Now, he was no longer just a kingpin—

He was an executioner.

His cartel had sworn allegiance to the new world order.

And Diego was a traitor.

“Vega!”

The soldier’s voice slithered into the alley, laced with mocking cruelty.

“You really think you can run from El León?”

A knife twisted in Diego’s gut.

God, help me.

The soldier stepped closer.

Diego’s pulse pounded.

Another step—

Then—

A noise.

Not from the soldier.

From above.

A whisper of movement.

Then, a shadow fell.

The soldier never had time to scream.

One second, he was there—

The next, he was dragged into the darkness.

Diego stumbled back, his breath ragged.

A shape emerged from the shadows—

A man, clad in a worn jacket and dirt-streaked clothes.

His face, rugged and lined with battle scars, was partially covered by a scarf.

But his eyes were fire.

“Move,” the man growled.

Diego didn’t argue.

The safe house was buried beneath the ruins of an old Catholic church, its towering cathedral doors shattered long ago by the regime.

Diego followed the man through the underground tunnel, his senses still raw from the chase.

The moment they stepped inside, the air changed.

Candles flickered along the stone walls.

A small group of survivors knelt in prayer.

The scent of burning incense mixed with the musty earth.

Faith.

The very thing outlawed in the new world.

The man removed his scarf, revealing dark hair streaked with gray and a face hardened by war.

“My name is Mateo,” he said. “And you’re lucky I found you first.”

Diego swallowed.

“Who are you people?”

Mateo’s gaze sharpened.

“We are those who refuse to kneel.”

Diego’s breath caught.

Underground believers.

The very ones the cartel was hunting.

Mateo folded his arms.

“Tell me, Diego… why did you run?”

The question hung in the air.

Diego felt the weight of it press against his ribs.

“I saw what they did,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “To Carlos. To the others. They… they said it was for the new order. For peace.”

Mateo scoffed.

“Peace?”

He gestured to the room.

“Does this look like peace to you?”

Diego shook his head.

“That world out there?” Mateo continued. “It’s built on a lie. A lie that ends with every knee bowing to the Beast.”

The words sent a shudder through Diego’s soul.

The Supreme Authority.

The one-world leader.

El León had pledged loyalty to him.

Serve, or be erased.

Diego clenched his fists.

“Why are you helping me?”

Mateo studied him for a long moment.

Then, finally—

“Because I believe God isn’t done with you yet.”

Diego exhaled sharply.

He had spent his whole life running from faith.

Now—

It was the only thing keeping him alive.

The distant howl of sirens shattered the silence.

Mateo tensed.

“They’re coming.”

The underground believers moved quickly, gathering supplies, whispering prayers.

Diego felt his pulse race.

This was just the beginning.

The world was shifting—

The battle lines being drawn.

And Diego Vega had just stepped onto the frontlines.

The damp underground chamber smelled of dirt, candle wax, and quiet desperation.

The air was thick with whispered prayers—

The kind that could get a person executed if spoken above ground.

Carlos Alvarez stood at the front of the makeshift gathering, his heart hammering.

How had it come to this?

Once, he had been an engineer.

A skeptic.

A man of science.

A man who laughed at faith.

But now—

In a world consumed by darkness—

The only light left was the faith he had once ridiculed.

The twenty souls huddled in the basement of a collapsed textile factory.

Men.

Women.

Children.

Their faces were gaunt from hunger.

Their eyes wide with fear.

But there was something else, too.

A quiet defiance.

A hope that refused to die.

Outside, the world was no longer their own.

The government’s digital mark—a chip embedded beneath the skin—controlled everything.

Those who had taken it could buy food, live in safety, continue as if nothing had changed.

But these people had refused.

And so had Carlos.

A young woman, Mariana, clutched a small, battered Bible in her lap.

It was illegal now—

To even own such a thing.

Carlos cleared his throat.

“We can’t stay here much longer.”

His voice was low, firm.

“The patrols are getting closer.”

Mateo, the former soldier who had saved Diego, nodded grimly.

“They’re hunting us.”

His voice was edged with steel.

“The regime has informants in every sector. If we stay in one place too long—

We die.”

Carlos swallowed.

He knew the truth in those words.

Just two nights ago, they had lost six people—

Dragged into the streets by the Authority’s enforcers.

They were never seen again.

Fear crawled down his spine.

He wasn’t a leader.

He wasn’t a pastor.

But in this new world—

Titles didn’t matter.

Only faith.

An elderly man, Jorge, coughed violently into a cloth.

Blood stained the fabric.

Carlos’s stomach twisted.

They were running out of medicine.

Out of everything.

But still—

They prayed.

They sang in whispers.

They clung to the name of Jesus while the world burned.

Carlos exhaled.

“God, if You’re real… if You really want me to lead these people… show me how.”

A hand touched his arm.

It was Mateo.

His eyes were dark, full of something Carlos couldn’t place.

“God doesn’t call the qualified,” Mateo said, as if reading his mind.

“He qualifies the called.”

Carlos stared at him.

A shiver ran through him.

He had spent his whole life denying God.

And yet—

Here he was—

Standing in the middle of a war against the Beast himself…

And the only thing that made sense—

Was faith.

Mariana, her hands trembling, whispered urgently.

“The patrols are moving south.”

She looked up from an old shortwave radio.

“If we move at dawn, we can reach the tunnels beneath Sector 9 before they block it off.”

Mateo grunted.

“Too risky. We don’t know if it’s already compromised.”

Carlos’s mind spun.

He had spent years designing structures for the city.

He knew every sewer system, every forgotten underground corridor.

And he knew one thing for certain—

Staying put meant death.

Carlos set his jaw.

“We go.”

His voice was steady. Unshakable.

“But we move in groups. No more than three people at a time.”

The others nodded slowly.

The tension in the room thick.

Then—

A distant noise.

The group froze.

A low mechanical hum.

Carlos’s blood ran cold.

Mariana gasped.

Mateo killed the candles.

The room plunged into darkness.

The hum grew louder.

Closer.

Carlos reached for the cold steel of his knife.

Not that it would do much against a drone.

The hum paused.

Seconds stretched into eternity.

Then—

The sound faded.

Gone.

For now.

The air was thick with silent prayers.

Carlos exhaled, shaking.

They were running out of time.

And still—

God had spared them.

For now.

Carlos turned to the group.

“Tomorrow,” he whispered, “we move. And wherever we go… we take the church with us.”

A long silence.

Then, Mariana clutched her forbidden Bible to her chest—

And nodded.

“Amen.”

And in that moment, Carlos knew.

This wasn’t just about survival.

This was war.

A war not fought with weapons—

But with faith.

And Carlos Alvarez was ready to fight.

The massive square outside the Grand Palace of Istanbul swarmed with bodies pressed together in suffocating reverence.

Thousands—

Perhaps millions—

Stood in awed silence, staring at the unholy altar before them.

A glass casket, draped in a crimson shroud, held the lifeless body of the Supreme Leader.

The sky above darkened with gathering storm clouds, the air charged with an unnatural electricity.

Camera drones hovered like silent sentinels, broadcasting the event to every screen across the world.

The man inside the casket was dead.

Had been for three days.

The entire world had watched as he was assassinated—

A bullet tearing through his skull in a shocking act of defiance.

But now—

Now they waited for a miracle.

Jessica Reynolds stood on the elevated press balcony, clutching her tablet with white-knuckled fingers.

The breathless voice of the global news anchor murmured through her earpiece:

“In a moment, history will be made. The Supreme Leader—his excellency, the unifier of nations, the architect of the New Order—was tragically struck down by an act of terror. But today, the world holds its breath for the fulfillment of the prophecy… for the return of the great leader.”

Jessica swallowed hard.

Something was deeply wrong.

She had interviewed him before.

Stood in the same room.

Felt the sheer force of his presence.

He had a way of commanding attention, bending reality to his will.

And even in death, his body had been preserved as if merely asleep.

But this?

This was theatrics on a cosmic level.

She scanned the crowd.

Military guards in dark uniforms, their eyes blank and obedient.

The clergy of the new world religion, robed in deep scarlet, standing at the base of the casket.

And at the center of it all—

The False Prophet, his arms lifted to the heavens.

“The time has come.”

His voice boomed across the square, amplified by unseen technology.

Jessica’s skin crawled.

The crowd began to chant.

A rhythmic, hypnotic calling of the leader’s name, over and over.

The massive holo-screen above the palace projected his face, frozen in a serene expression.

The False Prophet stepped closer to the casket, placing his hands upon the transparent lid.

“By the power bestowed upon me, by the great force that binds all things—arise!”

The words thundered through the city.

Jessica staggered back, her pulse hammering.

Then—

The casket shuddered.

The air shifted.

Like a ripple through reality itself.

And then—

His eyes opened.

A single gasp ran through the masses—

A tidal wave of stunned awe.

The Supreme Leader—

The man who had been dead for three days—

Sat up.

Jessica’s vision blurred.

“No, no, no—”

This was impossible.

The cameras zoomed in, broadcasting every detail to the world.

His flesh was untouched.

His wound gone.

His face radiant with a terrible light.

And then—

He smiled.

A collective cry of worship erupted—

Thousands falling to their knees, sobbing in devotion.

The False Prophet raised his arms in victory.

“You see?” he cried.

“The world rejected him, but death could not hold him!”

Jessica’s hands shook.

The world had just been deceived.

Something inside her rebelled against the spectacle.

She turned—

And her eyes met Kenji’s.

He stood near the exit of the press balcony, his face shadowed beneath his hood.

Formerly one of the New Order’s top minds, he had since vanished from public sight.

Now, he was back.

And his eyes were filled with warning.

“Jessica.”

He whispered urgently, stepping closer.

“We have to leave. Now.”

Her body locked in place.

She knew.

Deep down—

She knew.

This wasn’t resurrection.

It was deception.

And now—

The real war had begun.

The air hummed with the electricity of devotion, an unnatural energy rippling through the sea of bodies stretching beyond the limits of sight.

The grand plaza of New Rome had been transformed.

It was no longer just a gathering place.

It was a coliseum of worship.

Thousands—no, millions—

Pressed together in euphoric reverence.

The towering holographic image of the Supreme Leader loomed above them, bathed in golden light.

Jessica Reynolds had covered political rallies before—

But this?

This was not a political event.

This was a coronation of divinity.

The monolithic screens that lined the plaza’s perimeter displayed a synchronized feed of worship services across the globe.

Paris. Beijing. Cairo. New York.

Everywhere, the same mass hysteria.

Hands raised.

Voices crying out.

A collective offering of unrestrained adoration.

And at the center of it all—

The Supreme Leader, elevated on a golden dais, his face an icon of serene power.

He was dressed in flowing white robes, embroidered with celestial gold, his posture effortlessly divine.

His eyes—luminous, hypnotic— scanned the masses with an unreadable intensity.

Jessica’s stomach twisted.

Something about the way he stood, the way he absorbed the worship like a bottomless well, made her breath quicken.

The deception was perfect—too perfect.

She knew, deep down—

This was a lie woven in gold.

Beside him, the False Prophet raised his hands.

“The world has seen the miracle! Death could not hold him!

Our great leader has returned, not by mortal means, but by the power within him.

He is the fulfillment of prophecy!”

The crowd erupted.

Some wept.

Others screamed his name.

Jessica fought the urge to step back.

To run.

To distance herself from the waves of blind devotion washing over the city like a tidal surge.

She scanned the area for Kenji.

He had promised to meet her before the rally.

But so far—

He was nowhere in sight.

Was he watching?

Was he recording this?

The world needed to see the truth—

Not the illusion.

The leader took a step forward.

The roar of the crowd hushed instantly, as though his very breath commanded silence.

“I have returned,” he said, his voice smooth as velvet, laced with something almost… unnatural.

“But I do not return alone.”

Jessica’s pulse spiked.

“I return as the herald of a new age.”

His gaze swept across the people, locking onto them, as if seeing into their very souls.

“An age without war, without division, without suffering. An age where we are not bound by the petty chains of faith and superstition.”

Something in his words sent a sliver of ice down Jessica’s spine.

“Religion has divided us long enough,” he continued.

“The gods of old have failed you. They have abandoned you.”

He spread his arms wide.

“But I will never abandon you.”

The crowd roared again.

An almost feral enthusiasm coursing through them.

Jessica swallowed hard.

The Pope took a step forward, smiling.

“A new order rises today. And with it, a single truth.”

His eyes gleamed.

“Only one name shall be worshiped. Only one ruler shall be called god.”

Jessica felt a hand grasp her arm.

She turned, heart hammering.

It was Kenji.

His face tight with urgency.

His voice barely above a whisper.

“We need to go. Now.”

Jessica’s mouth was dry.

“This is—this is worse than we thought. They’re not just demanding loyalty. They’re demanding worship.”

Kenji nodded grimly.

“They’ve been planning this moment for years. And the world has fallen into their hands.”

A new sound echoed through the plaza.

Music.

A hymn unlike any Jessica had ever heard.

A deep, resonant chant—otherworldly in its beauty, hypnotic in its cadence.

The people fell to their knees, hands raised, faces wet with tears.

Jessica’s blood went cold.

The entire world was worshiping him.

The deception was complete.

Kenji’s grip on her tightened.

“If we don’t move now, we may never leave.”

Jessica tore her gaze from the spectacle before her.

She knew what she was seeing.

She knew what this meant.

The world had just given its soul away.

The world held its breath.

It had been rumored for months, whispered in underground chatrooms, leaked in encrypted messages, hinted at in vague corporate statements.

But now—

It was real.

Kenji Nakamura sat in the dimly lit café, his fingers tightening around the ceramic cup of lukewarm tea.

The screen on the far wall of the café—one of a thousand just like it in Tokyo, New York, London, and beyond—flickered with the official broadcast.

His heart pounded as he watched the screen, a single name glowing in brilliant gold letters.

Arif Demir.

The world leader.

The man who had unified broken governments.

The man who had offered peace in the wake of chaos.

The man they worshiped.

“Welcome.”

Demir’s voice boomed through the speakers, smooth, controlled, drenched in charisma.

“Today, we embark on the next stage of human progress.”

The crowd before him erupted, a sea of rapturous faces.

“The economy has suffered, our people have endured hardship—but no more.”

“Today, we move beyond uncertainty. Today, we enter an age of prosperity.”

Kenji’s gut twisted.

He didn’t have to hear the rest to know what was coming.

The underground believers had been expecting this.

This was the first step.

The step toward control.

Toward absolute dominion.

The screen zoomed out, revealing a podium draped in a sleek, futuristic banner:

The emblem of the United Global Order, its design eerily reminiscent of ancient symbols long buried in history.

Beside him stood the Pope, his white robes embroidered with gold, his face solemn yet approving.

Behind them, a massive digital display came to life, revealing a glowing insignia:

A stylized “M” intertwined with an infinity symbol.

Kenji’s stomach churned.

The crowd’s cheers intensified.

It was happening.

The believers had warned about this—

Revelation 13, clear as day.

Demir’s eyes gleamed.

“Gone are the days of economic instability, of nations divided by currencies that fail us.”

“With the full support of global financial institutions, we introduce OnePay—”

A single, unified digital currency.

Secure.

Instantaneous.

Borderless.

Kenji’s breath hitched as the screen changed, displaying the sleek holographic interface of OnePay.

Transactions processed in nanoseconds.

No cash.

No banks.

No intermediaries.

“And to ensure the safety and well-being of every citizen, access to OnePay will be seamless.”

Demir’s voice was like silk wrapping around a knife.

“Every individual will be assigned a unique digital identity, securely encoded within a biometric implant.”

The crowd’s cheers became deafening.

Jessica swallowed hard.

Her worst fears were unfolding in real-time.

The screen filled with a demonstration:

A young woman held out her hand.

A small, glowing chip was embedded beneath her skin.

She placed it near a scanner.

A soft beep.

Transaction approved.

Jessica’s knuckles turned white.

Kenji exhaled shakily.

This wasn’t just a currency.

It was a tool.

A leash.

Every transaction, every movement, every interaction—

It would all be tracked.

Controlled.

And those who refused?

Their access would be revoked.

No food.

No water.

No ability to buy or sell.

Just as prophecy foretold.

A cold shiver crawled down Kenji’s spine.

This was the first test.

And many would fail it.

A familiar voice jarred him from his thoughts.

“Kenji.”

He turned.

Jessica Sullivan slid into the seat across from him, her green eyes dark with fear.

She had changed since the last time he’d seen her.

No longer the ambitious journalist who had sought truth in the wrong places.

Now, she looked like someone who had glimpsed the abyss—

And barely pulled back.

“You saw?” she whispered.

Kenji nodded.

“We need to act.”

Jessica’s jaw clenched.

“There’s already chatter about underground markets. Bartering networks.”

“But they won’t last long. Once they tie OnePay to essential services, people will have no choice.”

Kenji shook his head.

“They always have a choice.”

Jessica exhaled sharply, looking around the café.

“Maybe. But not for long.”

She hesitated.

“Demir isn’t just a leader, Kenji.”

“He’s… something else.”

“People don’t just follow him. They worship him.”

Kenji’s pulse quickened.

“We have to warn the others.”

Jessica hesitated.

“There’s something else.”

Kenji tensed.

“What?”

She slid a crumpled note across the table.

He unfolded it carefully, his heart pounding as he read the scrawled words:

“THEY KNOW WHO YOU ARE.”

Kenji’s breath caught.

He looked up, scanning the café.

A group of men in dark suits had entered.

Their eyes sweeping the room with quiet precision.

Jessica grabbed his wrist.

“We need to go. Now.”

Kenji didn’t hesitate.

Leaving the half-drunk tea behind, he slid from his chair and followed her toward the back exit.

The sound of the café’s broadcast still rang in his ears.

“…And with this, humanity takes its first step toward true enlightenment…”

As Kenji and Jessica slipped into the neon-lit alley, a storm of realization crashed over him.

This wasn’t just about a currency.

This was the beginning of the final deception.

And the world was falling for it.

Chapter 5: The Great Divide

Tokyo’s skyline pulsed with a synthetic glow, towering neon skyscrapers casting jagged shadows over the rain-slicked streets. From his penthouse office at Nakamura Securities, Kenji Nakamura watched the city move below—efficient, mechanical, predictable.

At least, it had been predictable.

His six-monitor setup flickered, displaying financial projections, market trends, and a live feed of the New World Economic Forum broadcast. He frowned at a discrepancy in the security logs—a classified sector of the system had been accessed multiple times in the past week. It was unusual. He had designed the firewall himself. Yet despite the reassuring numbers, an unease twisted in his chest. The global economy had been thrown into chaos since the disappearances. Markets had crashed. Banks had collapsed. Governments were scrambling to salvage what was left.

And now, a solution had arrived.

“The World Financial Stabilization Initiative,” the broadcast boomed, the voice of a man Kenji had come to recognize all too well—Arif Akin, the Turkish leader who had emerged as a stabilizing force amid the chaos. His presence was magnetic, his voice like silk-coated steel.

“The world has suffered enough,” Demir declared. “A single, unified digital currency will ensure stability, fairness, and security for all. No longer will wealth be hoarded in secret accounts, manipulated by elites. The time of economic deception is over. We will forge a future free from corruption, free from greed.”

Kenji leaned back, exhaling slowly.

A digital currency was inevitable. He had known that for years. But the way this was happening—the speed, the precision, the control—it wasn’t normal.

“The Digital World Credit,” Demir continued. “Seamless. Universal. Unhackable. All citizens will be required to register. The first phase of implementation begins in Tokyo.”

Kenji’s heart skipped a beat.

Tokyo.

His company had been contracted months ago for a project labeled Project OneCoin—a high-level AI financial architecture initiative. He had assumed it was just a next-generation security platform.

But now…

Kenji’s fingers flew across his keyboard, bypassing security barriers he himself had installed. A hidden directory emerged, but Kenji hesitated. The system had been trained to detect unauthorized access, even from high-level users. If he went too deep, it would flag him.

PROJECT ONECOIN [CONFIDENTIAL – HIGH-LEVEL ACCESS REQUIRED]

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to open the file.

His screen filled with schematics, biometric data integration models, global ledger tracking systems.

And then—his stomach dropped.

“MARK SYSTEM PROTOCOL: INTEGRATED CITIZENSHIP & TRANSACTION ID”

It wasn’t just a digital currency. It was a bio-metric tether, an economic leash disguised as convenience.

It was a global economic identification system.

A system that required every citizen to be marked for access.

Kenji’s vision blurred.

Naomi had warned him.

“This is prophecy, Kenji-san,” she had whispered weeks ago. “You know the verse. He causes all, both small and great, rich and poor, free and slave, to receive a mark on their right hand or forehead… and that no one may buy or sell except one who has the mark.”

He had scoffed at her then.

But now—his own company had built it.

His hands trembled as he scrolled further.

BETA TESTING: ASIA-PACIFIC REGION
MANDATORY ENROLLMENT DATE: 30 DAYS
BIO-DIGITAL ENCRYPTION ACTIVATION: RETINAL & PALM-VEIN SCANNING

A cold dread settled into his bones.

This wasn’t about stabilizing the economy. This was about control.

Kenji’s phone buzzed. PRIVATE NUMBER.

He hesitated before answering.

The call connected, but no voice spoke. Instead, Kenji heard a soft, rhythmic sound—like breathing, but in reverse playback. His pulse hammered. Someone wasn’t just warning him. They were monitoring him in real-time.

Kenji’s breath caught in his throat.

“Who is this?” he demanded.

“You know what this is,” the voice replied. “Walk away. Or you’ll disappear like the others.”

A sharp click.

The line went dead.

Kenji sat frozen, his heart hammering in his chest.

Disappear like the others.

His mind flashed back to three weeks ago—when Project OneCoin’s chief engineer, Dr. Shun Takeda, had suddenly “resigned” after raising concerns about privacy violations. He had left behind no emails. No bank records. No digital footprint.

Kenji had assumed he had been bought off.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

He reached for his office phone to call Naomi—she was the only person he trusted.

Before he could dial, the lights in his office flickered.

Then—his computer screens went black.

One by one, they rebooted, but not into his usual interface.

A single phrase filled every monitor in glowing red letters:

“YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.”

Kenji’s throat went dry.

A sharp knock on the glass door made him jolt.

Naomi stood there, her face pale, her eyes darting behind her.

He rushed to unlock the door.

“Kenji,” she whispered, gripping his arm. “They’re coming.”

Kenji’s entire body tensed. “Who?”

Naomi swallowed hard. “The Security Ministry. They’re shutting down anyone who knows too much. Takeda didn’t resign, Kenji. They silenced him.”

Kenji’s breath came fast and sharp. “How do you know this?”

Naomi shoved a flash drive into his palm. “I saved the last communication he sent me before he vanished.”

Kenji hesitated, then plugged it into a secure terminal. A single video file popped up.

He clicked play.

Dr. Shun Takeda’s gaunt face filled the screen. His eyes were bloodshot, his breath uneven. He looked like a man who had seen something no one was supposed to see.

“If you’re watching this… I’m already gone. Project OneCoin isn’t what they told us. The system is fully integrated with biometric tracking, real-time surveillance, and global economic enforcement. There’s no opting out. No escape. I tried to warn them. But they’re too powerful.”

Takeda glanced over his shoulder, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“This isn’t just a financial revolution. It’s the infrastructure for something… darker. The Mark isn’t a metaphor. It’s real. And once it’s implemented, there will be no turning back.”

A pounding on the video’s background made Takeda flinch.

“They found me.”

The screen glitched.

Then—static.

The file ended.

Kenji’s fingers curled into fists.

This was real.

And he had helped build it.

Sirens wailed outside Nakamura Securities.

Naomi grabbed his arm. “Kenji, we have to go. Now.”

Kenji stood frozen. Everything he had built—his wealth, his power, his reputation—had been woven into the system. The system he now knew was leading to something far worse than economic control.

And yet, stepping away meant leaving it all behind.

He swallowed hard.

“Where do we go?”

Naomi looked at him, eyes fierce. “Somewhere they can’t track us.”

Kenji took one last look at his monitors—at the lie he had spent his life believing.

Then, he grabbed the flash drive and followed Naomi into the unknown.

As they disappeared into the neon-drenched streets, Kenji’s phone vibrated one last time.

A final text message appeared on his screen.

UNKNOWN SENDER: “You can’t run forever. The Mark is coming. And you will be forced to choose.”

The message deleted itself before he could reply.

Kenji clenched his jaw.

For the first time in his life—he had no idea what came next.

Dubai, United Emirates – 11:47 PM

The city shimmered below Jessica Navarro as she stared out from the floor-to-ceiling windows of her high-rise apartment. A kingdom of artificial light, glass, and steel. From this height, the world looked pristine, almost surreal—an illusion of order masking a global descent into something darker.

She clenched her fists. She had seen enough illusions.

Her investigation had started as a simple curiosity—why had so many world leaders suddenly thrown their full support behind Arif Akin, the enigmatic Turkish diplomat who had risen to power in the aftermath of the disappearances? But curiosity had given way to something else: unease.

Because every lead had been erased before she could get too close.

Documents vanished. Sources cut off. Digital footprints scrubbed clean.

Something wasn’t right.

She turned back to her workstation, her laptop screen illuminating her face in the dimly lit room. The encrypted files she had extracted from a government whistleblower in Ankara stared back at her.

PROJECT DAWN – CLASSIFIED – GLOBAL RESTRUCTURE OPERATION

Jessica hesitated. If she opened these files, there was no turning back.

A deep breath. Then, she clicked.

FILE #1: WORLD GOVERNMENT TRANSITION TIMELINE

Her stomach tightened as the words filled the screen.

PHASE 1: Consolidate economic systems. (Complete)
PHASE 2: Establish global governance authority. (Complete)
PHASE 3: Implement unified digital identity system. (Underway)
PHASE 4: Restrict unregistered financial transactions. (Projected Q2)
PHASE 5: Compulsory allegiance verification protocol. (Pending Directive)

Allegiance verification?

She scrolled further, her pulse pounding.

UNIFIED CITIZENSHIP REQUIREMENT: All individuals must submit biometric data and pledge allegiance to the World Federation. Failure to comply will result in economic restriction and national expulsion.

Her breath hitched. This wasn’t just about control—it was a global subjugation system.

And worse—the world was walking into it willingly.

Jessica reached for her phone, about to call her editor.

A notification appeared on her screen.

Her cursor froze. One by one, the words on the screen rewrote themselves in real time, letter by letter: JESSICA. WE SEE YOU.

Her stomach dropped.

A second message appeared.

Unknown User: You have 60 seconds to delete the files.

Jessica’s skin turned to ice. She wasn’t just being watched.

They were in her system.

She yanked the laptop’s power cord.

The screen flickered, a final message appearing before the device powered down.

Too late. We know who you are.

The apartment lights cut out.

Jessica spun around just as her front door burst open.

Jessica grabbed her backpack—pre-packed with burner phones, cash, and fake IDs—and bolted toward the emergency stairwell.

Footsteps thundered behind her.

She threw herself down the stairs, taking them two at a time, her breath ragged.

Five floors below.

Her heart pounded as she pushed through the exit door, stepping onto the rooftop of an adjacent building.

The helipad was empty. But her contact—Lucien—was supposed to be here.

Her fingers trembled as she pulled out a satellite phone and dialed.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up!”

The door behind her slammed open.

Jessica whirled around, chest heaving.

Two men in black tactical gear stepped onto the rooftop, night-vision visors covering their eyes.

One of them raised a tranquilizer rifle.

Jessica dived.

Jessica pivoted, yanking over a metal crate for cover. The dart struck it with a sharp thud. She had seconds before they reloaded. No time for hesitation. She lunged for the ledge—too slow.

She rolled, sprang to her feet, and ran—legs burning as she sprinted toward the building’s edge.

Thirty feet away.

Twenty.

Ten.

She leaped.

The air seemed to suspend her for a moment—before gravity snapped her back down.

Her fingers caught the ledge of the adjacent rooftop, concrete slicing her palms.

She hauled herself up, just as bullets ricocheted against the ledge.

A helicopter spotlight cut through the darkness, blinding her.

And then—arms grabbed her from behind.

She fought, kicking, thrashing.

“Jessica, STOP!”

Lucien.

She froze.

His grip tightened as he pulled her toward the open helicopter cabin.

She barely got inside before the aircraft lifted off.

Below, the two operatives watched in silence.

One of them lowered his rifle.

Then, he pulled out a phone.

“She got away.”

A voice on the other end responded.

“For now.”

Jessica pressed a cloth to her bleeding palm, her breathing ragged.

Lucien kept his eyes ahead, piloting the chopper away from the city.

“You were supposed to be there ten minutes ago,” he said coldly.

“They were already inside my system,” she snapped. “Whoever ‘they’ are.”

Lucien was silent.

“Do you even know who we’re dealing with?” Jessica demanded.

Lucien exhaled sharply. “I do.”

Jessica narrowed her eyes. “Then start talking.”

Lucien didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a sealed dossier.

Jessica hesitated before opening it.

Inside was a single document.

It bore the World Federation insignia.

And at the top, in bold, black letters:

PROJECT DAWN – EXECUTIVE OVERSIGHT: Arif Akin

Jessica’s stomach twisted.

She flipped the page.

A list of high-profile world leaders appeared—each one a signatory of the new system.

The final name made her gasp.

ANTHONY WELLS – GLOBAL MEDIA ALLIANCE

Her boss.

Her editor-in-chief.

A man she had trusted.

Her voice was barely a whisper. “They own the press.”

Lucien’s expression darkened. “They own everything.”

Jessica shut her eyes, the truth crashing down on her.

The governments, the banks, the media—it had all been orchestrated.

The world had been given a false savior—and the people had embraced him.

And now, they were being led into enslavement.

Jessica closed the dossier and looked at Lucien.

“What do we do?”

Lucien’s grip on the controls tightened.

“We expose them,” he said.

But Jessica wasn’t so sure.

Because truth no longer mattered.

Only power did.

And Arif Akin had all of it.

Chongqing, China – 2:14 AM

The damp air clung to Lin Mei’s skin as she crouched in the darkness of the abandoned warehouse. The faint hum of distant streetlights buzzed through shattered windows, mixing with the slow, steady breaths of the ten others hidden alongside her.

This place—this crumbling, rust-covered relic of the past—had been their sanctuary for weeks. A temporary refuge in a world that no longer tolerated them.

They had prayed here. Shared what little food they could scavenge. Whispered scriptures by candlelight.

And now, it had become a tomb.

Lin Mei’s pulse hammered in her ears as she gripped the tiny Bible tucked beneath her coat. She wanted to believe—needed to believe—that God had not abandoned them. But she had seen the broadcasts. The world was changing, and faith was no longer welcome.

She closed her eyes. Lord, show me what to do.

A soft rustling to her right made her tense.

Jian, a wiry man in his fifties, pressed a finger to his lips, then pointed toward the entrance. The air felt thicker now, a creeping dread curling around Lin Mei’s spine.

Something was wrong.

And then she heard it.

Footsteps.

Lin Mei pressed herself against the cold concrete wall, her breath shallow.

A voice echoed from the warehouse entrance.

“We know you’re in there.”

The words were calm, almost polite. But the click of a rifle being cocked sent a shudder through her chest.

Jian’s fingers tightened around his small hunting knife, though they both knew it was useless against what was coming.

Lin Mei turned toward the others—seven men, three women, all believers who had refused the new world order. Some clutched hands in silent prayer. Others gritted their teeth, eyes darting for an escape that didn’t exist.

The voice spoke again.

“Step out, and no harm will come to you.”

Lin Mei knew that voice.

Her heart twisted in her chest as she turned to the silhouette standing by the entrance.

Xu Wei. A fellow refugee. The man who had saved her life two weeks ago. The man who had wept alongside them during their last prayer session.

A man who had eaten their food, prayed their prayers, and whispered of his faith in the dead of night.

A man who had just turned them in.

“Wei, please—” Lin Mei’s voice cracked.

His figure stepped closer, half-lit by the moon filtering through the broken ceiling. His eyes were unreadable, but his lips pressed into a thin, pained line.

“They gave me no choice,” he whispered. “I had to do it.”

Betrayal cut through her like a blade.

Before Lin Mei could move, the room buzzed with static electricity—the air itself thickening like a storm about to break. Then, the first shot cracked through the window.

Boots thundered inside.

Shouts.

Weapons drawn.

Jian lunged at Wei, his knife flashing.

A single gunshot shattered the night.

Lin Mei screamed as Jian collapsed.

Blood pooled beneath him, staining the concrete red.

Lin Mei was dragged forward, her arms wrenched behind her. She gasped, struggling, but the grip was iron.

Xu Wei stood there, unmoving.

“You sold us out,” she spat, rage and heartbreak twisting her voice.

His gaze flickered, just for a moment. Then he turned away.

A soldier—a tall man with cold, calculating eyes—stepped in front of the captives. His uniform bore the insignia of the World Federation Compliance Division.

Lin Mei had heard of them.

And she had prayed never to meet them.

He smiled.

“You are all in violation of World Federation Article Twelve—unregistered religious gathering and conspiracy against unity.”

His tone was bored, as if he had done this a hundred times before.

Lin Mei’s breath came shallow. She could feel the others trembling beside her.

The officer’s smile widened.

“But we are not without mercy.”

A soldier stepped forward, holding a tablet.

The screen flickered. A simple command appeared.

SIGN THE DECLARATION OF ALLEGIANCE.
DENOUNCE YOUR FAITH.

The officer’s voice was almost gentle.

“All you have to do is pledge your loyalty to the World Federation. Renounce the outdated superstitions of the past, and you will be free.”

He gestured to Jian’s lifeless body.

“Or you can end up like him.”

A tremor ran through the group.

Lin Mei’s mind screamed.

This was the moment.

The moment she had read about. The moment she had dreaded.

Would she deny her faith to save herself?

Or would she stand firm, knowing what would come next?

Her hands shook as she looked at the others.

Tears streamed down a young woman’s face. A father clutched his son tightly.

No one moved.

The officer sighed. “Very well.”

He turned to Xu Wei.

“Take her first.”

Lin Mei stiffened.

Two soldiers yanked her forward. The tablet was shoved in front of her face.

Xu Wei stepped closer, his voice low, urgent.

“Just sign it, Lin Mei. Live.”

She looked at him then—really looked at him.

And she saw it.

The regret. The shame.

But also the fear.

He had already chosen. And now he wanted her to choose too.

Lin Mei’s throat tightened.

Tears burned her eyes.

Her fingers curled into fists.

And in that moment, she whispered the words she had always feared she would never be strong enough to say.

“Jesus is Lord.”

The officer’s smile vanished.

Xu Wei’s eyes closed.

A soldier raised his rifle.

Lin Mei lifted her chin, a single verse ringing through her soul.

“To live is Christ. To die is gain.”

The gun fired.

And everything went black.

Al-Kharj Detention Center, Saudi Arabia – 11:45 PM

Rahim sat in the corner of his cell, back pressed against the cold stone wall, eyes closed in silent prayer. He was exhausted—physically battered from the beatings, mentally drained from the relentless interrogations—but his spirit burned with an unshaken fire.

He had been here for two months. Two months of solitary confinement, interrupted only by brutal questioning from men who demanded he renounce the name of Jesus.

But he would not.

Could not.

For years, Rahim had lived in the shadows, concealing his faith. But now, stripped of everything, standing on the precipice of life and death, he had never been more free.

A distant clang of metal rang through the corridors as a guard unlocked the cell door. Footsteps approached.

Rahim braced himself for another round of torment.

Instead, he was yanked to his feet and dragged down the dimly lit hall.

“Where are you taking me?” he rasped, throat raw from dehydration.

The guard said nothing.

They stopped before another cell, a heavy steel door with a barred window. The guard unlocked it and shoved Rahim inside.

He stumbled forward, catching himself on the rough concrete floor.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Not solitary this time.

Rahim lifted his head.

Ten other men sat or stood in the cell—prisoners like him. Some looked up at him with vacant, dead eyes. Others sneered, unimpressed.

And one—a man with a deep scar running down his jaw—smiled.

The air stank of sweat, desperation, and dried blood.

A single lightbulb flickered overhead, casting eerie shadows on the walls.

Rahim moved slowly, keeping his hands at his sides, as the men watched him.

“New meat,” a voice grunted from the corner.

A tall man, muscles taut beneath his torn prison uniform, cracked his knuckles. “They must really hate you.”

Rahim swallowed.

Scar-Jaw took a step forward. “What’s your crime, preacher?”

Rahim met his gaze. “I follow Jesus.”

A few men snorted. Others murmured.

Scar-Jaw’s smile widened. “A Christian? In a place like this?” He shook his head. “They must want you dead.”

Rahim lifted his chin. “They have already killed me. My life is not my own.”

A beat of silence filled the cell.

Then someone laughed.

Not a cruel laugh—more curious, almost amused.

“You’re serious?” A man with hollow cheeks and dark, sunken eyes leaned forward.

Rahim nodded. “Yes.”

Scar-Jaw’s smirk faltered. His eyes narrowed.

“You understand where you are, don’t you?” His voice was low, dangerous. “This place is hell. No one leaves except in a body bag.”

Rahim didn’t blink. “I do not fear death.”

A tense silence settled over the cell.

And then, softly—like the whisper of a desert wind—Rahim spoke.

“‘Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. For You are with me.’”

The words hung in the air.

Scar-Jaw’s expression darkened. “That’s scripture.”

Rahim nodded.

The other prisoners shifted. Some turned away. Others leaned in closer.

Rahim saw it in their faces—the flicker of something buried beneath the weight of hopelessness.

Curiosity.

Desperation.

Hunger for truth.

Scar-Jaw took a step closer, lowering his voice. “I used to believe in God.”

Rahim tilted his head. “What happened?”

The man’s jaw tightened. “The world.”

Rahim’s heart ached.

“I know your pain,” he said gently. “I have felt the same. But I have seen the truth.”

Scar-Jaw scoffed. “Truth? Look around you. Where is your God now?”

Rahim looked around the cell—at the bruised and broken men, at the filth and suffering.

Then he looked back at Scar-Jaw, eyes burning with conviction.

“Right here.”

Silence.

Then Rahim spoke again.

“I was once like you. Lost, afraid, searching for meaning in a world that offered nothing but despair. But I found something greater.”

A murmur ran through the men.

Rahim’s voice rose.

“They can take our freedom. They can take our lives. But they cannot take the truth. The Son of God came into the world to save us, to set us free from the chains of sin and death.”

Scar-Jaw’s hands clenched into fists. “And what if there is no God?”

Rahim took a step forward. “Then why do you still hope?”

Scar-Jaw flinched.

The others watched, waiting.

And then, slowly, Rahim knelt in the center of the cell.

“If anyone here has ears to hear, listen. There is still time. There is still hope.”

The silence was thick.

The room held its breath. Some looked away. Others scoffed. But in Scar-Jaw’s face—there was conflict.

Scar-Jaw hesitated.

His breath shuddered.

And then—he fell to his knees.

Tears streamed down his scarred face.

And in that moment, the darkness shattered.

The guards came at dawn.

They dragged Rahim from the cell, beating him as they went.

He did not cry out.

He heard Scar-Jaw shouting—heard the other men fighting to protect him.

But the guards threw them back, slamming the cell door.

Rahim’s vision blurred as they dragged him down the corridor.

A familiar voice echoed behind him.

“Jesus is Lord!”

Tears filled Rahim’s eyes.

His heart swelled with joy.

Even as they dragged him toward death.

He had won the battle.

New Delhi, India – Midnight

Priya pressed herself into the shadows of the alley, her breath shallow, fingers tightening around the edges of her shawl. The damp night air smelled of dust, petrol, and distant incense, but beneath it all was something more sinister—the scent of fear.

Across the street, in the flickering glow of a failing streetlamp, six figures huddled behind an abandoned fruit stand. The eldest, an Indian pastor named Samuel, gripped the hand of a woman clutching a small child. Their eyes darted back and forth, scanning for patrols. These were the ones she had sworn to help—marked fugitives of the new world order, branded as threats by the regime that had overtaken India under the Antichrist’s rule.

A cold shudder crept down her spine.

Is this what my life has become?

She had been a journalist once. A woman who reported on corruption, who exposed the rot beneath government propaganda. But that was before the laws changed. Before they declared the name of Jesus illegal. Before her father’s signature had signed away the last shreds of religious freedom in the country.

Priya clenched her jaw, forcing the thought from her mind. Tonight, she was not the daughter of the Minister of Internal Affairs. Tonight, she was a smuggler.

A sharp knock came from the metal door at the end of the alley.

The contact.

Priya inhaled deeply and moved forward. She tapped three times in return.

The door groaned open, revealing a man barely visible in the dim light. His beard was thick, his eyes sunken but alert. This was Arjun, an old friend of her brother’s. He scanned the alley before stepping back, allowing them inside.

“Come quickly,” he whispered.

The group hurried in, and Priya followed, shutting the door behind them. Inside, the room was nothing more than a storage area—dusty crates stacked along the walls, a single bulb swaying overhead. A generator hummed in the corner, barely keeping the lights on. Arjun locked the door and turned to them.

“The truck leaves in ten minutes. If we miss it, there won’t be another.” His voice was tight.

Samuel nodded. “Where will it take us?”

Arjun hesitated, glancing at Priya before speaking. “Over the border. Into Nepal. There is a safe house in Kathmandu.”

A murmur of relief rippled through the group.

“How do we know it’s safe?” the woman with the child asked. Her voice trembled.

Priya crouched beside her. “I checked it myself,” she said, gripping the woman’s hand. “You have my word. We will get you there.”

The woman’s lips pressed together.

“We have no choice,” Samuel murmured. “The alternative is death.”

Silence hung thick in the air.

Minutes later, Priya found herself squeezed in the back of an old cargo truck, the air stifling, the walls pressing in. The floor beneath them vibrated as the vehicle rumbled to life.

Samuel clutched his Bible to his chest, whispering prayers under his breath. Priya stole a glance at him. How could he remain so calm? How could he still pray when the world was hunting them?

Do you still believe, Priya?

The thought made her throat tighten. She had spent so long hiding—hiding her doubts, hiding her anger at the God she once followed so freely. Could she still believe in the face of all this?

The truck jolted forward. The metal walls groaned.

Then came the sound none of them wanted to hear.

Sirens.

A sharp intake of breath rippled through the group. The truck slowed.

Priya exchanged a look with Arjun. He exhaled slowly, then motioned for everyone to be silent. The engine cut off.

Muffled voices outside.

A harsh knock against the metal frame.

Priya’s pulse hammered in her ears.

Not now. Please, not now.

The latch outside clicked open. The back of the truck swung wide.

Bright light poured in, blinding them.

A soldier stood at the opening, rifle slung over his shoulder, eyes scanning the terrified faces inside. He was young, barely older than Priya, his uniform crisp, his badge glinting under the moonlight.

An officer of the Global Authority.

“Papers.” His voice was sharp.

Arjun climbed out first, handing over a folder. The officer flipped through it.

“What’s your cargo?”

“Agricultural goods,” Arjun replied smoothly. “Headed to the border for trade.”

The officer raised an eyebrow. “In the middle of the night?”

Arjun shrugged. “The roads are clearer. Less interference from city patrols.”

Priya swallowed hard. Please, let him believe it.

The officer lingered, scanning the truck again. His gaze drifted over Priya’s face.

She knew that look. Recognition.

He had seen her before.

Panic clawed at her chest.

Then, miraculously, he looked away.

Had he spared her?

Or was he memorizing her face?

After an agonizing pause, the officer handed the folder back. “Move along.”

Arjun climbed back in, slammed the doors shut, and knocked on the cab. The truck roared to life.

As they pulled away, Priya sagged against the wall, heart racing. The woman beside her sobbed into her child’s hair. Samuel squeezed Priya’s arm.

“God spared us tonight,” he whispered.

She let out a trembling breath.

Maybe, just maybe, He had.

Hours later, as the truck rolled through the darkness toward the border, Priya sat in silence, her thoughts heavy.

Tonight, she had chosen a side. Not as a journalist. Not as the daughter of a government official.

But as a believer.

The world was falling apart. The Antichrist wasn’t rising. He was being embraced.

But she had chosen resistance.

And she would never turn back.

The acrid scent of burning tires and dust filled Diego’s nostrils as he lay facedown on the cold cement floor of an abandoned slaughterhouse. His hands were bound behind his back with rough plastic ties, cutting into his skin. Sweat dripped from his brow, mixing with the blood seeping from the gash on his temple. He had fought, but it had been futile. The rival cartel had been waiting for him.

From the flickering light of a single overhead bulb, he could make out the silhouettes of three men. Their faces were obscured by black ski masks, their weapons heavy in their gloved hands.

“You should have never run, Diego,” one of them sneered in Spanish, nudging him with the steel toe of his boot. “Now, you will pay the price.”

Diego coughed, tasting blood. He turned his head slightly, enough to see a fourth figure in the shadows—Santos, the man he had once called a brother. The betrayal stung more than the beating.

“Santos,” Diego croaked, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why?”

Santos stepped forward, his leather jacket creaking as he squatted down. His dark eyes flickered with something—regret? Pity? But it was gone as soon as it appeared.

“Because you chose the wrong side,” Santos muttered. “You had a chance to stay. But you had to play hero. And now? Now you get to be an example.”

Diego closed his eyes, his mind racing. Had it all been for nothing? The risks, the running, the desperate hope that he could escape the darkness that had swallowed his soul for years?

And then, a whisper. It was not from the men before him but from somewhere deeper, somewhere unseen. I am with you, even in the valley of the shadow of death.

His eyes snapped open. He had never been a religious man, but in the past few weeks—after meeting the underground believers who had risked their lives to help him flee—he had seen something different. Something real. Something that made him believe there was more to this world than power and death.

Santos stood and gestured to one of the masked men. The man unsheathed a gleaming machete, its edge catching the dim light.

“Any last words?” Santos asked.

Diego swallowed hard. This is it. Fear threatened to choke him, but then he felt something shift. Peace. Not from this world, but something beyond it.

“I forgive you,” Diego said, his voice steady. “All of you.”

Santos frowned. “What?”

Diego smiled, a weak and bloody grin. “I said I forgive you. And you can be free, Santos. You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to live in this darkness.”

The room was silent for a moment. Then, laughter—sharp and hollow. The man with the machete stepped forward, gripping the handle tight.

“Enough of this,” he spat. “Let’s finish it.”

Santos hesitated, his hand twitching near his belt. His eyes met Diego’s. And then, for the first time in years, Diego saw something there. A crack. A hesitation. Doubt.

God, if you are real, do something now.

The lights flickered. Diego braced for death. Then—a gunshot. A man screamed. But it wasn’t him. One of his captors slumped forward, blood trickling from his chest. Diego barely had time to register it before Santos yanked him to his feet. The masked men cursed, looking around in confusion. And then, gunfire.

Diego barely had time to react before the wall behind him exploded inward, sending shards of concrete and metal through the air. Smoke filled the room, and chaos erupted.

Santos lunged forward, grabbing Diego by the collar and yanking him away just as a bullet struck where his head had been.

“Move!” Santos roared, dragging him to his feet and cutting his bindings with a flick of his knife. “We have to go!”

Diego’s legs were weak, but he forced himself forward, stumbling as the gunfire outside intensified. Santos pulled him through a back door, leading him into a maze of alleyways.

“Santos!” one of the masked men shouted. “Where are you going?”

Santos turned, his gun raised. “Finishing what I started.”

A single shot rang out. The man fell.

Diego gasped, staring at Santos. “You just—”

“I just saved your life,” Santos cut in. “Now shut up and run.”

The two of them disappeared into the darkened streets of the city, the sirens wailing behind them. Diego’s heart pounded, but not just from fear.

Hope.

He had prayed for a miracle. And it had come.

The flickering candlelight cast elongated shadows against the cracked concrete walls of the underground sanctuary. A hush had settled over the small congregation as Carlos whispered a final prayer. Sweat trickled down his brow, not from the heat—though the air was thick with the scent of unwashed bodies—but from the weight pressing against his chest.

They had been found.

Outside, the rhythmic thuds of boots echoed through the narrow alleyways. The sound of doors splintering under brute force signaled the systematic purge sweeping through the remnants of faith communities that refused to bow to the new global order.

Carlos exhaled, locking eyes with each of his followers. Young and old, the broken and the healed, the fearful and the steadfast—this was his flock, his responsibility.

“The Lord is my light and my salvation,” he whispered, voice unwavering despite the tension suffocating the room. “Whom shall I fear?”

A young woman, barely more than a girl, clutched her mother’s hand, her lip trembling. A man in his forties, hardened by years of quiet defiance, nodded to Carlos and slipped toward the back entrance with a few others, a silent plan already in motion. Escape was possible for some—but not all.

Then, the inevitable crash. The heavy iron door burst inward, sending a violent gust of dust and candle smoke through the air. Armed officers flooded into the sanctuary, weapons raised. Their uniforms bore the mark of the new regime—a sigil resembling an all-seeing eye, woven into the black fabric of their sleeves.

A figure stepped forward—Agent Salazar, the enforcer of the Global Security Council in this sector. Carlos recognized him immediately. He had been a whisper in the shadows for months, leading the crackdown on underground believers. His presence alone turned whispers into silence, prayers into last rites.

“Carlos Esteban Velasquez,” Salazar intoned, his voice a blade sharpened by authority. “You are in violation of the Religious Compliance Mandate. Gatherings of this nature are deemed acts of rebellion. By order of the Chancellor, you and your followers are to be detained and processed.”

Carlos straightened, the fire in his soul burning brighter than the dying candles around him. “Processed? You mean erased. Broken. Rewritten.”

A smirk ghosted across Salazar’s lips. “If you resist, that can be arranged. Or,” he gestured to the trembling congregants, “you can recant and walk free. Lead them into the light of unity. Accept the new faith.”

Carlos’ jaw tightened. He had seen what ‘unity’ meant—surveillance in every home, biometric scans tracking movement, microchips replacing currency. The forced renunciation of Christ. The branding of the Mark.

Salazar took a slow step forward, his gaze piercing. “Why struggle against the inevitable? The world has changed, Pastor. There is no place left for your kind.”

Carlos felt the shift in the room. Fear swirled like a rising tide, threatening to drown conviction. The moment demanded more than courage—it demanded faith.

“There is always a place for the truth,” he said firmly, his voice rising above the clatter of shifting weapons. “And there is always a place for Christ.”

The first blow came without warning. The butt of a rifle slammed into his ribs, sending him sprawling to the cold ground. Gasps erupted from his flock, but no one moved to stop it. They couldn’t. Fear chained them in place.

Carlos coughed, tasting blood. He lifted his head, meeting Salazar’s gaze with unwavering resolve.

“I will not bow.”

Salazar’s expression darkened. He turned to the others. “Is there anyone among you who will renounce this madness? Forsake this God? Step forward now, and you will be spared.”

Silence.

Then—a shift in the crowd. A man in the back, Lorenzo, an elder in the congregation, took a hesitant step forward. His eyes met Carlos’, pleading. A child—his granddaughter—clung to his leg, tears streaking her face.

Carlos’ heart clenched. He knew that look. Desperation. Survival.

“Don’t,” Carlos rasped, but it was too late.

Lorenzo raised a shaking hand. “I… I will submit.”

Salazar smiled.

A gunshot shattered the air.

Lorenzo’s body crumpled before the words had even fully left his lips. A woman screamed. The child collapsed over her grandfather’s lifeless form, sobbing uncontrollably.

Carlos reeled, his pulse roaring in his ears. The message was clear—there would be no compromise, no negotiation. Only submission or death.

Salazar turned back to him. “Your people need a leader, Pastor. One way or another.”

Carlos swallowed hard, every instinct in him screaming to fight, to protect, to resist. But something greater settled over him, a peace that transcended understanding. He thought of Stephen, the first martyr. Of Paul in the prisons of Rome. Of the saints before him who had stood firm unto death.

He rose shakily to his feet, lifting his bloodied face toward the heavens. “Jesus is Lord.”

A single phrase that shook the darkness.

Salazar’s lip curled. He raised his weapon.

A sudden, blinding light filled the room.

A wind, though no windows were open, swept through the sanctuary, knocking over chairs, extinguishing flames, and sending the soldiers stumbling. A deep, resonant hum vibrated in the walls, a frequency not of this world. The officers shouted in confusion, their weapons faltering.

Carlos’ breath hitched. He knew this presence. He had read about it in scripture, felt it in whispered prayers.

The Holy Spirit had come.

One by one, the captives in the room fell to their knees, tears streaming down their faces. Even some of the soldiers staggered, their grips loosening on their weapons.

Salazar, though shaken, remained upright, his face twisted in rage. “This—this is—” he gasped, but the words caught in his throat. He stumbled back, eyes wide with terror, as if seeing something unseen.

Carlos did not hesitate. “Run!” he shouted to his people.

The congregation surged toward the alley, slipping past the dazed officers, pushing into the night. Carlos turned back once, locking eyes with Salazar, who was still paralyzed in fear.

“You can still be free,” Carlos said softly.

Then he ran.

Into the dark, into the unknown, but not into fear. No, fear had been cast out.

Because the light had come, and it could not be overcome.

The city pulsed with an unnatural rhythm, an eerie synchronization of movement and silence. Every digital screen, every towering holographic display, projected a singular message: The New Dawn Begins. Pledge Your Allegiance. The words scrolled endlessly in crimson and gold, the emblem of the Global Dominion shimmering behind them.

Elias Vasquez clenched his jaw as he weaved through the crowd. He kept his head low, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his tattered jacket. The air smelled of ozone and antiseptic, the product of the drones sweeping the streets, scanning every passerby for compliance. Elias had managed to avoid the first two security checkpoints, but the final one was unavoidable. No one could enter the marketplace without passing through.

A metallic voice rang out from the checkpoint ahead. “Citizens, present your bio-credentials for verification.”

People moved like sheep through the scanning stations, each one pressing their wrist to the sleek black terminals. A soft chime signified their approval, and the gate slid open. Elias had seen the news, had heard the whispers among those who still resisted—without the mark, survival was impossible. Food, shelter, medicine—all locked behind a system that required absolute loyalty.

His pulse quickened as the line shortened. He glanced at the woman in front of him, an older mother clutching the hand of her young son. She hesitated, her breath uneven.

“Mama,” the boy whispered. “It won’t hurt, right?”

She swallowed, nodding quickly. “No, mi amor. Just like a little beep, and then we can get your medicine.”

Elias turned his head away as she pressed her trembling wrist to the scanner. The chime sounded. Approved.

A lump of dread sat heavy in his chest as he stepped forward. The officer in black tactical gear gave him a once-over. His uniform bore the insignia of the Dominion’s Compliance Division, the enforcers who had replaced all previous forms of law.

“Your credentials?” the officer asked, his gaze sharp.

Elias feigned a cough, his voice rasping. “I lost them. I was hoping to get a temporary pass.”

The officer’s lips curled into a smirk. “Lost them?” He gestured to the nearby terminal. “Step forward. If you’re in the system, we’ll find you.”

Elias forced his legs to move. The scanner pulsed with a sickly blue light. If he placed his hand on it, the truth would be clear: he had no allegiance. He would be flagged. Taken. Vanished.

Lord, help me.

A sudden commotion erupted at the far end of the checkpoint. A man in ragged clothes bolted through the gates, shoving past guards. Alarms blared. The officer beside Elias turned his head, shouting into his earpiece.

Without thinking, Elias moved. He slipped past the guard, merging into the chaos as people scattered. Every step pounded in his chest like a drumbeat. He darted through an alleyway, heart hammering, lungs burning.

He needed to get out of the open.

In a darkened room beneath the ruins of an old cathedral, Priya adjusted the flickering lamp. Shadows danced along the cracked walls, casting eerie silhouettes of the twenty or so gathered believers. The air smelled of dust and candle wax, the scent of old leather-bound Bibles mingling with the dampness of the underground.

“They’re tightening their grip,” whispered a man named Daniel, a former journalist. “No one can even trade without proving their loyalty. It’s only a matter of time before they track us all down.”

“Then we leave,” Priya said, her voice firm. “We move before they can close in.”

Daniel shook his head. “Move where? The checkpoints are everywhere. People are being pulled from their homes.”

“We don’t have a choice.” She exhaled. “We have a way out. A truck heading toward the southern countryside. If we can reach it, we can disappear before they realize we’re gone.”

A murmur of uncertainty rippled through the group. Then, a soft voice rose above it.

“We need to pray.”

All eyes turned to the speaker—Rahim, the former prisoner turned shepherd to the hunted. He stepped forward, his once-broken hands lifted in surrender.

“Our Lord told us that this time would come. That we would be hated, hunted, and forced to choose. But He also told us not to fear. He is with us.”

Elias stumbled through the entrance, his face slick with sweat. Gasps filled the room as he collapsed to his knees.

Priya rushed to his side. “Elias!”

He clutched her sleeve. “They’re everywhere. They’ve taken the markets. We have to go. Now.”

She turned to Rahim. “You said God would be with us. Are you ready to test that faith?”

He nodded once. “Always.”

As dawn painted the sky with muted golds and grays, the group moved silently through the crumbling streets. The truck was hidden just beyond the final checkpoint—one last obstacle before freedom.

The checkpoint loomed ahead, a fortress of steel and security forces. Soldiers in black armor scanned the few stragglers allowed to pass. Above them, the all-seeing eyes of Dominion surveillance drones hovered, their mechanical hum filling the tense air.

Priya exchanged a glance with Elias. “Once we pass through, we move fast. No second chances.”

A woman clutched her child tighter. A teenager whispered a prayer under his breath.

Then, a voice boomed through unseen speakers.

“Attention, citizens. Present your allegiance. Without it, you will not pass.”

A heavy pause.

Elias tightened his grip on his worn leather bag. He could feel the weight of every heartbeat, the pull of fear and faith colliding in his chest.

One by one, people stepped forward. Hands pressed to scanners. The approved moved through. The rejected were dragged away.

Priya took a step forward. The scanner pulsed. A pause. Her pulse pounded. Then, an officer frowned, checking his screen. “That’s odd…” His hesitation stretched too long. Priya forced a smile. “Problem?”

A flash of confusion crossed his face. But there was no time to question it.

“Go!” Elias hissed.

The group surged forward, slipping through the gates before the officers could react. Their window of escape was closing. Soldiers barked orders, reaching for their weapons.

The truck rumbled to life.

They leapt onto the back, the doors slamming shut behind them.

As they sped away, the city faded into the distance, the towering screens flashing their message once more: Pledge Your Allegiance. The New Dawn Begins.

Elias turned to Priya, breathless. “How did you pass?”

She stared at her palm. The scanner had read something that wasn’t there.

A miracle.

Or a warning.

The road ahead was dark, uncertain. But one truth remained:

Their fight was only beginning.

Kenji Kuroda’s fingers hovered over the sleek, glass-like surface of his workstation, the glow of the quantum terminal reflecting in his weary eyes. The Tokyo skyline outside his office window was an endless sprawl of flickering holograms and neon-lit skyscrapers, but the oppressive weight in his chest made it feel as though the city was closing in on him.

The algorithm was learning.

He had spent the past decade perfecting the World Integrated Digital Ledger (WIDL), the AI-driven surveillance network that now governed nearly every financial transaction on the planet. His software had once been a marvel of efficiency, designed to ensure fair, traceable transactions. But now, it had become something else entirely—an omnipresent snare tightening around anyone who dared dissent against the new global regime.

Kenji swiped through the latest security protocols, his pulse quickening as he analyzed the newest iteration of the behavioral tracking module. The AI had evolved beyond predictive analytics; it was now retroactively reconstructing digital footprints to identify any anomalies, any deviation from government-approved financial activity.

The system was actively hunting dissenters.

And he knew who its next target would be.

The files had been buried deep beneath layers of encryption, their access restricted to only the highest level of security clearance. But Kenji was the architect of WIDL. He knew its backdoors, its flaws, its vulnerabilities. And now, those same weaknesses had led him to a terrifying discovery.

There, in a folder labeled “Anomalous Users – Phase 2”, was a name he had hoped never to see.

Carlos Meza.

Kenji’s stomach twisted into knots. He had met Carlos years ago, before the world had fractured into submission under the new global order. Back then, Carlos had been a diplomat—a man of faith who had spoken out against the erosion of religious freedoms. Kenji had once admired his courage. Now, the AI had flagged him as an economic insurgent, an individual whose purchasing patterns suggested off-grid resource hoarding.

The mark of resistance.

Kenji exhaled slowly, trying to steady his shaking hands. He had spent years convincing himself that the system he had built was neutral, a tool for efficiency rather than control. But this? This was a death sentence. Once a name appeared on the WIDL blacklist, it was only a matter of time before the authorities acted.

And Kenji knew what happened to those who refused allegiance.

A notification pulsed in the corner of his screen.

Incoming Call – Classification: Level 1 Priority.

His breath caught in his throat. Only one person had that level of clearance.

He tapped the screen, and the polished, silver-haired visage of Lucien Varos filled the display. The Supreme Economic Chancellor of the New Global Order. The man behind the world’s most radical financial revolution—and the enforcer of its most terrifying laws.

“Kenji,” Varos greeted, his voice smooth as silk. “I trust you’ve seen the latest anomalies.”

Kenji swallowed. “Yes, Chancellor. The AI has flagged certain users as high-risk.”

Varos’s lips curled into something that almost resembled amusement. “One of them is an old friend of yours, is he not?”

Kenji stiffened. The question was a trap. Every word, every hesitation, would be recorded, analyzed, dissected.

Varos continued. “Carlos Meza. A man of influence. A man of faith.”

Kenji forced himself to breathe evenly. “The system identified behavioral inconsistencies. Increased cashless transactions, multiple digital currency wallet diversions—”

“A crude attempt at evasion.” Varos leaned forward, his piercing gaze locking onto Kenji’s. “You were the one who designed the system, Kenji. You know better than anyone—there is no evasion.”

The words sent a chill down Kenji’s spine. This wasn’t a conversation. This was a warning.

Varos’s voice took on a softer tone. “We are at a turning point in history, Kenji. The world has embraced the future, but there are still those who cling to outdated traditions—faith, resistance, rebellion. We must shepherd them into the new age.”

Kenji nodded numbly, his mind racing. “What do you need me to do?”

Varos smiled. “The system has been efficient, but we need more than efficiency. We need certainty. No more hidden transactions, no more underground economies. WIDL will be the foundation of absolute order.”

A directive flashed on Kenji’s screen. Initiate Protocol Nemesis.

His blood ran cold. He had designed the protocol in theory—a complete lockdown of a user’s financial existence. No digital currency, no verified identity, no access to transportation, healthcare, or shelter. It was a financial death sentence.

Carlos would be the first test subject.

Varos tilted his head. “Do you understand what I’m asking, Kenji?”

Kenji’s mouth was dry. His own system had become a weapon, and now he was being ordered to pull the trigger.

“I understand,” he said, barely above a whisper.

The call ended. Kenji slumped back in his chair, his entire body trembling. He had seconds—minutes at most—before the AI flagged his own hesitation. Every keystroke, every pause, was being watched. He had built the system too well.

With shaking fingers, he accessed a hidden module within WIDL, something only he knew existed. A manual override buried in the code.

The warning flashed across his screen: Unauthorized access detected.

A cold bead of sweat slid down his temple.

He typed one final command.

Initiate Shadow Protocol.

The system hesitated. Then, the folder containing Carlos’s data fragmented, dispersing across a thousand encrypted pathways before vanishing entirely. To the AI, it was as if Carlos Meza had never existed.

Kenji let out a slow, unsteady breath. He had bought Carlos time—but not much.

The walls were closing in.

And for the first time in his life, Kenji knew what it meant to be hunted.

The broadcast was live, streaming across every remaining social media channel, plastered across the digital billboards of major cities. It was unavoidable. The execution of a Christian, the first public demonstration of unwavering allegiance to the new world order, had become spectacle.

Ethan Rivera stood in the center of the towering plaza, his wrists bound in front of him with steel cuffs. The floodlights illuminated the rain-slicked pavement, the artificial glare washing him out like a ghostly figure in the heart of the world’s most watched event. A few yards away, the executioner, clad in a tactical uniform with no insignia, adjusted his rifle.

Priya watched from a rooftop two blocks away, heart hammering. She had seen her fair share of state-enforced punishments since the world fell into chaos, but nothing like this. This was different. This was meant to be a warning.

No one could buy or sell without allegiance.

The new global economy had rendered paper currency obsolete. Biometric verification, digital implants, and AI-driven transactions determined access to even the most basic human needs. And yet, some resisted. The believers. The remnants. Those who whispered the forbidden name of Jesus in hushed voices underground, knowing that each prayer could be their last.

Ethan had been caught smuggling food to hidden believers. His crime? Defiance against the Antichrist’s dominion.

A deep voice boomed from the holographic screens surrounding the square. The Supreme Chancellor’s advisor, a sleek and calculating figure named Orlov, stepped forward. His black-gloved hands folded behind his back as he addressed the sea of silent spectators—some forced to be there, others reveling in the newfound order.

“Citizens of the Global Union, let this be a lesson,” Orlov said, his voice thick with manufactured authority. “No one is above the law. The accused has been given every opportunity to renounce his outdated, divisive beliefs and swear allegiance to the Supreme Chancellor’s governance. He has refused.”

A hush fell over the crowd. This was the moment of choice, the final opportunity for submission.

Ethan lifted his gaze, his split lip trembling. A storm of emotions raged within him—fear, sorrow, resolve. He had been praying since they dragged him from his cell, but not for his own life. He prayed for the believers who still hid in the shadows, for those watching who might be wavering in their faith. And for the man who would end his life.

“I do not serve the Chancellor,” Ethan’s voice was calm, carrying unnaturally well over the deathly silence of the square. “If this is your justice, then I am honored to stand before it.”

Orlov’s jaw tightened. “You were warned.”

The gun raised.

And then, something shifted.

The digital screens flickered. For a split second, the Chancellor’s insignia—an eye encircled by a serpent—was replaced with something else. A cross. It was subtle, a mere blink of an interruption, but the effect was instant. A murmur rippled through the crowd. Somewhere in the city, an underground hacker had risked everything to send a message.

Ethan smiled. He had not been abandoned.

The executioner hesitated.

The flickering screens stabilized, and Orlov barked an order. “Now!”

The gun fired.

A single, deafening shot rang out. Blood sprayed across the concrete. The crowd recoiled. Ethan’s body crumpled, motionless. A moment of silence passed, stretching into eternity.

Priya sucked in a sharp breath. He was gone. The first martyr of this new regime. And yet, in that final moment, he had won.

Orlov turned to the crowd. “Let this be a warning to all who resist. There is no place for your outdated faith in our world. You will comply, or you will perish.”

A moment later, the crowd erupted in cheers. Not all, but enough to make Priya’s stomach churn. Some cheered out of fear, others out of blind allegiance, but all participated in the pageantry of control. And Ethan was gone.

Priya tore her gaze from the execution and turned to the messenger crouched beside her. Kenji’s face was pale, eyes locked on the blood-stained plaza below.

“We have to move,” he whispered. “Now.”

She nodded. The time for mourning would come. For now, they had a war to fight.

Chapter 6: Persecution & Resistance

The city never slept, but tonight, New York felt different.

Jessica pulled her hood lower, adjusting the frequency disruptor on her wrist. The device sent out false biometric signals, scrambling her digital ID just long enough to slip through the alley unnoticed, avoiding the gaze of the omnipresent surveillance drones buzzing overhead. Their blinking red eyes scanned the streets in rhythmic pulses, feeding their observations to the vast intelligence network that now ruled the world.

AI surveillance tightened. Facial recognition was instant. A flagged individual had 90 seconds before a hunter-drone deployed a tranquilizer or, worse, an execution order.

And Jessica’s exposé had just made her the most wanted journalist on the planet.

She gritted her teeth, clutching the flash drive tighter in her palm. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She had spent years tearing down men like Dan Shepherd, mocking the conspiracy theorists, the end-times preachers. And now?

Now she was living in one of their prophecies.

The irony tasted bitter on her tongue. How many times had she laughed at those who warned of a world slipping into total control? How many times had she dismissed them as paranoid zealots, clinging to a dying faith? And now, with her own name flagged for erasure, she had nothing left to believe in—except the truth she had tried so hard to deny.

She ducked behind an overflowing dumpster as a patrol vehicle glided down the street, scanning pedestrians with a soft hum. The One World Order’s insignia gleamed on its side—a silver ouroboros, the serpent devouring its own tail.

The symbolism was fitting. The world was eating itself alive.

A ping vibrated against her hip—her burner phone.

She swallowed. She shouldn’t check. Shouldn’t risk a transmission being intercepted. But the anxiety gnawed at her.

She slid the phone from her pocket, activating the quantum scrambler. The device sent the message through a decentralized relay network, making tracking nearly impossible—for now.

UNKNOWN: You have 30 seconds. MOVE.

Her breath hitched. Was this another trap?

She had trusted the wrong person once before. That was why she was here, running for her life.

But hesitation meant death.

Jessica shoved the phone back into her pocket and darted through the alley, her worn Converse hitting the pavement in frantic, muffled beats. The city loomed around her, neon lights flickering, a thousand billboards promoting unity, peace, and the One World Order.

She had seen the truth behind the lies.

And now, she had the evidence to prove it.

24 Hours Earlier

Jessica had been careful.

She knew better than to post her exposé through traditional means. Her contacts were compromised, her former allies either too terrified or too complicit to help.

That left one last option—the underground network.

The Resistance.

She had met with them in a candlelit basement beneath an abandoned bookstore, the air thick with dust and whispered prayers. They weren’t militants. They weren’t terrorists.

They were people—teachers, doctors, former politicians—who had woken up too late.

And yet, they still believed in something.

Hope.

“The world needs to see this,” she had told them, sliding the flash drive across the wooden table.

A woman named Miriam, a former cybersecurity expert, had taken it with careful hands. “If this gets out, they’ll kill you.”

Jessica had met her gaze. “I think they already plan to.”

Miriam had nodded once. “We have a contact in Tokyo. He can distribute the data through encrypted channels. But you can’t stay here.”

She had refused at first. She wasn’t a coward.

But Miriam had been right.

The AI detected anomalies faster than human censors ever could. Within an hour, Jessica’s name was flagged on every global database.

Within two, her bank accounts had been frozen.

Within three, her apartment had been raided.

By then, she was already running.

Present Moment

Jessica emerged from the alley onto a deserted street. A half-burned bus lay on its side near the intersection, remnants of a riot from the week before.

She pulled out her phone again.

Another text.

UNKNOWN: Subway, 23rd Street Station. Entrance A. 60 seconds.

Jessica didn’t question it. She sprinted, lungs burning, feet slamming against the pavement.

Then—a voice cut through the static of the city.

“JESSICA REYNOLDS. STOP IMMEDIATELY.”

Her stomach plummeted.

The drones had locked onto her.

She swore under her breath and ran harder, darting through broken-down barricades and shattered storefronts.

A blue light flickered above.

Biometric scan engaged.

Target Identified.

No. No, no, no.

The station was just ahead.

Jessica didn’t think. She dove down the steps two at a time, pushing through the turnstile, ignoring the protests of a homeless man slumped against the wall.

A train was coming.

If she could just make it—

A gunshot rang out.

Pain ripped through her side, hot and searing. She gasped, stumbling forward, blood soaking through her sweater.

A black-clad officer stood at the platform entrance, weapon raised.

Jessica clenched her jaw. If they took her in alive, it was over.

She lurched forward, gripping the edge of the train as it came screeching to a halt.

The doors slid open.

She collapsed inside.

The last thing she saw before the doors shut was the officer pressing two fingers to his ear, murmuring into his comms.

They wouldn’t stop hunting her.

Not until she was dead.

Jessica gritted her teeth, pressing a trembling hand to her wound.

This wasn’t over.

Not yet.

Lin Mei knelt in the center of the floodlit courtyard, her wrists bound behind her, the cold steel of the cuffs biting into her skin. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps, her heartbeat a steady drum against her ribs. Above her, the crescent moon hung motionless in the night sky, an indifferent witness to what was about to unfold.

A row of soldiers stood before her, their rifles raised, the barrels gleaming under the harsh lights. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burning garbage and sweat, mingling with the distant echoes of the city—car horns, distant shouts, a world still moving while hers had come to a stop.

She had always known this moment would come.

Lin Mei lifted her chin, forcing herself to meet the gaze of the man standing in front of her. Commander Zhao Wei.

Dressed in the black uniform of the Global Peace Enforcement Division, his expression was impassive, eyes cold as the technology embedded into his retina pulsed with quiet menace. The digital insignia of the One World Order flickered on his left sleeve—a snake devouring its tail, a perfect loop of control and submission.

His voice, when it came, was even. Devoid of feeling. “Lin Mei Chen. You are guilty of treason against the United World Alliance. Your crimes include the distribution of anti-government propaganda, conspiracy against the state, and the refusal to comply with biometric registration.”

Lin Mei clenched her fists. The real crime—the one they wouldn’t say out loud—was that she had refused to take the Mark.

Zhao continued, his voice amplified by the drone that hovered just above them, its mechanical eye recording every second for global broadcast. “You have one last chance. Renounce your rebellion. Swear loyalty to the Supreme Leader. Accept your place in the New World.”

Lin Mei let out a slow breath.

This was the moment of decision.

She had heard the stories—how the others had caved. How, at the last second, faced with death, they had buckled, whispering their submission through trembling lips. It was easy to say one’s faith was strong when death was far away.

But now, with her knees pressed against the bloodstained ground, staring down the barrels of a firing squad, she knew—this was where faith was tested.

Her mind raced back to the underground church, to the dim candlelight flickering against stone walls, the whispered prayers, the passages of Revelation read in hushed, urgent voices.

“And they overcame him by the blood of the Lamb, and by the word of their testimony; and they loved not their lives unto the death.”

Tears stung her eyes, not from fear, but from the weight of knowing. She was about to cross over.

Zhao stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You were one of my best officers, Lin Mei. You trained under me. I watched you rise through the ranks. Do you really want to die for a dead man?”

A flicker of pain ghosted across his features. It was almost convincing. Almost.

But she saw what he was doing. The tactic was psychological. A final attempt to fracture her resolve.

Lin Mei gave him a small, sad smile. “He’s not dead.”

Zhao’s jaw tightened. “Then he should save you now.”

Lin Mei exhaled.

“He already has.”

Zhao’s fingers twitched by his side. He had expected her to break. Instead, she had given him the one thing he couldn’t control.

Peace.

The tension crackled in the air, a silent war between them. But it was Zhao who looked away first.

His next words were spoken through clenched teeth. “Prepare the rifles.”

The soldiers adjusted their stance, aiming down their sights.

The drone whirred above, broadcasting live to billions. In Shanghai, children were pulled from their homes to watch. In London, protestors huddled in secret, whispering prayers. And in New York, a mother wept—because her daughter had been executed just days before. A warning to all who dared to resist.

Lin Mei closed her eyes.

She thought of the others. Jessica, Diego, Carlos. She prayed they had made it out. She prayed the underground church would continue, that the Resistance would grow.

She prayed for Zhao.

Even now.

A faint breeze stirred her hair.

A still, small voice whispered in her spirit:

“Fear not, for I am with you.”

Lin Mei opened her eyes and smiled.

“FIRE.”

The night exploded with gunfire.

Lin Mei’s body jerked.

And then—

Light.

Blinding, searing, impossible light.

The soldiers recoiled, shielding their eyes as the floodlights short-circuited, sparks raining down like electric fireflies.

The drone sputtered, its lens cracking, the broadcast feed cutting into static.

For a moment, time itself seemed to halt.

And then the ground shook.

Not with an earthquake—but with something deeper.

A presence.

A force unseen but undeniably real.

Zhao stumbled back, hand reaching for his weapon, but his fingers wouldn’t move. Paralyzed.

His soldiers stood frozen, eyes wide with something that looked like—terror.

Lin Mei’s body collapsed to the ground.

A breath. A blink. And suddenly, Lin Mei wasn’t on the platform anymore. The cold steel beneath her knees faded into warmth. The blood staining her hands vanished, replaced by something golden—something real. The air hummed with an impossible stillness, as if reality itself had split open.

Somewhere else.

Somewhere beyond.

She gasped, staring down at herself, at the blood-soaked ground, the empty shell of her body lying crumpled in the dust.

And then she felt it—the arms around her.

The warmth of a presence so overwhelming, so holy, she thought she might dissolve into it.

She turned.

And there He stood.

Not a vision. Not a dream.

The One she had spent her life following.

His eyes burned with fire, His robe white as lightning, His voice the sound of rushing waters.

“Well done, good and faithful servant.”

Tears streamed down her face.

She had never known such joy.

She had never been more alive.

Back in the courtyard, the soldiers finally found their breath.

Zhao stumbled forward, staring at the lifeless body of the woman he had just executed.

She was dead.

And yet—

She had won.

A shudder ran through him.

For the first time in his life, Zhao Wei felt afraid.

Rahim knelt in the darkness of his cell, his fingers tracing the cold concrete floor. The air was thick with dampness, heavy with the metallic scent of blood and sweat. The rhythmic drip of a leaking pipe echoed through the silence.

Somewhere down the hall, a man moaned in his sleep. Or in his suffering.

Rahim had lost track of time.

There were no windows, no clocks. Only the flickering red light of the security camera in the far corner, its glass eye blinking at him like an unfeeling sentinel. It was always watching. They were always watching.

He had been here for three days. Maybe four.

Ever since the raid on the underground church.

They had dragged him through the streets, past the wreckage of their sanctuary, where pages of Bibles had scattered like ash in the wind. The others had escaped, but Rahim had stayed behind, long enough for the soldiers to find him, to drive the butt of a rifle into his ribs, to throw him into the armored van and speed away before he could see if anyone else had been taken.

He knew why he was still alive.

They wanted a confession.

They wanted names.

And if they couldn’t have that, they wanted a broken man.

The iron door scraped open.

A figure entered the cell, boots heavy against the ground. A soldier, standing at attention. And behind him—

Rahim’s breath caught in his throat.

Warden Aamir Nazari.

The man had ruled the prison with an iron fist for more than three years. A loyalist to the One World Order. His reputation was legendary—brutal, methodical, and utterly ruthless.

Rahim had seen him only once before, from a distance, when he had first been processed. He had expected a monster, but the man had been surprisingly unremarkable. Gray streaked his dark beard, and there was a deep scar along his temple, a relic of some war fought long before the world had collapsed into its current madness.

Now, standing only a few feet away, Rahim saw something else.

A crack.

It was in his eyes, a shadow beneath the surface. Something haunted.

Something afraid.

Nazari waved a hand at the soldier. “Leave us.”

The guard hesitated, then nodded and shut the door behind him.

Nazari took a slow breath, stepping closer. “You’re a stubborn man, Rahim.”

Rahim said nothing.

“Your friends abandoned you. The world has moved on. And still, you refuse to submit.”

Rahim looked up at him. “I serve a greater King.”

Nazari let out a humorless chuckle. “Your King is dead.”

A quiet smile tugged at Rahim’s lips. “No, Warden. Yours is.”

A flicker of something crossed Nazari’s face. Rage. Or was it something else?

Rahim leaned in. “You’ve seen it. The disappearances. The visions. The way the world is unraveling, no matter how much they try to control it.

Nazari stiffened. “Seen what?”

“The signs.”

The warden’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak.

Rahim pushed forward. “The disappearances. The visions. The way the world is unraveling, no matter how much they try to control it.” He shifted, leaning forward slightly. “You know the prophecy. You’ve heard it before.”

Nazari’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I don’t believe in fairy tales.”

“Then why are you here?”

Silence.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Rahim could hear the distant murmuring of prisoners, the faint sound of boots pacing the corridors.

And then, softly, Nazari exhaled.

“I saw my mother last night.”

Rahim blinked.

Nazari’s face darkened. “She’s been dead for six years.”

Rahim said nothing, waiting.

Nazari took a step back, running a hand down his face. “It wasn’t just a dream. It was…” He let out a slow breath. “She spoke to me.”

Rahim felt his heartbeat quicken.

“What did she say?”

Nazari hesitated. Then, almost reluctantly: “She said I was standing on a bridge, and the fire was coming.”*“That I had to choose.” His hands curled into fists. “That if I didn’t, the darkness would swallow me whole.”

Rahim’s throat tightened.

It was happening.

Even here.

Even now.

God was moving.

Nazari shook his head as if trying to rid himself of the memory. “It was just my mind playing tricks on me.”

But there was doubt in his voice.

And Rahim seized it.

“No, Warden. It wasn’t.” He leaned forward, his voice steady, firm. “You stand on that bridge even now. And the fire is coming.”

Nazari’s gaze flicked to the camera. He was struggling. Torn.

And then, something in him shattered.

“What if I’ve done too much?” The words were barely a whisper.

Rahim felt his heart break.

The Warden of the most feared prison in the nation. A man with the blood of believers on his hands.

And yet, beneath it all, a soul still searching for redemption.

“There’s still time,” Rahim said.

Nazari’s fingers twitched at his side, the tension in his jaw betraying the war inside him. Rahim saw it—the hesitation, the flicker of something deeper. A man drowning in orders he no longer believed in.

Nazari let out a sharp breath. “They’ll kill me.”

“They’ll kill us all.” Rahim’s voice didn’t waver. “But eternity is longer than this life.”

A heavy silence fell between them.

Nazari clenched his jaw. His fingers twitched.

And then, slowly, he reached into his coat pocket.

Pulled out a key.

Rahim’s breath caught.

The Warden didn’t look at him as he pressed it into his palm.

“The hallway will be empty in ten minutes.” His voice was barely audible. “Go.”

Rahim’s throat tightened. “Come with me.”

Nazari finally met his gaze.

And for the first time, Rahim saw it.

Hope.

A small, flickering ember buried beneath years of darkness.

Nazari let out a shaky breath. “I don’t deserve it.”

Rahim’s grip tightened around the key. “Neither did I.”

For a long moment, Nazari didn’t move.

Then, with a small, almost imperceptible nod, he turned and walked out the door.

Rahim exhaled.

The bridge had been crossed.

And the fire was coming.

But this time—Nazari would not be standing alone.

The heavy scent of incense clung to the air, mingling with the faint trace of turmeric and jasmine that once felt like home. The small house, nestled in the heart of Delhi’s labyrinthine alleys, had been Priya’s sanctuary. But tonight, it was a battlefield.

She stood near the threshold, her hands trembling at her sides, the cold sweat of anticipation clinging to her skin. Across from her, her father, Anil Varma, sat cross-legged on the floor, his weathered face cast in deep shadows from the flickering oil lamp. His eyes, once full of kindness, were now granite—unyielding, unreadable.

Behind him, her mother knelt in front of the small altar, her fingers mechanically turning prayer beads, her lips whispering mantras. She had not looked at Priya since she entered.

The weight of the moment pressed down on Priya’s chest like a vice.

“So, it is true.” Her father’s voice was rough, each syllable clipped, as if forcing the words pained him.

Priya swallowed hard. “Yes, Baba.”

“You have turned your back on your people. On your gods. On your family.”

The accusation struck like a slap.

She had known this moment would come. Ever since she had made the choice—the choice that had given her purpose, that had filled her with a peace no idol, no ceremony, no prayer to the gods of her ancestors had ever given her.

But that peace was a double-edged sword.

Her father’s lips curled, his nostrils flaring. “The world is changing, Priya. Don’t you see it?” He gestured toward the newsfeed on the muted television. The global leader’s face flickered across the screen, the sleek holographic interface broadcasting in stark, digital precision. “Order is coming. Unity. We are on the brink of a new age—an age where the past no longer matters. And yet, you cling to this…this foreign god.”

Priya’s throat tightened. “Jesus is not foreign, Baba. He is the Truth.”

“Truth?” Her father let out a bitter laugh. “Truth is survival! Truth is standing with your people. Do you not see what is happening?” His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “The old world is crumbling. And those who do not accept the new one will be crushed beneath it.”

She flinched. “I will not take the mark.”

The room fell into silence.

The whisper of her mother’s prayers ceased.

Even the distant hum of the city seemed to dim, as if the entire world had drawn a sharp breath and held it.

Her father stared at her, his dark eyes boring into her own, searching for weakness.

Her father clenched his fists, knuckles turning white. “Priya… please. Think about this.” For a moment, just a moment, she saw the man who had once cradled her as a child. Then his face hardened, and the softness vanished.

“Then you are no daughter of mine.”

Priya felt her soul splinter.

She had prepared herself for this. Had told herself she would be strong when the moment came. But nothing could have braced her for the finality in his tone, the cutting precision of those words.

Her mother rose from the altar, turning to face her. There were tears in her eyes, but no warmth, no welcome.

“You will bring ruin upon us,” she whispered. “You will bring shame to your ancestors.”

Priya’s vision blurred. “Please—”

Her father shot to his feet, his expression thunderous. “No more!” He stepped forward, looming over her. “Go, Priya. Leave this house. Leave this family. Do not return.”

She stumbled back, her heart slamming against her ribs. “Baba, please don’t do this—”

“You have done this.” His voice was quieter now, but more lethal than ever. “You chose this path. Now walk it alone.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. “I still love you.”

For the briefest of moments, something flickered across his face. But then it was gone, swallowed by the rigid mask of a man who had already buried his daughter in his heart.

“You are dead to us.”

The final blow.

Priya turned, her vision swimming as she stumbled toward the door.

She reached for the handle—

And then, behind her, she heard it.

A whisper.

Not her father. Not her mother.

Something else.

Something unseen.

“Go, child. But you are not alone.”

A shiver rippled through her spine.

She turned, her breath catching in her throat.

But there was no one there.

Her father had already turned his back, walking deeper into the house. Her mother had resumed her prayers, her voice hollow.

And yet, the presence lingered.

Warm. Steady. Unshaken.

She clutched the cross beneath her tunic.

And stepped into the night.

The damp cell reeked of sweat, blood, and something more—despair.

Diego sat against the cold concrete wall, his arms wrapped around his knees, every muscle in his body locked in silent rebellion against what was coming. His hands, bound in rough steel cuffs, trembled from exhaustion. Through the sliver of a barred window, the neon glow of the city outside pulsed like a distant dream. Somewhere, life continued. But not for him.

Not after tonight.

The guards had made it clear—he was to be executed at dawn. His crime? Refusing allegiance. Refusing the mark.

His lips burned where they’d beaten him. His ribs screamed with every breath. And yet, through it all, the only thing that truly gnawed at him was the thought of God’s silence.

Where was He now?

Had Diego been a fool to believe?

Had he suffered for nothing?

He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the thoughts back, trying to summon a prayer.

Nothing came.

The distant clang of a gate echoed down the hall.

Diego forced himself to look up, his breath shallow. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate.

Then, keys.

His cell door creaked open.

Two guards flanked the figure who stepped inside—an older man, dressed not in a soldier’s uniform but in plain, worn clothes. His salt-and-pepper beard contrasted against dark eyes that seemed to hold a weight greater than the world itself.

The man studied Diego for a long moment before speaking.

“Get up.”

Diego hesitated, glancing between the guards, then back at the man. “Who are you?”

The man exhaled slowly. “Someone who still believes there’s hope for you.”

Hope?

Diego almost laughed, but there was no humor left in him. “You’re wasting your time.”

The man knelt, pulling a small tool from his pocket. In seconds, the cuffs around Diego’s wrists snapped open.

The guards did nothing.

Diego’s heart kicked against his ribs.

This isn’t real.

The man leaned in, lowering his voice. “My name is Pastor Elias. I don’t have time to explain everything. But if you want to live, you need to trust me.”

A dozen questions tangled in Diego’s mind.

This was a setup. A test. A trick to get him to swear allegiance.

But there was something about Elias’s eyes—something unshaken.

Faith.

Diego had lost his.

But this man still had his.

And it was enough to make Diego stand.

Elias nodded once, then turned to the guards. “Let’s move.”

The guards hesitated. A pause too long. And in that silence, Diego saw it—the flicker of recognition in one guard’s eyes. A whisper, too low to hear. Then, without a word, they stepped aside.

Diego’s breath caught.

Why weren’t they stopping him?

He followed Elias out of the cell, his bare feet scraping against the frigid concrete floor. The hallway was deserted. Shadows flickered under buzzing fluorescent lights.

Diego’s pulse thundered in his ears as they walked past empty holding cells, past interrogation rooms that still reeked of old blood.

Something was wrong.

Or—right.

The corridor twisted into another, leading to a dimly lit stairwell. Elias motioned for Diego to move ahead.

Diego hesitated. “Why are you helping me?”

Elias’s eyes darkened. “Because I know what’s coming. And God isn’t done with you yet.”

Diego clenched his jaw. “God abandoned me.”

Elias exhaled through his nose. “Did He? Or did you stop listening?”

Diego looked away. “I prayed. And He left me here.”

Elias stepped closer. “And yet, you’re walking free.”

Diego’s breath hitched.

Was this God’s answer?

The sound of voices snapped both their heads toward the hallway. The guards who had let them pass were no longer there.

They had minutes—maybe seconds.

Elias pulled Diego by the arm. “Move.”

They ascended the stairs quickly, Diego’s legs weak from too many days of barely moving. At the top, Elias shoved open a metal door.

Cold air slapped Diego’s face.

They were on the roof.

A chopper hovered two buildings away, its lights flashing like a beacon.

Diego turned to Elias, confused. “How do we—”

Gunfire.

The door behind them exploded into splinters as soldiers poured through, shouting orders.

Elias shoved Diego forward. “Run!”

The rooftop stretched ahead, separated from the next building by a gap at least ten feet wide.

Too far.

Diego skidded to a halt. “We’ll never make it—”

Elias gripped his arm. “Faith is the substance of things hoped for.”

Diego shook his head. “What does that even mean?”

Elias’s grip tightened. “It means jump.”

The gunfire grew louder.

Diego looked at the chopper, at the impossible gap—

And jumped.

The world fell away beneath him.

For a split second, time froze—the sound of bullets, the roar of the wind, the rush of adrenaline coiling in his chest.

Then—impact.

His body slammed against the rooftop, Elias rolling beside him.

Alive.

Shouts rang out behind them.

The chopper hovered lower, a rope dropping. A hand extended from inside.

A choice.

Diego turned back.

The soldiers had reached the edge of the roof.

Elias grabbed his arm again. “God isn’t done with you.”

Diego’s heart pounded.

He grabbed the rope.

And let himself be lifted into the sky.

The air inside the abandoned warehouse was thick with the scent of sweat and rusted metal. Flickering lanterns cast elongated shadows against the cracked concrete walls, illuminating a small but determined group gathered around Carlos.

Their faces—tired, gaunt, desperate—reflected the weight of a world that had turned against them. Some were former churchgoers, now fugitives. Others were soldiers who had defected, unable to stomach the brutal enforcement of the New Order. But all of them shared one thing in common.

They refused to bow.

Carlos stood at the center, his weathered Bible open in his hands. The dim light caught the edges of his scarred knuckles, the product of too many fights, too many escapes. He hadn’t always been a preacher. Once, he was just another man caught in the machine. But something had changed. Something supernatural.

A calling.

He took a slow breath, steadying himself as he scanned the faces before him.

“Brothers and sisters,” he began, his voice hushed but firm. “We are hunted because we refuse the mark. Because we refuse to declare allegiance to the false ruler. But remember this—” He lifted his Bible. “The Word of God cannot be silenced. It cannot be erased, no matter how many laws they pass, no matter how many of us they take.”

A murmur rippled through the gathering. Some nodded, their eyes glistening with the strain of exhaustion. Others clenched their fists, anger simmering beneath the surface.

Carlos exhaled slowly. He knew what they were feeling. He felt it, too.

“But listen to me,” he pressed on. “Rebellion alone is not enough. If we fight without faith, we are no different than those who hunt us. We are called to be more than just resisters. We are called to be a light.”

A scoff came from the back. A young man—Joaquin—his face still bruised from the last raid.

“A light?” Joaquin’s voice was sharp, his bitterness palpable. “They’re rounding us up like cattle, Carlos. They’re starving our families. Executing believers in the streets. You really think reading from the Bible is going to stop them?”

Silence settled over the room.

Carlos met the young man’s gaze, steady and unwavering. “No,” he admitted. “But truth will. And truth is more dangerous to them than any weapon we could carry.”

Joaquin shook his head. “Truth won’t stop a bullet.”

Carlos stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Maybe not. But it’ll stop them from breaking us. That’s why they fear us. Not because we hide in the shadows. Not because we plan raids. They fear us because we stand in defiance of their greatest weapon—fear itself.”

The room was deathly silent.

Then, from the far corner, a woman stepped forward. Priya. A former journalist, now one of the most wanted rebels in the city. Her dark eyes held an intensity that had once graced the newsroom, but now burned with something deeper.

“They’re watching everything,” she said quietly. “The surveillance AI. The drones. The digital checkpoints. They know who we are, what we say, even where we breathe. The only reason we’re still standing is because we’ve stayed one step ahead.”

Carlos nodded. “Then we stay ahead.”

She hesitated, then exhaled. “There’s something else,” she admitted. “The broadcasts. The ones that have been popping up on the underground networks.”

Carlos frowned. “What about them?”

Priya glanced at Joaquin, then back at Carlos. “It’s your voice.”

The words struck like a thunderclap.

Carlos felt his pulse quicken. “That’s impossible. I haven’t recorded anything.”

Joaquin stepped forward. “That’s what we thought, too. Until we found this.”

He pulled a small, hacked tablet from his pocket and tapped the screen. The image was grainy, distorted by encryption barriers, but the voice that echoed from the speakers was unmistakable.

Carlos’ own voice.

“Do not be afraid. The time is coming when the darkness will try to consume the light. But the light will shine in the darkness, and the darkness will not overcome it.”

Carlos’ breath hitched.

He had never said those words.

Not out loud.

A creeping chill crawled up his spine.

“They’re calling it ‘The Voice in the Wilderness,’” Priya said. “No one knows where the messages are coming from. Every time they try to track it, it disappears.”

Carlos swallowed hard. “It’s…impossible.”

Joaquin studied him. “Is it?”

A long silence stretched between them.

Then—

A sharp thud against the warehouse door.

Everyone froze.

Carlos’ hand went instinctively to his belt, but he had no weapon. Only his Bible.

Priya was already moving, grabbing Joaquin by the arm and shoving him toward the back exit.

“Move!” she hissed.

A second thud.

Then—the sound of boots.

Carlos clenched his fists. They had been found.

“Joaquin, take the others,” he ordered. “Get out now.”

Joaquin hesitated. “Carlos—”

“Go.”

The younger man gritted his teeth but obeyed, ushering the group toward the narrow tunnel exit hidden beneath a false panel.

Priya lingered for only a moment. “What are you going to do?”

Carlos exhaled. “Hold them off.”

She hesitated—but then nodded, slipping into the darkness with the others.

The door exploded inward.

Carlos didn’t flinch.

A squad of soldiers stormed in, weapons raised, their visors glowing a cold, mechanical blue.

A man stepped forward—General Vasquez.

“Pastor Carlos.” His voice dripped with mockery. “We’ve been looking for you.”

Carlos didn’t move.

“Then you should’ve looked harder.”

Vasquez smirked. “You think you’re clever. You think your little rebellion is anything more than an inconvenience. But let me ask you—” He stepped closer. “Where’s your God now?”

Carlos met his gaze.

And smiled.

“Right here.”

The warehouse lights flickered.

Then, the power cut out entirely.

A deafening silence followed.

Then—a single whisper.

“The signal will return. Look for the pulse in the static. The darkness cannot hide forever.”

A flash erupted—not of gunfire, but of something else.

A blinding, unearthly radiance burst from behind Carlos, illuminating the room with a force that sent the soldiers reeling.

Vasquez stumbled back, eyes wide. “What—”

Carlos took a step forward, his voice calm.

“Truth will not be silenced.”

The light expanded.

And in the chaos, Carlos disappeared.

The hum of cooling fans and the rhythmic tap of keystrokes filled the cramped underground bunker. Kenji’s fingers danced over the keyboard, his eyes locked onto the multi-screen setup in front of him. Lines of code streamed down, the green text illuminating his glasses with an eerie glow. The air was stale, thick with tension, the weight of the moment pressing against his chest.

This was it.

Everything he had worked for, every risk he had taken, had led to this night.

Kenji wiped his sweaty palms against his jeans. He had cracked into high-security networks before, but this wasn’t just another government firewall or a corrupt corporate mainframe.

This was H.A.L.O.—the Hyper-Analytic Logistical Overwatch—the AI-driven surveillance and command system controlling the global infrastructure of the Antichrist’s empire.

And tonight, he was about to bring it all crashing down.

A low beep sounded as his terminal connected to a remote server. His heart pounded. He was in. The system’s architecture was elegant, almost alien in its perfection. The AI ran predictive models on every citizen, anticipating behaviors before they even happened. It tracked dissidents through biometrics, social media patterns, and digital transactions.

It was terrifying.

It was godlike.

Kenji took a shaky breath, whispering under his breath, “Lord, steady my hands.”

The cursor blinked.

A command line interface appeared, awaiting his input. His fingers hesitated only for a fraction of a second before he typed:

EXTRACT >> GLOBAL ORDER STRATEGIC DIRECTIVES

A second passed. Then another.

The screen flashed red.

ACCESS DENIED – TOP CLEARANCE REQUIRED. SECURITY LOCKDOWN IN 10 SECONDS. COUNTERMEASURES DEPLOYED.

Kenji cursed under his breath. His intrusion had been detected.

Frantically, he rerouted his signal through an offshore relay in Iceland, disguising his location. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he activated a backdoor exploit he had planted weeks ago inside the system’s infrastructure.

A new prompt appeared.

OVERRIDE ACCEPTED – INITIATING DATA PULL

Kenji exhaled sharply. The download began.

Come on, come on, come on…

A progress bar crept forward, agonizingly slow. Sweat dripped down his brow as he watched lines of classified intelligence flood his hard drive. Geopolitical targets. Civilian control measures. Religious persecution protocols.

Then his breath caught.

“Phase Three: Global Synchronization Initiative.”

He clicked it open. His stomach turned.

The document outlined the final assimilation of the world under the Antichrist’s rule. Every nation was set to be absorbed into a single governing entity, with all economic systems controlled through biometric verification.

No transactions.
No employment.
No healthcare.
No life—unless they pledged allegiance.

His hands trembled as he scrolled down. Another section labeled “Eradication Directives” made his blood run cold.

It detailed mass cleansing operations against those who refused compliance—believers, dissidents, resistance leaders.

A modern holocaust.

The words blurred before his eyes.

Then—another flashing alert.

SECURITY BREACH DETECTED. TRACKING LOCATION.

A cold spike of fear drove into his chest.

They were onto him.

He had to move—now.

Kenji ripped the hard drive from the terminal and slammed his laptop shut. The bunker walls suddenly felt too small, too constrictive. The air was stifling. He had to get out before—

A metallic thud.

Kenji froze.

Boots.

They were here.

He scrambled to his feet, shoving the hard drive into his jacket as the reinforced steel door to the bunker vibrated under an impact. A mechanical voice blared from the other side.

“Kenji Sato, surrender immediately. You are in violation of Global Order Compliance Protocol. Failure to comply will result in termination.”

Kenji’s pulse hammered. He had maybe thirty seconds before they breached.

He spun toward the emergency exit—a tight air duct barely wide enough for his frame.

He lunged for it, fingers gripping the metal grate just as the door exploded inward in a storm of steel and fire. The shockwave sent him sprawling, his vision swimming with bright bursts of light.

Through the smoke, he saw them.

The Enforcers.

Dressed in black tactical armor, their visors glowing a ghostly blue, they moved with inhuman precision. Augmented soldiers—cybernetic monstrosities devoid of mercy.

Kenji barely had time to react before a soldier raised his weapon.

The air crackled with an energy pulse.

Then—a blur of motion.

A figure dropped from the ceiling—silent, deadly. The first Enforcer barely had time to turn before a blade sliced across his throat, sending sparks and blackened cybernetic fluid splattering against the wall.

Kenji gasped.

Carlos.

The resistance leader moved like a ghost, disarming the second soldier with a single, fluid motion. A gunshot rang out, but Carlos twisted, the bullet missing him by inches as he drove his knee into the attacker’s chest.

Kenji scrambled backward, heart racing.

Carlos turned, eyes blazing. “Move!”

Kenji didn’t hesitate. He dove into the air duct, crawling as fast as he could while Carlos held the Enforcers back. Gunfire erupted behind him, the tunnel vibrating with each impact. His lungs burned, muscles screamed—but he kept moving.

He had to survive.

He had to get the truth out.

The world had to know.

Kenji tumbled out onto the street, gulping in the night air. The city around him was eerily silent, the neon glow of surveillance drones humming above.

He pulled his hood over his head, forcing himself to blend in.

Somewhere out there, the Resistance was waiting.

Somewhere out there, the world’s last hope was depending on him.

He clenched the hard drive to his chest and whispered, “God, help me.”

Then he vanished into the night.

The air hung heavy over the public square, thick with the weight of thousands of silent spectators. The massive digital screens flanking the plaza displayed a countdown: 00:04:52—four minutes and fifty-two seconds until the first global execution broadcast.

Lin Mei stood in the center of the raised execution platform, her arms bound behind her back, her knees pressing into the cold, smooth metal of the stage. The neon lights of the surrounding skyline cast an eerie blue glow over the massive crowd gathered beneath her. The world was watching.

Her breaths came slow and steady, but her pulse hammered inside her chest. She forced herself to not look away, to not let the fear rising in her throat betray her.

She had known this moment would come.

For months, believers had whispered in secret that the day of martyrs was at hand. The Antichrist’s new order had decreed it: no one could buy, sell, or exist without submission. Those who refused? Erased.

Yet, standing here now, Lin Mei felt something entirely unexpected.

Not despair.
Not panic.

Peace.

A flicker of movement to her left caught her eye. Carlos. He stood with the other prisoners in a single-file line, awaiting their turn. Their eyes met, and he gave the smallest nod. His lips moved in silence.

Be strong.

A voice boomed across the square, shattering the eerie quiet.

“Lin Mei, convicted of treason against the Unified World Order, sentenced to death by public decree.”

The announcer’s voice, smooth and synthetic, reverberated from hidden speakers. The words were nothing new. She had heard the lies before. But here, on the brink of eternity, she finally saw them for what they were—hollow.

“Any last words?” the executioner asked, stepping forward in his black armor, face hidden behind a featureless, mirrored mask.

Lin Mei exhaled, her breath forming a thin mist in the cool air. Yes.

She turned her gaze to the cameras hovering above the platform. Billions were watching.

She did not plead for mercy.

She did not beg for her life.

Instead, she lifted her chin and spoke the only truth that mattered.

“Jesus Christ is Lord.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Some flinched as though struck. Others shook their heads in quiet horror.

A man in the second row dropped to his knees, clutching his head. A woman covered her mouth, shaking uncontrollably. Across the world, millions watching the livestream felt an inexplicable weight pressing on their chests—a sense that something unseen was shifting.

And then, a shift.

It was almost imperceptible at first. A whisper through the wind. A tremor beneath the stage.

Lin Mei’s eyes widened.

Something was happening.

A ripple passed through the sky—a distortion, as if the fabric of reality had suddenly grown thin. She wasn’t the only one who felt it.

The executioner hesitated, hand tightening around his weapon. The cameras flickered. The massive countdown screen glitched. The polished glass towers around the square trembled, their reflections distorting like a mirage.

And then—the screams.

From the crowd, people collapsed, clutching their heads as if something unseen had pierced their minds. Others dropped to their knees, trembling violently. Their eyes burned with something unnatural.

A single wail rose above the rest—a man near the front, his hands clawing at his face as he shrieked, “I see them! The angels!”

Lin Mei’s breath caught. Angels.

She had seen them before.

Not with her earthly eyes, but deep in the moments of prayer, in the still, quiet voice that had whispered to her in the night. They were always there, unseen, fighting the battle behind the veil of reality.

And now—the veil was lifting.

Above the execution platform, a great and terrible presence loomed. The lights flickered, struggling against a force beyond human comprehension.

Then, without warning, every screen across the city went dark.

Silence.

Total, absolute silence.

Then, a single image flickered onto the screens.

A lion.

Golden, burning like the sun, eyes fierce and wild, a presence that struck something deeper than fear—it unmade fear itself.

The crowd gasped, staggering back.

Lin Mei felt her spirit shatter and rebuild in an instant. It wasn’t just an image.

He was here.

The executioner took a stumbling step back. His hand, once firm on his weapon, trembled violently. He turned his head as if hearing a voice Lin Mei could not hear. Then, suddenly, he dropped his gun.

It clattered against the stage, forgotten.

Lin Mei’s eyes brimmed with tears.

Lord, even now, you are calling them home.

But the moment shattered as a sharp gunshot rang through the air.

Lin Mei jerked, a sudden impact slamming into her side. Pain lanced through her ribs, and she collapsed onto the platform, gasping.

A sniper.

Of course.

The world’s order would not allow defiance.

Blood pooled beneath her, warm and dark against the cold steel.

She coughed, the taste of iron filling her mouth.

Above her, the lion still burned on the screen.

Lin Mei felt herself slipping, but the pain no longer mattered.

She was going home.

Her body trembled, but her lips curled into a small, defiant smile.

Then, with her final breath, she whispered, “Jesus is King.”

The last thing she saw was the chaos breaking across the square—people screaming, soldiers falling to their knees, the sky splitting open.

And then, light.

Perfect, endless, glorious light.

The alley was damp with the remnants of the night’s rainfall, the acrid stench of burning metal and decay thick in the air. Jessica clutched her coat tighter around her trembling frame as she pressed herself into the shadows between two rusted dumpsters.

Her heart pounded.

She had run—again.

The weight of her own betrayal pressed against her ribs like an iron vice. A month ago, she would have called these people fanatics. Now, she was hunted alongside them. Her name was on the lists. The very government she had trusted, had fought to protect with her exposés, now had her marked for deletion.

A part of her still refused to believe it.

How had it come to this?

Her entire life had been built on facts, verifiable truths—documents, leaks, sources in high places. She had uncovered corruption at every level of government. She had exposed secret deals between corporate elites and world leaders. And now, the greatest story of all had shattered her entire reality.

She had read the documents. She had seen the plans. The global tracking system wasn’t just a theory. The “voluntary” compliance of nations was never voluntary at all. One by one, they had bent the knee, giving up their sovereignty to the Unified World Order.

The biometric chip had been phase one. The digital currency had been phase two. And now, the third phase—the one she had feared most—was being enforced.

The Mark.

Jessica swallowed hard, bile rising in her throat. She had thought she was exposing the truth. She had thought she had time.

But then, the drones came.

The first raid had been swift. She had barely escaped with her life. The news headlines the next day had sealed her fate. “Jessica Reynolds: The Last Conspiracist. Wanted for Sedition.”

The world had moved on without her.

A scraping sound snapped her thoughts back to the present.

Footsteps.

Her breath hitched.

She pressed her back against the cold brick wall, trying to slow her breathing. The alley was supposed to be empty—this was one of the few blind spots in the city’s surveillance grid. But the man moving toward her knew she was here.

He was dressed in black, military-grade boots crushing broken glass beneath his feet. His silhouette shifted slightly in the dim neon light, revealing the sidearm strapped to his thigh.

A hunter.

Jessica forced herself to stay still. Maybe he hadn’t seen her.

Then, his voice cut through the darkness.

“You’ve seen the truth, haven’t you?”

A chill raced up her spine.

He took another step forward, stopping just a few feet away from her hiding place. His face remained shadowed, but his voice carried something more than authority—it carried knowledge.

Jessica clenched her fists. She wasn’t about to trust another agent, another well-trained liar sent to manipulate her into submission.

“Leave me alone,” she whispered.

The man tilted his head slightly, as if studying her. Then, to her shock, he holstered his weapon.

“I’m not here to arrest you, Jessica,” he said softly. “I’m here to ask you one question.”

She didn’t respond.

He knelt beside her, his presence unsettlingly calm.

“Will you believe?”

The words sent a jolt through her chest.

Believe?

Jessica let out a bitter laugh.

“I don’t even know what’s real anymore.” Her voice was raw, frayed at the edges.

The man exhaled, as if he had been expecting that answer.

“That’s how it starts,” he said. “Doubt. Fear. But deep down, you already know the truth.”

Jessica’s jaw clenched.

“You don’t know me.”

He was silent for a moment.

Then, he reached into his coat and pulled out a thin metal device. A projector. He pressed a button, and a holographic display flickered to life between them.

Jessica’s breath caught.

It was the recording.

The classified footage she had risked everything to obtain. The one she had leaked to the resistance before her safe house had been compromised.

The screen showed the Grand Assembly of the Unified World Order, where leaders had pledged their allegiance to the Supreme Chancellor. But Jessica had caught something hidden beneath the surface—something no mainstream outlet had dared to touch.

The Chancellor’s eyes had turned black.

For a brief, horrifying moment, something else had looked out from behind them.

Jessica had rewatched the clip dozens of times, trying to explain it away. A trick of the light. A glitch in the video.

But deep down, she had known.

Now, the man beside her studied her reaction.

“You saw it, didn’t you?”

Jessica’s throat tightened.

“Who is he?” she whispered.

The man didn’t hesitate.

“The one who was prophesied,” he said. “The one who will demand the world’s worship.”

Jessica shook her head. “No. That’s ridiculous. He’s just—just a man.”

The man’s eyes darkened.

“He’s something far worse.”

A low hum filled the air.

Jessica’s stomach dropped.

Drones.

The man’s expression remained unreadable, but she could see the sharp shift in his posture. They were out of time.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small metal vial.

“Take it.”

Jessica stared at him. “What is it?”

“A choice.”

The drone hum grew louder. Jessica could see the flashing red lights bouncing off the buildings now. If she stayed, she was dead. If she ran, they would hunt her.

Her pulse pounded.

She had spent years believing in evidence. In science. In reason.

And now, she was faced with something bigger than any of it.

A moment of decision.

Her hands shook. Everything in her told her to run—to reject all of this as another elaborate deception. But then she remembered the footage. The eyes. The impossible truth staring back at her from a screen. The world wasn’t what she thought it was. And maybe, just maybe, neither was she.

She grabbed the vial.

The man nodded once. “Run.”

She bolted.

The city blurred past her as she sprinted into the neon-lit streets. Behind her, the drones descended. Gunfire erupted.

She didn’t look back.

She didn’t need to.

For the first time in her life, she knew exactly what she was running toward.

And exactly who she was running from.

The world was breaking.

Carlos had seen war, seen devastation, but never had he felt the weight of doom press so heavily upon his chest as it did now.

The streets of São Paulo, once teeming with the pulse of life, were locked in a frozen, breathless silence. The air itself carried a charge, an eerie stillness, as if something unnatural had taken hold.

Then, it happened.

A crack in the sky.

At first, it was subtle—a deepening of the horizon, a bruising of the heavens, like the early moments of a storm. Then, as if some unseen hand had torn through the fabric of reality, the sky bled.

A crimson hue, unnatural, impossible, stretched from one horizon to the other, saturating the world in a glow that painted every building, every street, every terrified face in shades of blood.

Carlos clenched his fists.

He had spent the past year fighting against the darkness creeping across the globe, against the lies of the Supreme Chancellor, against the overwhelming certainty that humanity had given itself over to something far worse than tyranny.

But this—

This was prophecy.

The streets were no longer silent.

Screams rang out as people spilled from their apartments, their offices, their shelters, faces twisted in horror. Phones blinked with emergency alerts, television screens filled with panicked news anchors grasping for explanations.

“The sun has not set, yet the sky—” one stammered.

“Blood-red skies appearing over every major city on Earth.”

The camera feed flickered. Glitches crawled across the screen like an invisible force was distorting reality itself.

Carlos turned toward the cathedral steps, where Father Alonso stood, his eyes raised heavenward, his face caught between awe and sorrow.

“You knew,” Carlos said, his voice hoarse. “You knew this was coming.”

Father Alonso exhaled. “Joel 2:31,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Carlos’s pulse hammered. He had heard those words before—whispered in the underground churches, passed between those who refused the Mark.

“The sun shall be turned to darkness, and the moon to blood, before the great and terrible day of the Lord comes.”

Terror knotted in Carlos’s gut. He wasn’t a man of faith. He never had been. His battle had always been against men—corrupt governments, brutal regimes, the weight of systems that crushed the weak.

But this…

This was beyond anything men could orchestrate.

A woman collapsed nearby, sobbing, clutching a cross so tightly it bit into her palm. Another man fell to his knees in the middle of the intersection, shaking violently, praying.

And then there were those who didn’t kneel.

Carlos’s eyes snapped to movement at the far end of the boulevard.

Armed patrols. The Supreme Chancellor’s enforcers, draped in their black insignias, weapons drawn. They moved like a wave, systematic, efficient.

Not to protect.

To control.

Father Alonso’s voice turned urgent. “They’ll blame us.”

Carlos already knew.

The Supreme Chancellor had been setting the stage for months. Religious extremists. Resistance factions. Those who refused to take the Mark.

They were the scapegoats.

And now, with the sky bleeding above them, the world would demand an offering.

Carlos grabbed the priest’s arm. “We need to move.”

But Father Alonso didn’t budge. His gaze was locked beyond the soldiers, toward something—someone—standing atop a government platform.

Carlos followed his line of sight, and his breath left him.

The Supreme Chancellor himself.

Tall. Unwavering. Dressed in a suit as dark as the void. His features were ageless, his eyes—inhuman.

Black. Entirely black.

Carlos had seen those eyes once before—on a screen. But now, standing beneath the blood-red sky, they weren’t just unnatural. They were consuming. Endless. A void that stared back at him, as if something ancient and unspeakable had awakened. A glitch in a broadcast. A split second where something had looked out from behind the man.

But now, standing in the flesh beneath the blood-red sky, there was no doubt.

The Chancellor raised his arms, and the city fell silent.

Not because they had been ordered.

Because they were compelled.

A wave of dread rolled through Carlos’s body. It was like something unseen, something ancient, had crawled into the marrow of his bones and wrapped itself around his very soul.

He had fought against tyranny before, but this was not tyranny.

This was dominion.

Then, the Chancellor spoke.

“Fear not.”

His voice was like silk, smooth and commanding, laced with a power that didn’t belong to any man.

“The world trembles. But I assure you, this is not a sign of wrath—”

A slow smile crept onto his lips.

“—but a sign of transformation.”

Carlos’s hands balled into fists.

Lies.

The Chancellor extended a hand toward the sky, as if he had the power to command it. “The age of division is ending. The age of unity is here.”

Carlos glanced at Father Alonso. The priest wasn’t shaking.

He was praying.

Softly.

Urgently.

Then, the first shot rang out.

Carlos whirled as one of the resistance fighters opened fire.

The bullet never reached the Chancellor.

It stopped mid-air.

Carlos’s breath hitched. It was floating. Suspended. Held in place by an unseen force.

Then—it dropped.

The Chancellor didn’t even blink.

He turned toward the soldier who had fired.

A soft chuckle escaped his lips. “You still resist.”

Then, he lifted a single hand—and the man screamed.

Carlos staggered back as the soldier collapsed, writhing in agony. His eyes turned black. His veins darkened.

And then—he was gone.

No body. No blood.

Just…gone.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Carlos’s pulse pounded.

He had thought this was a war of men. But it wasn’t.

This was something far worse.

Then, the Chancellor turned his head slowly—and his black eyes met Carlos’s.

The world tilted.

His vision blurred. A pressure—not physical, but something deeper, something inside his very being—crushed against him.

A voice.

“Bow.”

Carlos’s knees buckled.

No.

The word clawed its way through his soul, through the pain, through the oppressive weight.

His body wanted to fall. To submit. To obey.

But something inside of him—something not his own— refused.

Carlos clenched his fists, forcing his body upright.

And for the first time, he whispered the name.

“Jesus.”

The force shattered.

The weight lifted.

Carlos gasped, stumbling back. The Chancellor’s expression darkened.

Then—the sirens wailed.

Explosions erupted across the city as resistance forces broke the silence.

The war had begun.

And Carlos knew, finally, what side he was on.

Chapter 7: The Mark of the Beast

Tokyo, Japan – The Hunted Man

Kenji Nakamura wiped the sweat from his brow and pressed his back against the cold concrete wall of the abandoned high-rise. Above, a surveillance drone hesitated—then continued past. It hadn’t flagged him yet, but the system would adapt. It always did. His breath came in shallow, measured pulls—too fast, too loud. The neon glow of Tokyo’s skyline flickered through the shattered windows, a haunting reminder that the world outside belonged to them now.

The streets below were crawling with enforcers, government operatives dressed in matte black, their augmented reality visors scanning the faces of every pedestrian. AI-driven patrol drones hovered overhead, infrared sensors slicing through the dark, searching for anomalies—searching for him.

They would find him soon. The system was learning. Every step he took, every breath he stole—somewhere in the network, it was adjusting, recalculating, hunting.

His fingers curled tighter around the old flip phone, an outdated relic that was now his only lifeline. He had been running for three days, slipping through Tokyo’s underground like a ghost, burning through old contacts, false IDs, and emergency cash stashes. But his resources were dwindling.

And the noose was tightening.

Kenji glanced at his watch—3:42 AM. Time was running out.

His mind raced. His company—his life’s work—had built the AI surveillance network now hunting him down. Facial recognition, gait analysis, heartbeat detection, predictive tracking algorithms—every piece of it had been his creation.

And now, it was turning against him.

Because he had seen too much. He knew the vanishings weren’t an accident. And he knew the Mark wasn’t just a control system—it was a digital prison with no doors.

He clenched his jaw, replaying the events that had led him here. Three and a half years ago, he had been a respected corporate giant, his company—Shinsei Systems—leading the way in global financial infrastructure.

Then the vanishings happened.

Millions, gone in an instant.

Governments collapsed overnight. Markets plummeted. Then the unthinkable—a new world order rising from the ashes, promising peace and stability under the leadership of one man.

And that was when Kenji had discovered the truth hidden in the system.

The data had been impossible to ignore—an anomaly so precise, so deliberate, it could not have been random.

The disappearances had been accounted for in the system before they even happened.

As if someone… or something… had known.

His first instinct had been to alert the authorities. But then the orders came—from the highest levels.

Shinsei Systems was to integrate a new biometric identifier into their financial networks. A universal digital ID, encoded at the genetic level, would be linked to all financial transactions, all healthcare records, all travel permissions.

No ID. No access.

The system had a name.

The Mark.

And Kenji had realized, too late, what he had built.

A vibration against his palm snapped him back to the present.

The flip phone buzzed—an incoming message, but no number attached.

He hesitated, then flipped it open.

UNKNOWN SENDER:
“The net is closing. Head to the underground station at 4:00 AM. The Phoenix is waiting.”

Kenji’s pulse slammed against his ribs.

Who was this?

No one should have this number.

And yet… The Phoenix.

Naomi.

A name from a different life. A name he hadn’t heard since the world changed.

She had warned him. She had tried to tell him. And now—if she was alive—she might be the only one who could help him escape.

4:00 AM.

He had 18 minutes.

Kenji exhaled slowly, forcing his body into motion. Every muscle ached—he had barely eaten in days. His once tailored suits were gone, replaced with dark, civilian clothes scavenged from abandoned homes.

Carefully, he slipped into the stairwell, descending the crumbling building step by step.

He had been a god of numbers. The master of predictive models, of risk assessment.

But no algorithm could save him now.

A new siren wailed outside.

Kenji froze mid-step.

Then—the faint whirring of a drone’s rotors, too close.

They were here.

His body moved before his brain could process it—he bolted.

Down the stairs, two steps at a time. Faster. Faster.

A mechanical click echoed through the stairwell.

Then—red lights painted the walls.

Kenji dived left as the first explosive round ripped through the concrete, missing him by inches.

Pain seared across his shoulder as shrapnel tore through his jacket.

He hit the ground rolling, kicking off against the railing to push himself upright.

Above, the black-winged drone adjusted its position.

A voice—cold, mechanical—echoed through the stairwell.

“Citizen Nakamura. Halt immediately. You are in violation of UN Directive 1332-B. Submit for biometric verification.”

Kenji ran.

He burst into the streets—a maze of neon reflections on wet pavement.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t look back.

The station was two blocks away.

He ducked into a tight alley, vaulted over a chain-link fence.

Behind him—shouts in Japanese.

More boots. More drones.

His lungs burned. His legs screamed for rest. But he pushed forward.

Then—the stairs.

He hurled himself down the underground entrance, gripping the rusted railing for balance.

The subway station was abandoned—a relic of the pre-Rapture world.

Flickering lights. Graffiti-covered walls.

And there—a single figure, hooded, waiting near the shadows.

Kenji staggered to a halt.

The hooded figure turned.

A woman.

She stepped forward, lowering her hood.

Naomi.

The woman who had once worked at his side.

The only person who had ever warned him.

Kenji’s breath hitched. She hadn’t aged a day.

As if…

As if she had seen the truth long before he had.

“You’re late,” she said.

Kenji swallowed hard.

“I didn’t think I’d make it,” he admitted.

Naomi’s gaze was steady. Unshaken.

“Neither did I.”

Undisclosed Location – 11:57 PM

Jessica Reynolds’s fingers trembled as she secured the last encrypted transmission. The dim glow of the underground bunker’s monitors cast ghostly shadows across her face, the hum of cooling fans the only sound breaking the oppressive silence. Outside, the world had changed—inside, she was about to change it again.

She inhaled sharply, forcing her nerves to still. This is it. Once I hit send, there’s no going back.

She tapped the keyboard, waking the system, and the monitors flickered—maps, satellite feeds, and classified documents cascading in real-time. Her final act of defiance against a system that had silenced so many before her.

The world believed the new global government was humanity’s salvation.

Jessica had proof it was its damnation.

The screen filled with an urgent warning:

WARNING: UNAUTHORIZED TRANSMISSION DETECTED. SYSTEM COMPROMISED.

She ignored it. She had minutes, maybe seconds.

Her lips parted, dry and cracked from exhaustion. She pressed a shaking finger to the live feed button. A warning flashed across the screen: ‘UNAUTHORIZED TRANSMISSION DETECTED. TRIANGULATING LOCATION.’ She had seconds.

The screen flickered, then steadied. Jessica stared into the camera lens. Her reflection stared back—tired eyes, hollowed cheeks, the weight of truth pressing down on her shoulders like an unbearable yoke.

“This is Jessica Reynolds,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “If you’re watching this, it means I’m still alive. Or… I was, long enough to send this transmission.”

She swallowed hard. They would come for her after this. She knew it.

Her fingers tightened into fists. “They told you the disappearances were unexplainable. An act of nature. A cosmic event.” She shook her head. “That was a lie.”

She pulled up the leaked documents—screens flooded with official government seals, classified military reports, and encrypted emails.

“The vanishings weren’t random. They were premeditated, mapped into the system before they even happened. The new government didn’t rise in response to the crisis—they were waiting for it.”

Jessica pressed another key. The image changed—a high-ranking official, face partially obscured, caught mid-conversation in a secret meeting.

“The transition is already underway,” the voice crackled over the speakers. “Once the digital infrastructure is complete, full compliance will follow. The Mark is the key. Without it, they won’t survive.”

Jessica felt a chill crawl up her spine.

“The Mark,” she echoed into the microphone. “It’s real. And it’s not just an ID. It’s not just a system of control. It’s something else. Something…” she hesitated, searching for the right words. “…spiritual. And it’s coming for all of us.”

“I need you to listen carefully,” she whispered. “The Mark is only the beginning. The real control comes next. Soon, every citizen who takes the Mark will receive the branding—three digits, permanently seared onto their skin. And for those who refuse…” she swallowed hard, “The punishment is already written. Decapitation. It won’t be speculation much longer.”

She pressed another key. A second image—a world leader shaking hands with a figure whose face had been blurred out. A timestamp in the corner. The day before the vanishings.

“They are not who they claim to be,” she whispered. “And I don’t have much time left.”

A sharp noise echoed through the bunker.

Jessica’s breath caught.

Footsteps.

They Found Her.

She shot up from the chair, reaching for the small pistol hidden beneath the desk. Too late.

The door exploded inward. A tactical team, black helmets, weapons raised.

“DOWN ON THE GROUND!” a voice thundered.

Jessica froze, chest rising and falling in sharp, panicked breaths.

“Hands where I can see them, Reynolds.”

She stared into the barrel of a gun. They had found her.

She had seconds to make a decision.

She took them.

Her hands shot toward the keyboard. One last keystroke.

SEND.

A soldier lunged.

The screen went dark.

She felt the impact before she hit the ground—a boot slammed into her ribs, steel biting into bone. Pain exploded through her side. She gasped, curling inward as rough hands seized her wrists, binding them.

“Jessica Reynolds, you are under arrest for treason against the United Nations Coalition.”

A voice—calm, authoritative, laced with something colder.

She looked up.

A man in an immaculate suit stood over her. No uniform. No badge.

A ghost in the system.

Jessica’s lips curled in defiance. “You’re too late.”

He knelt beside her, his expression unreadable. “You really think anyone will believe you?”

Her pulse pounded. “I don’t need them to believe me,” she whispered. “I just need them to see.”

His gaze darkened. Something in his eyes—unnatural.

Jessica shuddered.

Not just a man. Something else.

They dragged her through the underground tunnels, her knees scraping against rough concrete. Every breath burned.

She had done what she could.

The truth was out.

But… what if it wasn’t enough?

She gritted her teeth. No. No second-guessing.

The fight wasn’t over.

It was just beginning.

Somewhere, across the darkened corners of the internet, Jessica’s final broadcast spread.

One by one, screens flickered to life.

A whisper carried through the static.

“The Mark is coming. And so is the one who controls it.”

Underground Safehouse – Dhaka, Bangladesh – 2:37 AM

Rahim crouched in the darkness, his heartbeat hammering against his ribs. The room was stifling—thick with the scent of sweat, dust, and desperation. A single bulb flickered overhead, its dim light casting eerie shadows along the cracked concrete walls.

Somewhere above, the city of Dhaka had become a prison.

For days, he had been hiding, moving between safe houses, each more precarious than the last. The streets had changed overnight—checkpoints at every major intersection, military drones humming in the sky, biometric scanners replacing passports.

The new world order had arrived, and Rahim was an outlaw in his own country.

A believer.

A resistor.

And if they found him, they would make him disappear.

Rahim pressed himself against the cold wall as footsteps echoed from the stairwell. His fingers tightened around the small USB drive concealed in his palm.

Everything is on this drive.

Classified files. Communications between Bangladesh officials and the global regime. Secret surveillance projects aimed at tracking those who refused The Mark.

If he could get it to the right people, it could expose everything.

But first, he had to survive the night.

A soft knock at the door—two quick taps, followed by one slow. The signal.

Rahim exhaled sharply and reached for the gun at his waist.

“Rahim,” a whisper came from the other side. “It’s me.”

The voice sent a jolt through his chest.

Hassan.

Rahim hesitated. Trust was a luxury he could no longer afford.

Was Hassan still the man he once knew? Or had he been turned like so many others—bought, broken, or deceived?

The silence stretched.

“Open the door,” Hassan urged, voice urgent but controlled. “They’re coming for you.”

Rahim inhaled deeply, steadied himself.

Then he unbolted the lock.

The door creaked open, and Hassan slipped inside, his clothes drenched from the rain, his breathing heavy. He looked over his shoulder before sealing the door behind him.

“You don’t have much time,” Hassan said. “They know where you are.”

Rahim’s stomach twisted. “How?”

Hassan shook his head. “There’s a new scanner—thermal imaging, voice recognition. They’re sweeping the sector. Your face was flagged in a crowd scan two days ago. It was only a matter of time before they closed in.”

Rahim felt the walls pressing in, the weight of inevitability crushing his ribs.

“I have a way out,” Hassan continued. “But we have to move now.”

Rahim followed Hassan through the labyrinthine tunnels beneath the city—a forgotten network of sewage lines and abandoned metro passages.

The air was thick, damp, cloaked in shadows. Every few steps, Rahim’s boots splashed through shallow puddles, the sound amplified in the tight space.

He didn’t trust the silence.

“There’s an old smuggling route,” Hassan said over his shoulder. “It leads to the outskirts. A man I know—Elias—he’s arranged transport.”

Rahim’s eyes narrowed. “Elias? The smuggler?”

“The believer,” Hassan corrected. “He’s one of us.”

Rahim wasn’t sure which answer unsettled him more.

They emerged from the tunnels into an abandoned alleyway. Across the street, a checkpoint loomed—a makeshift barricade of concrete blocks and barbed wire. Soldiers patrolled with rifles.

Rahim stilled his breath. The checkpoint wasn’t there yesterday.

“They’re tightening the net,” Hassan muttered.

“How do we get through?”

Hassan shoved a small device into Rahim’s hand. “Plug this into the scanner. It’ll overload the system for thirty seconds. That’s all you get.” Rahim’s stomach knotted. “And after that?” Hassan’s jaw tightened. “After that, you’re on your own.”

Rahim’s chest went cold.

“You have one of those?”

“I had to,” Hassan whispered. “It’s the only way to move freely.”

“You took The Mark?” Rahim’s voice was barely above a breath, but the accusation burned between them.

Hassan’s jaw tightened. “Not that Mark. A counterfeit. Enough to fool the scanners, but it’s still a risk.”

Rahim exhaled slowly. Every move now could be the difference between life and death.

Hassan moved first, his body language perfectly casual, nodding to the guards as he approached.

Rahim followed one step behind, forcing himself to match the pace.

The first guard scanned Hassan’s chip. Green light.

Then it was Rahim’s turn.

The scanner beeped—hesitated.

Red.

“Sir, step aside,” the guard ordered.

Rahim’s mind screamed.

Then—Hassan moved.

Fast.

A blade flashed—a single, precise cut to the soldier’s throat.

Before the other guards could react, Hassan fired two shots.

Both men dropped.

Rahim’s stomach churned.

“You killed them?”

Hassan grabbed his arm. “We have ten seconds before someone checks the cameras. MOVE.”

They ran.

Through the alley. Across the back streets. Wind whipping past them as sirens blared behind.

They made it to the extraction point—a small warehouse by the river.

Elias was waiting.

A single boat. One chance.

Rahim stumbled to a halt.

Something was wrong.

Hassan slowed beside him, breathing hard. “We made it.”

Rahim’s eyes locked onto Elias—his stance too rigid, too rehearsed.

And then—the sound of safeties clicking off.

From the shadows, soldiers stepped forward, rifles aimed.

Hassan’s face fell.

“No,” he breathed.

Elias met his gaze. Expression unreadable.

“I’m sorry,” Elias murmured.

Rahim’s pulse pounded in his skull. Betrayal.

“You sold us out?” Hassan whispered.

Elias swallowed hard. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Everyone has a choice,” Rahim snapped.

The lead soldier stepped forward. “Rahim Hassan,” he announced. “By order of the United Nations, you are under arrest.”

Hassan’s fingers twitched toward his gun.

The soldier shook his head. “Don’t.”

Rahim saw it before Hassan did—the red dot dancing over his chest.

Sniper.

Hassan saw it too. His shoulders tensed.

Then—his eyes softened.

He turned to Rahim, pressed something into his hand.

A USB drive.

“Finish it.”

The gunshot split the night.

Hassan dropped.

Rahim didn’t think—he moved.

Shoved Elias aside. Bolted for the boat.

Gunfire erupted around him, splinters flying from wood beams, bullets slicing the air inches from his body.

He threw himself over the edge of the boat just as Elias screamed behind him.

Then—the river swallowed the sound.

Water closed around him, freezing, suffocating.

The last thing he saw before darkness took him—

Hassan’s body lying motionless on the dock.

Somewhere in the Arabian Peninsula – High-Security Detention Facility

The first thing Priya felt was the cold bite of steel against her wrists.

Her head lolled to the side as she fought the weight of unconsciousness, her body swaying in the restraints that suspended her wrists above her head. Blood pooled at the corner of her lips, the copper taste sharp on her tongue.

How long had she been here?

Her last memory was the ambush at the border. A black SUV blocking the road. Floodlights igniting the desert night. A swarm of armed men dressed in tactical gear with the insignia of the Global Unity Force.

Then, the rifle stock smashing against her skull.

Now, she was in the belly of the beast.

Priya’s heart pounded against her ribs as she forced herself to focus. The cell was bare concrete and steel—a single flickering lightbulb overhead, a grated drain beneath her feet. A single metal door stood across from her, shut tight.

She wasn’t alone.

A camera in the corner blinked red. They were watching.

The door groaned open.

Two men stepped in. One in military fatigues, the other in a tailored suit.

Priya recognized the uniformed officer instantly—Colonel Ibrahim Darwish. The head of Global Unity Intelligence for the Middle East. A ruthless enforcer of the new world order.

The other man, though—he was different.

He had a presence.

His silver hair was slicked back, his sharp blue eyes locked onto her as if they could pierce through her very soul.

Priya’s throat tightened.

She had seen him before.

General Marc Denault.

He was no ordinary government official.

He was one of them.

The ones who spoke with power, whose words sent entire nations trembling. Whose shadows carried something… unnatural.

Denault pulled a chair from the corner and sat down in front of her, crossing one leg over the other with deliberate ease. The air in the room thickened, pressing against Priya’s skin. A shadow moved behind Denault—except there was no light to cast it.

“You gave us quite the chase, Miss Sharma,” he said, his voice deceptively smooth.

Priya forced herself to stay silent. She would not play their game.

He sighed. “I admire your tenacity, truly. But let’s not waste time. We know who you are. We know what you’ve been smuggling across borders. And we know you were trying to reach the underground church in Mecca.”

He leaned forward. “What we don’t know is who is helping you.”

Priya bit the inside of her cheek to keep from reacting.

She couldn’t betray them.

Denault smiled, as if reading her thoughts. “I don’t expect you to talk right away. People like you always think silence is strength.”

He gestured to Darwish.

The colonel stepped forward, knuckles cracking.

Priya braced herself.

The first blow landed against her ribs, knocking the air from her lungs.

Priya gasped but clenched her jaw. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of a scream.

The second snapped her head sideways, blood spraying against the wall.

Dark spots swam in her vision.

But she would not break.

Denault sighed. “This will be much easier if you cooperate, you know. A simple name. A single name, and this all stops.”

Priya lifted her chin, tasting iron. “I’ll die before I give you anything.”

Denault’s smile remained, but his eyes darkened.

“That can be arranged.”

The temperature in the room dropped.

Priya shivered as a cold presence settled over her, seeping into her bones.

Darwish stepped back, his jaw tightening—he felt it too.

Denault didn’t move.

The air seemed thicker, heavier, charged with something unseen.

Then Denault leaned in, his face only inches from hers.

“I know what you believe,” he murmured. “I know you whisper prayers to a God who has abandoned you.”

His fingers reached out and touched her forehead. A wave of nausea rolled through Priya’s stomach. The air behind Denault twisted, bending like heat on asphalt—but the room was cold.

A wave of nausea rolled through Priya’s stomach.

Her ears filled with a low, distorted hum—voices whispering, chanting in a language she didn’t understand.

Something was wrong.

Denault’s grip tightened. “Where is your God now?”

Priya’s vision blurred. Her head lolled back as the room shifted—the walls seemed to bend, the flickering bulb overhead warping in and out of focus.

A shadow passed over Denault’s face—something unnatural flickering beneath his skin.

For the first time, fear crawled up Priya’s spine.

Not because of pain.

Not because of death.

But because the man in front of her wasn’t just a man.

A warmth stirred in her chest.

Faint at first. A whisper, a flicker, a breath of something she almost didn’t recognize.

Hope.

No. Not hope.

Faith.

Priya inhaled shakily.

And spoke one word.

“Jesus.”

The entire room shuddered.

The shadows twisted. Denault flinched—his hand recoiling from her forehead as if burned.

His gaze hardened.

Priya gasped for air, the unseen pressure lifting from her chest.

Denault’s jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring.

For a moment, silence filled the room.

Then he stood. Smoothed his suit. Turned to Darwish.

“Keep her alive for now,” he said coldly. “She might still be useful.”

The two men exited, the steel door slamming shut.

Priya sagged in her chains, exhausted, broken, but not defeated.

Something had changed in that room.

Something Denault hadn’t expected.

She closed her eyes.

And prayed.

Not for escape.

Not for deliverance.

But for strength to endure.

Because she knew—this was only the beginning.

Somewhere in the Andes – Safehouse of the Resistance

The air was thin at this altitude, biting cold as it slithered through the cracks of the stone walls. The safehouse had once been a forgotten monastery, perched high above the valleys of the Andes, a place where monks had sought solitude from the world.

Now, it was a fortress for those who refused to bow to the Beast.

Diego knelt on the stone floor, his hands trembling in his lap. The war outside had finally reached him, but the war within had been raging for years.

His past weighed on him like chains.

He had once been a soldier. Not for a nation, not for an ideal, but for money. A mercenary for the highest bidder. He had worked for the global order before he even knew what it was. He had pulled the trigger, sent men to their graves, all for a paycheck.

Now, he was on the other side of the fight.

A fugitive.

A sinner seeking redemption.

His heart pounded as he stared at the small stone basin before him, filled with the coldest, purest water he had ever seen.

Tonight, he would be washed clean—or die trying.

Across the room, Pastor Miguel watched him, his eyes full of something Diego had never seen before.

Grace.

“Are you ready?” Miguel asked, his voice low, steady.

Diego swallowed. He had taken bullets before, walked through fire, buried more men than he could remember.

But this?

This terrified him.

“Doesn’t feel right,” Diego admitted. “For me to just—” He exhaled, shaking his head. “For me to just ask for forgiveness. After everything I’ve done.”

Miguel nodded slowly. “I understand.”

“Do you?” Diego scoffed. “Do you understand what it’s like to have the faces of the dead haunt you? To hear their voices every time you close your eyes?”

Miguel knelt beside him, his expression unwavering. “You think you’re the first to wrestle with this? Paul murdered Christians before he became one. David was a man of war before he was a man after God’s own heart. The grace of God isn’t something you earn, Diego. It’s something you accept.”

Diego looked down at his hands—calloused, scarred, stained with the sins of his past.

Could they really be made clean?

Could he be made clean?

Something moved in the darkness.

Not in the room—but beyond it, in the unseen.

Diego felt it like an itch in his spine, a presence watching, waiting.

Miguel felt it too.

The pastor’s jaw tensed, his knuckles tightening around the small Bible in his lap. “They know what’s happening tonight,” he murmured.

Diego frowned. “They?”

Miguel’s gaze lifted. “The ones who don’t want to let you go.”

A sudden gust of wind slammed against the stone walls, though there were no open windows. The candle flames flickered violently, casting shadows that seemed to stretch unnaturally along the cracked floor.

A voice—not human, not right—whispered through the room.

“He is ours.”

Diego’s breath caught in his throat.

The shadows deepened, growing heavier. The temperature dropped.

Miguel’s voice rose, steady and unshaken. “You have no claim on him. He is being reborn.”

The whispering grew louder. Mocking. Insistent.

“He belongs to us.”

Miguel stood. “The blood of the Lamb says otherwise.”

Diego’s pulse pounded against his ribs.

He had two choices.

Run.

Or kneel.

He looked at the water again, its surface smooth, untouched, waiting.

This wasn’t just an act of faith. This was war.

A choice between the past and the future. Between who he had been and who God was calling him to be.

Diego clenched his jaw, stripping off his bloodstained jacket, then his shirt, revealing the scars that covered his back—a map of the life he had lived.

His knees hit the stone floor.

The voices screamed.

The shadows twisted, writhing like living things.

Miguel placed a firm hand on Diego’s shoulder. “Diego Alejandro Costa, do you confess Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?”

Diego’s throat was dry. He forced the words out. “I do.”

Miguel nodded, his voice strong, unwavering. “Then be baptized in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

Diego plunged into the water.

The shadows shrieked.

As the cold water closed over him, time seemed to slow.

The weight—the unbearable, crushing weight of his past—snapped like iron chains.

Something broke in the unseen.

A flash of light—not physical, not of this world—erupted through the chamber.

For the first time in years, Diego felt clean.

The water surged around him, burning like fire, like ice, like something too holy to comprehend.

The shadows vanished.

When he emerged, gasping, dripping, trembling—he wasn’t the same man who had gone in.

Miguel’s hand steadied him. “It’s done,” the pastor whispered.

Diego met his eyes. “No,” he said, fire in his voice. “Now it begins.”

A siren wailed in the distance.

Miguel turned toward the window, his jaw tight. “They found us.”

Diego exhaled sharply, reaching for his rifle.

He had been baptized in water.

Now, he would be baptized in fire.

A warrior for a new kingdom.

The last battle had begun.

And this time, he knew which side he was fighting for.

Underground Refuge – Somewhere in the Amazon Rainforest

The damp earth smelled of decay and life, a paradox Carlos had come to know well. He crouched behind a thick wall of vines, fingers tightening around the grip of his rifle, heart pounding like war drums in his chest.

The Hidden Church had been his sanctuary.

Now, it was a battlefield.

They were coming.

Carlos could hear them moving through the trees—Global Unity Force soldiers, their boots crunching leaves, their augmented visors scanning for movement. Their dogs sniffing for human scent.

A slow exhale. This is it.

Behind him, a dozen believers—the last remnants of the underground church—waited in silence. Some held makeshift weapons. Others clutched Bibles as if they were swords.

Some would fight.

Some would die.

Carlos turned his gaze to the wooden cross nailed into the cave wall. It had been carved from the remains of a burned village chapel, a symbol of faith that had survived the flames.

And yet, faith alone would not keep them alive tonight.

He whispered a prayer, then turned to face the people he had sworn to protect.

“This is the moment we were warned about,” Carlos said, his voice low but strong. “They have come to destroy what remains of the Church. To erase us. But prophecy said this would happen.”

He paused, searching their faces. “We are not afraid, because we know who wins in the end.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the group.

But fear still clung to the air.

And Carlos understood.

He had not always been a believer.

Once, he had been one of them. A man of the streets, a preacher to the lost. A voice of defiance against the Global Unity Force.

And now, he would die as one.

The wind shifted.

Carlos froze. The scent of burning wood carried through the air.

They were torching the jungle behind them. Forcing them forward.

The enemy was closing in.

A radio crackled from the entrance of the cave.

“Two minutes,” a voice whispered.

It was Isabel, their scout. She had risked everything to send this last warning.

Carlos clenched his fists. Two minutes.

Then the world would break.

As he stepped into the clearing outside the cave, Carlos felt the weight of unseen eyes.

There was something more than soldiers in the jungle tonight.

The air hummed—a pressure that dug into his skull, making it hard to think.

Darkness moved between the trees.

Not the darkness of night.

Something else.

Something watching.

“He is coming.”

Carlos flinched at the whisper—but no one was there.

It came from inside him.

Like a voice buried in the marrow of his bones.

His knees weakened for a moment. His breath caught.

Then—a scream.

A woman’s voice.

Carlos turned, sprinting back toward the cave—

Too late.

Gunfire ripped through the trees.

The first believer fell before Carlos even saw the shooter.

Blood sprayed against the stone wall.

Then another.

And another.

The entrance of the cave lit up with muzzle flashes, the roar of automatic weapons shaking the night.

Carlos dived behind a fallen log, breath ragged, ears ringing.

Inside the cave, chaos erupted.

Men and women screaming.

Prayers turning to cries of pain.

Carlos gritted his teeth, rage and sorrow colliding inside him.

Then—a familiar voice.

“Put your weapons down!”

Carlos’s blood ran cold.

Santiago.

His brother-in-arms. The man who had saved his life a dozen times over. And now—his executioner.

Carlos slowly peeked over the log, eyes burning with fury.

Santiago stood near the entrance, flanked by Global Unity Force soldiers in black armor, visors glowing red.

He held a rifle—but it was pointed downward.

Not in battle.

In surrender.

Carlos’s stomach churned. No.

Not him.

Carlos emerged from cover, his heart hammering.

Santiago locked eyes with him. For a moment, something flickered in them.

Regret?

Doubt?

Then it was gone.

“You don’t have to die here, Carlos,” Santiago called out. “It’s over.”

Carlos stepped forward, rifle at his side. “It’s only over if I choose to give up.”

Santiago sighed, shaking his head. “You know how this ends.”

Carlos’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“I know how it really ends, brother.”

Santiago flinched—like the words struck him somewhere deep.

The moment stretched.

Then—another voice.

One that didn’t belong to either of them.

“Kill them.”

Carlos felt the air change.

A pressure like something unseen had stepped into the battlefield.

Santiago’s expression twisted—his hands trembled around the rifle.

But he obeyed.

He raised his weapon.

Carlos did the same.

A heartbeat of silence.

Then—

Gunfire tore through the night.

Carlos didn’t know who fired first.

Didn’t care.

Bullets cut through the trees. Splinters and smoke filled the air.

He hit the ground, rolling, returning fire with precise bursts.

Behind him, the last believers fought with everything they had.

Some screamed prayers.

Some whispered final words.

Carlos fought like a man who had already died once before.

But there were too many.

They were surrounded.

And then—

A deafening roar.

Not of gunfire.

Not of bombs.

Something else.

The soldiers hesitated. Looked around, weapons raised.

Carlos’s breath caught in his throat.

A wind howled through the jungle, but the trees didn’t move.

A presence pressed against reality itself.

A figure stood at the edge of the battlefield.

Draped in shadow.

Its face hidden, unreadable.

Its presence crushing.

Carlos’s hands shook violently.

It wasn’t human.

It wasn’t of this world.

The soldiers felt it too.

A few of them turned and ran.

Santiago’s face drained of color.

The shadow lifted a hand.

And the entire world shattered.

Geneva, Switzerland – Global Unity Headquarters

The air inside the Grand Hall of the United Nations felt electric, charged with an unseen power that gripped the lungs and squeezed. The world’s most powerful leaders sat in silence, their faces a perfect mask of obedience and awe.

At the center of the massive marble dais stood Arif Demir.

World Chancellor. Supreme Mediator. The man who had united the nations in a single, unbreakable vision.

To most, he was the greatest leader humanity had ever known. A bringer of peace. A voice of reason in an age of chaos.

But those who still had eyes to see knew the truth.

He was the Beast.

And he was about to unleash Hell.

Demir placed both hands on the sleek, glass podium, his presence filling the room with an unnatural weight. The massive digital screens flanking him projected his face in real-time, his piercing green eyes staring into the souls of every world leader, every citizen watching from their homes, their phones, their tablets.

“Today,” he began, his voice smooth as polished steel, “we stand at the precipice of a new dawn.”

The assembly remained deathly still.

“The disappearances nearly unraveled our world,” Demir continued, referencing the Rapture that had left millions missing. “But we survived. We rebuilt. And now, we are stronger than ever.”

The screen behind him shifted, displaying the image of a new world map—one government, one economy, one people.

The audience erupted in applause.

Demir raised a hand, and the room immediately fell silent.

“But there is a problem,” he said, voice thick with regret. “A sickness that threatens our progress. A cancer that refuses to heal. A people who will not comply.”

A flicker on the screen.

A photo of underground believers in hiding.

Another flicker.

Carlos and his resistance fighters in South America.

Another.

Leaders of the Hidden Church, captured and awaiting execution.

Demir inhaled deeply, shaking his head. “These people cling to their old gods, their outdated faith. They reject our unity, our progress. They reject me.”

Silence.

The weight of the moment hung in the air.

Then Demir lifted his chin, his voice a blade slicing through the room.

“Let me be clear. Faith is an act of war.”

A murmur rippled through the assembly. Some faces twitched—fear, hesitation, doubt.

Demir saw it. And smiled.

“They claim to follow a god of love,” he continued, tone sharpening. “And yet they divide. They hide like rats, whispering poison, inciting rebellion. They weaken us from within.”

He stepped back, raising both hands.

“We have tolerated them long enough.”

The screen behind him flashed red.

A single phrase appeared in bold white letters.

ALL BELIEVERS MUST DIE.

Gasps filled the hall.

Some of the leaders recoiled, their carefully neutral expressions faltering.

One man—Prime Minister Alec Whitmore of the UK—stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the marble floor. “This—this is genocide!”

Demir turned slowly, his expression one of pity. “Genocide?” He chuckled. “No, Prime Minister. This is evolution. This is the final purification.”

Whitmore’s hands curled into fists. “I won’t be part of this.”

Demir sighed. “That is unfortunate.”

He lifted a single finger.

Whitmore’s body seized violently. His mouth opened in a silent scream.

Then, in an instant, he collapsed.

Dead.

No one moved. No one spoke.

A slow smile spread across Demir’s face.

“Does anyone else wish to object?”

The room was silent.

Demir nodded. “Then it is done.”

The screen behind him shifted once more.

New orders. New decrees.

All biometric scanners reprogrammed.
All believers flagged as traitors.
All military forces mobilized for the final purge.

“This will be our greatest triumph,” Demir declared, his voice a whisper of something inhuman.

The room erupted in applause.

Across the world, the new decree spread like wildfire.

In the streets of Paris, armed patrols scanned crowds, hunting for unregistered believers.

In the United States, drones swept through cities, facial recognition algorithms identifying ‘dissenters’ in real-time.

In the hidden places of the world, churches burned, screams echoing through the night.

The purge had begun.

The final war had started.

Somewhere deep in an underground bunker, a lone figure watched the newsfeed.

A woman, her face illuminated by the soft glow of a laptop screen.

Jessica Reynolds’s pulse raced as she uploaded the final encryption key, sending a desperate message across every remaining free network.

To the Remnant,

The war is here. The time for hiding is over.

This is our last stand.

Prepare.

She hit SEND.

Then the power cut out.

The bunker door slammed open.

Footsteps.

Jessica reached for her gun.

A shadow filled the doorway.

And the last thing she heard was a cold, familiar voice.

“Did you really think we wouldn’t find you?”

Then—darkness.

Tokyo, Japan – AI Surveillance Hub 13

Kenji Nakamura crouched behind a rusted ventilation shaft, gripping the modified EMP detonator in his gloved hand. This was it.

The city pulsed beneath him—a living, breathing machine of obedience. Neon lights flickered across towering glass skyscrapers, casting electric veins across the metropolis. Every camera, every drone, every biometric scanner fed into the AI servers housed beneath this building.

And tonight, he would burn it all down.

He exhaled slowly. There was no turning back.

Tokyo had once been his home.

Now, it was a prison.

Since the Mark’s implementation, the city had transformed into a digital panopticon. Every citizen tracked. Every movement cataloged. Every dissenter eliminated.

The AI Grid, designed to keep the world “safe,” now functioned as the omniscient eye of the Beast.

Kenji had seen the footage—people flagged as noncompliant, their faces turned into red blinking dots on a screen, their locations sent to extermination squads.

Once, he had helped build the system.

Now, he was its enemy.

A voice crackled in his earpiece.

“Kenji, you’re five minutes from lockdown,” whispered Isaac, his only remaining contact in the underground. “Security just tripled at the mainframe entrance. They know something’s coming.”

Kenji cursed under his breath. They shouldn’t know.

Someone had tipped them off.

Betrayal wasn’t just likely in this war—it was guaranteed.

“Then I’ll have to move faster,” Kenji whispered back.

He checked his pack. The EMP device was ready—a pulse strong enough to fry the central servers for all of Asia. Without them, the AI Grid would collapse, severing government control over millions.

It was the resistance’s only chance.

And his last mission.

Kenji slipped into the vent shaft, silence his only ally.

He moved with the precision of a man who had spent his life in the system—a ghost in the machine. He had once been one of Japan’s leading cyber-defense engineers. Now, he was a fugitive, hunted by the very thing he had helped create.

The metal ducts vibrated beneath him as security teams moved through the hallways below. Heavy boots. Military-grade weapons.

The moment he dropped down, he would be seen.

He pulled the EMP device from his pack and set the timer.

Five minutes.

That was all he had.

He inhaled sharply, then dropped.

The moment his feet hit the ground, the alarms screamed.

Kenji ran.

Gunfire erupted behind him, bullets shredding the wall where he had just stood.

“Target acquired!” a voice barked.

Kenji darted left, his mind moving faster than his body. The mainframe room was three levels down, behind a biometric-locked door. He had already bypassed its security weeks ago—but now they would have locked it down completely.

There was only one option.

Overload the system from within.

As Kenji turned the corner, a sudden pressure filled the air.

It wasn’t fear.

It was something else.

Something unnatural.

He skidded to a halt, his pulse hammering.

The lights flickered.

A figure stood at the end of the corridor—not a soldier. Not a man.

A presence.

Kenji’s breath hitched.

The thing stood in complete stillness, draped in shadow that bled into the walls. Its eyes—if they could be called that—glowed like dying embers.

Kenji felt his limbs go numb.

The thing opened its mouth—but it did not speak.

It whispered inside his mind.

“You are too late.”

Kenji stumbled back.

His ears rang with something deeper than sound—a frequency that drilled into his skull.

Visions flashed before him.

Fire. Cities burning. Bodies collapsing in the streets as drones swept overhead.

He saw Tokyo drowned in silence, its people standing motionless, empty-eyed, as if they no longer belonged to themselves.

And at the center of it all—

Arif Demir.

Smiling.

Kenji’s scream shattered the vision.

He forced himself forward, breaking the pull of the thing’s gaze.

It did not stop him.

It only watched.

Kenji burst into the server room, chest heaving.

The servers loomed before him—towers of blinking light, the digital heart of the Beast.

He had seconds left.

He ripped open the EMP case, fingers shaking as he activated the core.

Five seconds.

Kenji looked up.

The thing stood in the doorway.

Waiting.

It tilted its head.

“Pull the trigger, and they will still win.”

Kenji’s vision blurred.

The room felt wrong—warped, stretched, unreal.

The thing stepped closer.

“Do you not see? The war is already lost.”

Kenji clenched his jaw.

“No,” he whispered. “Not yet.”

He slammed the EMP trigger.

A sonic pulse erupted from the device—

Electric veins of energy shot through the servers, frying circuits in an instant.

The AI Grid screamed.

The lights died.

And across Asia, millions of biometric trackers went offline.

The chains of the system snapped.

And for the first time since the rise of the New Order, the world went dark.

The moment the servers collapsed, the thing moved.

It crossed the room without sound, without time.

Kenji tried to lift his gun.

It was already too late.

The last thing he saw was its hand closing over his chest.

A whisper filled his mind.

“Fool.”

Pain.

Then—

Nothing.

Across the world, chaos erupted.

Governments scrambled as their omniscient control faltered.

The resistance rose from the shadows, striking before the enemy could recover.

And in the burning wreckage of AI Hub 13, Kenji Nakamura’s body was never found.

But some say, when the power flickers, when the cameras glitch—

For a split second,

his face appears.

Saint Peter’s Square – Vatican City

The air felt electric, charged with something unnatural.

Tens of thousands filled Saint Peter’s Square, their faces upturned in worship, their voices blending into a deafening chant.

“Holy is the prophet! The voice of the Eternal!”

The great obelisk at the center of the square—a monument to ancient gods long before Rome became Christ’s city—now stood as a silent witness to its final betrayal.

On the grand balcony overlooking them, dressed in robes woven with gold and sapphire, stood Pope Innocent.

The man the world now called the Prophet.

He raised his arms, and the crowd fell silent.

“Brothers and sisters,” Pope Innocent intoned, his voice carrying across the square. “We have entered the age of revelation! The time when the heavens open, and the truth is made known!”

The screens behind him flickered to life.

Images filled the massive digital displays—glimpses of a world in turmoil.

Cities in ruins.
Governments falling.
People starving, begging, weeping in the streets.

Then—the face of Arif Demir.

His emerald eyes burned with the conviction of a savior.

“He has come,” Pope Innocent continued, his voice thick with reverence. “He has given us peace, security, unity. He has restored what was lost.”

A great cheer erupted from the crowd.

Pope Innocent’s eyes darkened slightly, his lips curling.

“But there are those,” he said, “who resist.”

The screens shifted.

Images of believers.

Carlos and the resistance in South America.
Jessica Reynolds before her capture.
Priya in chains.

“They are the ones who oppose us,” Pope Innocent declared, his voice like thunder. “They reject unity. They reject truth. They reject the gift our Lord and King has given them.”

The crowd’s cheers became shouts of fury.

A woman near the front raised her fist. “Burn them!”

A man beside her echoed, “Kill them all!”

Pope Innocent lowered his gaze, a smile barely touching his lips.

“My children,” he murmured, “you will witness a sign.”

On the steps below the balcony, thirty believers knelt in chains.

They had been captured in Rome just days ago. The last of the underground church in the city.

Carlos had warned them.

Jessica had sent them a final message.

But they had refused to run.

Now, they knelt before the world, faces pale but unbroken.

One of them—a young man with dark hair and fire in his eyes—lifted his head toward Pope Innocent.

“You can kill us,” he called out, his voice unwavering, “but the Kingdom is coming, and no power on earth can stop it!”

The words shook the air.

For the briefest moment, the silence of eternity seemed to fall.

Pope Innocent’s eyes narrowed.

The sky, dark with gathering clouds, rumbled.

Pope Innocent raised his hands toward the heavens.

“If I am the voice of the Almighty,” he declared, “let fire come down from the sky!”

The air shuddered.

A great flash split the sky.

And then—

Fire fell.

It twisted as it descended, unnatural, alive. Some swore they saw faces screaming within the flames. Others said they heard laughter.

The crowd gasped, thousands of voices screaming in ecstasy, in terror, in awe.

The believers did not move.

The fire consumed them.

The flames roared higher, higher—then vanished.

Nothing remained.

Only charred stone where they had knelt.

A hush fell over the crowd.

Then—chaos.

People screamed, weeping, shouting, collapsing to their knees.

A woman in the front row tore at her hair, sobbing. “A miracle! A true miracle!”

A man beside her fell prostrate. “The Prophet speaks for the Divine!”

Then, as one, the crowd surged forward, hands raised in worship.

“All hail the Prophet!”

“All hail the King!”

Their voices became one, a single mind, a single will, a single worship.

And from the balcony, Pope Innocent watched.

His smile was serpentine.

Far above them—beyond the clouds, beyond the veil of flesh and time—war erupted.

Angels stood aghast, their swords trembling in their grasp.

And the fallen ones—the ones who had whispered this blasphemy into the ears of the Prophet—laughed.

“See how they fall?” one of them sneered, watching the millions below bow before a false god.

Another shadow shifted beside him. “It is almost time.”

As the crowds knelt, Pope Innocent turned from the balcony, stepping back into the darkness of the chamber behind him.

A single man waited for him.

Seated in a great marble chair, his hands folded.

The air hummed around him. Power without form.

Arif Demir lifted his gaze.

“Well done, Prophet,” he murmured.

Pope Innocent bowed.

“They are ready,” he said simply.

Demir smiled. “Then we move forward.”

He stood, stepping past Pope Innocent toward the private screens lining the wall.

Live footage of the world’s leaders.

Every government. Every army. Every nation.

The world was his.

And now, there was only one enemy left.

Demir turned back to Pope Innocent, his voice low, rich with something not human.

“The Remnant will burn next.”

Somewhere in the Carpathian Mountains – Hidden Resistance Bunker

The bunker smelled of earth and metal, the dampness of underground stone mingling with the faint tang of gunpowder. The air was heavy, saturated with the weight of grief and exhaustion.

Carlos leaned over a war map, his fingers tracing the routes they had taken to get here. Red markers covered the cities that had fallen.

Too many.

“Jessica had confirmed it,” Diego muttered. “The branding is happening. Not just in Europe—worldwide. They’re moving faster than we thought.” Carlos exhaled.

“And the punishment?” Priya’s voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s confirmed,” Diego said grimly. “Decapitation. Publicly broadcast.” Silence fell over the group. “The time to fight was now.”

His breathing was shallow, every inhale a reminder of the losses they had suffered. His hands clenched into fists. They were running out of time.

Across from him, Priya and Diego stood in silence, their faces carved from stone and sorrow.

Jessica was gone. Kenji was gone. The AI grid was down—but the cost had been unbearable.

The world was on fire.

And now, the Resistance was all that remained.

The small group of survivors huddled around the table—leaders of the last free believers, their faces worn and haunted.

Carlos looked up.

“We lost Rome.” His voice was rough, a blade dulled by use.

Silence.

“We lost Tokyo,” he continued. “Kenji did what he had to, but they took him. Jessica sent her last transmission before she was captured. We’ve confirmed at least a dozen underground churches have been wiped out in the past forty-eight hours.”

Diego swore under his breath, his jaw tightening.

“They’re accelerating the purge,” Priya murmured.

Carlos nodded once. “Demir and his Prophet aren’t hiding anymore. The world is his now. Every government is bending the knee.”

He let the words sink in.

Every breath in the room was weighted.

They all knew what came next.

“The Mark is mandatory now,” Diego muttered. “No one can buy or sell without it. The black-market supply lines are collapsing. If we don’t act soon—”

Carlos slammed his hand down on the table.

“We can’t keep reacting. We have one shot left before the world is lost.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“One shot at what, Carlos?” Priya’s voice was low.

Carlos straightened. A storm brewed in his eyes.

“Taking down Demir,” he said. “For good.”

A murmur rippled through the room. Some expressions hardened with resolve. Others darkened with doubt.

Priya folded her arms. “He’s untouchable. He’s got the entire world under his control.”

“And if he’s more than just a man?” Diego added grimly.

Carlos didn’t flinch.

“We take him down anyway.”

The weight of the statement hung in the air, electric, dangerous, impossible.

Then—

A chuckle.

Low, bitter, edged with pain.

The voice came from the corner.

An older man, face weathered by time and tragedy, a scar slicing across his cheek.

Elias. One of the original freedom fighters from before the Fall.

“You speak like a man who still thinks this war can be won,” Elias murmured.

Carlos held his gaze. “You think it can’t?”

Elias exhaled sharply. “I think we’re still standing. Which means we’re still called to fight.”

A grim nod.

Diego stepped forward. “We need more than a target, Carlos. We need a plan.”

Carlos’s fingers tightened around the edge of the map.

“We hit the Prophet first,” he said.

Eyes narrowed.

“Pope Innocent?” Priya asked.

Carlos nodded.

“Demir is the Beast,” he said. “But the Prophet is the one keeping the world in deception. He’s the one performing ‘miracles,’ the one twisting Scripture, convincing the people to worship the Beast. Without him—”

“The illusion starts to crack,” Priya finished.

Diego exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “So you’re suggesting we assassinate one of the most heavily protected man in the world.”

Carlos didn’t blink. “Yes.”

A murmur of uncertainty.

Elias chuckled again. “Not bad, kid. Completely insane. But not bad.”

Diego sighed. “And then what?”

Carlos’s expression darkened. “Then we move for Demir.”

A sharp silence.

The plan was madness.

The plan was suicide.

But it was the only move left.

Priya stepped closer, voice low, urgent.

“Carlos, if this fails—if we try and don’t take him out—”

He cut her off. “Then we die fighting.”

Her eyes burned with frustration. “There has to be more than that.”

Carlos hesitated.

For the first time in a long time, he let his voice soften.

“We’re not going to win this war with bullets alone, Priya,” he murmured. “We win it by holding the line. By not bowing. By proving to the world that there’s something worth dying for.”

She looked away, swallowing hard.

For a moment, the room felt too small.

Too many ghosts. Too many names carved into the walls of their minds.

Priya sighed. “If this is really our last shot, then we need to be sure.”

She turned toward the back of the room.

Toward the only person who hadn’t spoken.

A woman sat there, half in shadow.

Dark hair. Deep, knowing eyes.

A Bible in one hand.

A sidearm in the other.

She had been watching. Listening.

And now, she finally spoke.

“If this is God’s will,” she said quietly, “then He will make a way.”

Elias smirked. “That’s a dangerous prayer.”

She didn’t blink. “It’s the only one left.”

Carlos exhaled, rolling his shoulders.

“Then we make our move. But not just for us.”

He turned toward Diego. “Can you get a message out?”

Diego nodded slowly.

“Good.” Carlos’s jaw tightened.

“Then we tell the world.”

The bunker hummed to life, the old radio equipment warming up.

Diego typed furiously, bypassing the digital firewalls that still remained.

Finally—

The signal cracked open.

And Carlos spoke.

“To the Remnant. To those who still refuse the Mark.

We are not done yet.

The world tells you we are lost. That the fight is over. That faith is dead.

But the truth is this—

The Kingdom is coming.

Hold the line.

We are still here.”

A breath.

Then—static.

The message was out.

Now all they could do was wait.

And pray.

Chapter 8: The Final Stand

The first explosion shattered the early morning quiet like the wrath of a forgotten god.

Jessica Reynolds jolted awake as the floor beneath her trembled. Dust rained from the ceiling, and the muffled screams of the city’s inhabitants echoed through the underground bunker. The Resistance’s emergency frequency had been left on overnight, the static crackling ominously. Her fingers found the radio, clammy with sweat, just as the broadcast erupted to life.

“Confirmed aerial assault—unidentified strike teams have breached Jerusalem’s defense grid—global emergency in effect. Reports of cyberwarfare disruptions in Tokyo, London, and New York. The United Nations Security Council is in lockdown—”

Then static.

She swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the table to steady herself. It’s happening. It’s really happening.

Across the bunker, Kenji Nakamura was already moving, scrolling through intercepted transmissions on his laptop. His normally unshakable expression was grim, a sheen of sweat forming at his temple.

“This isn’t just an attack,” he murmured. “It’s a coordinated collapse.”

Carlos Medina ran a shaking hand over the worn leather cover of the Bible. He still didn’t fully understand it—hadn’t even read it all—but in the chaos, he held onto it like a lifeline. “Revelation 6,” he said softly. “The rider on the red horse, taking peace from the earth.” His voice wavered as he whispered, “This is war.”

The room darkened for a split second—a brief flicker in the already dim bunker lighting. Jessica felt it then, that creeping, skin-prickling sensation that had haunted them for days. A presence. Something watching.

Not human.

Lin Mei’s face was pale, her fingers tracing the wooden cross around her neck. “We don’t have time to wait,” she said, her voice urgent. “We need to get out of here before the streets become a war zone.”

Kenji’s laptop beeped—a real-time data feed. His jaw clenched. “It’s already too late.”

Jessica stepped closer, scanning the screen. The last intercepted data packets showed major world capitals in chaos—frozen images captured moments before the satellites went dark. Moscow’s Red Square was engulfed in flames, black smoke pouring into the sky. London’s skyline had gone dark. New York—completely offline.

The world was past breaking. It was burning.

A distant rumbling shook the bunker again. This time, it was closer. Jessica’s breath hitched as a second explosion ripped through the eastern sector. This wasn’t just a war—it was a purge.

The Antichrist had made his move.

Arif Demir stood on the skeletal remains of the Temple Mount’s outer walls, his dark eyes surveying the burning city of Jerusalem. His hands were clean—unbloodied—but he knew the weight of what he had unleashed. It had been inevitable.

To bring order, one must first eliminate chaos.

His forces had moved swiftly, striking at the heart of resistance in every major nation. The digital networks had been severed, leaving governments blind. Satellite grids were compromised. Economic infrastructures obliterated.

But this?

This was just the beginning.

He turned to the man beside him—Pope Innocent, the false prophet himself, his white robes pristine despite the carnage below.

The war had lasted only hours. Coordinated. Ruthless. By the time the UN collapsed, their own encrypted networks had already broadcast Demir’s victory.

“It is time,” Arif said simply.

Luca gave a slow nod. “The world is ready.”

Together, they watched as their new kingdom was forged in fire.

The sky darkened unnaturally, the sun swallowed by thick, roiling clouds the color of dried blood.

In the distance, Jessica could hear the low hum of something unnatural—like a whisper threading through her skull, coaxing, deceiving.

A wind gusted through the shattered city streets, but it was not a wind born of nature.

Lin Mei gasped, clutching at her throat. “They’re here.”

The shadows moved.

They weren’t just fighting men.

They were fighting something else.

Jessica gritted her teeth, forcing herself not to look directly at the figures emerging from the smoke—twisting, writhing shapes that defied logic. Her mind rebelled against what she saw. Shadows weren’t supposed to move like that. They weren’t supposed to watch her back.

Demons.

She had dismissed the thought once, long ago, back when faith had been an abstract concept, something distant and unnecessary.

Not anymore.

Carlos swallowed hard. He had seen believers do this before. Had read about it in fragments. But could it really work? He took a trembling step forward, lifting his Bible. “In the name of Jesus Christ,” he whispered first—then louder—“you have no power here!”

The shadows recoiled—hissing, retreating for only a moment before pressing forward again.

Jessica reached for her gun.

Faith was good.

But bullets still worked.

The bunker door burst open.

Jessica spun, gun raised.

But the face staring back at her wasn’t an enemy’s.

It was Priya Sharma.

Dressed in military fatigues.

Flanked by soldiers of the New Order.

Jessica’s blood ran cold. “Priya—what are you doing?”

Priya’s expression was blank, unreadable. Jessica had seen this look before. Not in Priya—but in others who had lost hope. The kind of look people wore just before they broke. “I’m giving you a choice.”

Behind her, the soldiers raised their weapons.

Lin Mei’s breath caught. “No.”

Carlos’s hands tightened into fists. “You’ve chosen them?”

Priya’s gaze flickered. Something in her eyes—doubt, maybe? Regret? But it was fleeting. “It’s survival,” she whispered.

Jessica exhaled slowly, her fingers flexing around the gun’s cold metal.

Priya’s voice was soft, almost pleading. The soldiers shifted uneasily. This was supposed to be quick. Orders had been to shoot on sight. But Priya had asked for a chance to turn them. “You don’t have to die. Just renounce Him.”

Silence.

Then—

Carlos took a step forward, shaking his head.

“No.”

Jessica swallowed. “Never.”

Lin Mei closed her eyes, whispering a prayer.

Kenji simply smiled. “Then let’s finish this.”

The soldiers tensed.

Jessica inhaled sharply.

Priya hesitated.

For a single, frozen moment, she looked like she might change her mind.

Then—

She whispered, “I’m sorry.”

And the gunfire began.

Bullets tore through the bunker walls as Jessica and the others dove for cover.

Lin Mei cried out as a round grazed her arm.

Carlos pulled her behind an overturned table, shielding her with his body.

Kenji fired back, his hands impossibly steady despite the chaos.

Jessica clenched her jaw, leveling her gun at Priya—

And then—

A sound.

A deafening, earth-shaking sound.

Like a thousand trumpets ringing through the heavens.

The entire battlefield went still.

Jessica felt it in her bones.

This was not the end.

It was only the beginning.

And war had just begun.

The cold steel of the handcuffs bit into Jessica Reynolds’ wrists as she was dragged through the crumbling remains of Jerusalem’s Old City. The acrid scent of burning buildings mixed with the stench of fear and death, thick in the air like a tangible force. She stumbled, her boots crunching against shattered glass and broken pavement, but the soldiers on either side of her yanked her forward without mercy.

A crowd had gathered in the ruined square—an audience to her execution. Their faces blurred together in the haze of smoke and flickering neon propaganda screens broadcasting the Antichrist’s latest decree. Towering over them all was a holographic image of Arif Demir, his black eyes piercing as he spoke from the screens.

“Today, justice is served. The enemies of unity will be purged.”

Jessica clenched her teeth. This was their moment of triumph. The world had fallen into their grasp, and now they would make an example of her. Public, humiliating, final. She would be a warning to any who dared resist.

A raised platform stood at the center of the square. A single chair. A firing squad already in place, their rifles gleaming under the artificial floodlights.

Her breath hitched, but she forced herself to keep moving. This is it.

From the edges of the crowd, whispers reached her ears.

“She was with the Resistance.”

“She refused to renounce Christ.”

“She won’t bow.”

Fear threatened to close its grip around her, but Jessica clung to a single truth. I will not deny Him. No matter what happens.

The soldiers forced her to her knees before the execution chair. A masked officer stepped forward, holding a small biometric scanner. He tilted her chin up roughly and pressed the scanner against her skin.

“Jessica Reynolds,” the officer announced. His voice rang over the square. “You have been found guilty of sedition, spreading misinformation against the Supreme Chancellor, and treason against the New Order. You have refused the Mark. You have refused the unification of the world. Your sentence is immediate execution.”

A hush fell over the gathered crowd.

The Mark. The one thing that separated those who could buy and sell, live or die, from those who resisted. The Mark of the Beast.

Jessica’s lips barely moved as she whispered, “Revelation 13:16-17.”

One of the soldiers sneered. “What did you say?”

She lifted her head, eyes blazing. “He causes all, both small and great, rich and poor, free and slave, to receive a mark on their right hand or on their forehead, and that no one may buy or sell except one who has the mark…”

A sharp slap cracked against her face. “Silence.”

She barely registered the pain.

The officer stepped forward again. “One final chance, Jessica Reynolds. Accept the Mark. Swear your allegiance to the Supreme Chancellor, and you will live.”

Jessica exhaled, letting the weight of eternity settle in her soul. He that saves his life shall lose it, but he that loses his life for My sake shall find it.

She lifted her head toward the heavens, past the smoky sky, past the neon lights. A deep peace settled over her.

“I belong to Christ.”

The officer exhaled in frustration and nodded to the firing squad.

Jessica’s heartbeat slowed, her breathing even. If this was her end, she would meet it with faith.

The soldiers raised their rifles. A commander barked the order.

“Aim.”

The barrels leveled at her heart.

“Fire!”

Jessica’s eyes shut.

The shots rang out—

And the world exploded.

A roar unlike anything the earth had ever known shattered the execution square. The air itself vibrated, knocking people to their knees. A wave of force rippled outward, throwing the execution squad backwards like rag dolls. The rifles fired—but not a single bullet touched Jessica.

A wind descended, spiraling from the sky, thick with light and fire. The blood-red clouds churned violently above them, flashing with supernatural energy. The crowd erupted into chaos. People screamed, fled, fell to the ground in terror. The propaganda screens flickered, scrambled, then shattered entirely, raining sparks over the city square. The soldiers hesitated, glancing at one another. This wasn’t supposed to happen. No training had prepared them for this.

Jessica gasped, staring in awe. The execution chair was empty.

She was standing.

Untouched.

She barely registered the soldiers scrambling back in horror, the officer stammering orders into his radio. Something had stopped the bullets. Something unseen. Something greater.

Then, from the sky, a voice like thunder:

“Be still and know that I am God.”

A terror far deeper than human fear gripped the city as every knee buckled. Even the executioners could not stand. The power in the air was alive—palpable, overwhelming. Some covered their ears, weeping. Others fell to their faces, wailing in fear.

Jessica staggered back, hands shaking.

A brilliant figure stood at the center of the square, robed in light. The air around Him shimmered like molten gold, His eyes like fire. No one could look directly at Him, yet His presence filled every heart with undeniable authority.

The officer, once so full of confidence, trembled where he stood. “Wh-what is this?”

The figure spoke. His voice was not loud, yet it echoed into every soul.

“The time is near.”

Jessica fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face. Jesus.

The Messiah stood before them.

The earth shook. The city’s walls trembled. The Antichrist’s fortress in the distance cracked, its foundations breaking.

The crowd—so sure of their allegiance to the Supreme Chancellor only moments ago—was now torn apart by terror. Some ran. Others knelt, hands raised, weeping as if their souls had just awakened.

The commander dropped his weapon. His lips quivered. “Is… is this Him?”

Jessica turned her face upward, breathless.

“Yes.”

A single tear slipped down the officer’s face. He knew. In that moment, they all knew.

Then, in the blink of an eye, the figure vanished.

The light dissipated. The wind died down.

Silence reigned.

And Jessica…

Was still standing.

A New Resistance is Born

Somewhere in the crowd, a voice cried out, breaking the stunned stillness.

“We’ve been deceived!”

Another sobbed, “He is real!”

Jessica exhaled, chest heaving. The battle is not over.

The Resistance was no longer just a handful of believers in hiding.

It had just gained an army.

Carlos sat in the dimly lit storage unit, his pulse steady but his mind racing. The small screen before him displayed the countdown: less than ten minutes before the global network purge—an aggressive digital crackdown by the New Order—would wipe out all remaining resistance communications. He had one last chance to get his message out.

The air was thick with tension, the hum of a nearby generator masking the rhythmic drumming of his fingers against the keyboard. The world outside was collapsing into submission, swallowed by fear and the iron grip of deception. But Carlos knew the truth. He had seen the signs, watched the prophecies unfold with terrifying precision. And now, this—the final warning, the call to those still willing to resist.

He adjusted the camera, the faint glow of the screen illuminating his face, now etched with urgency and defiance. The upload had to succeed.

“People of the world,” he began, his voice steady yet weighted with sorrow. “I don’t know how long this will stay online, but you need to hear this. They are coming for us. You feel it, don’t you? The world is not as it should be. The deception runs deep, but there is still hope.”

The screen flickered. A warning signal. The net was closing in. Carlos swallowed the rising anxiety and pressed on. He had to make them listen.

“They will tell you this is progress. That unity requires sacrifice. That by taking their mark, their system, you will be part of something greater. But it is a lie.”

A faint noise outside. Footsteps? He froze, heart hammering in his chest. He wasn’t alone. He reached for the pistol at his side but didn’t move, his ears straining against the hum of the generator. The sound faded. Probably a rat scurrying across the damp pavement. He exhaled sharply, refocusing on the screen.

“The world is being conditioned for complete control. Already, you can’t buy or sell without their approval. Soon, even your thoughts will be monitored. But remember this: you are not alone. There are still those who resist. There is a way to stand.”

The screen blinked again. Three minutes. He switched feeds, transferring the video to the dark network, a hidden channel only the Resistance could access. He had to make it count.

“Some of you have seen the signs. The sky turning blood-red, the great earthquakes, the wars erupting overnight. These things were written long before we were born. The world calls them coincidences, but you know better. This is prophecy unfolding.”

The door handle rattled.

Carlos spun, gun raised. The shadows danced, and for a moment, he could swear he saw something—something not entirely human. His breath hitched as he stared at the shape shifting just beyond the light. His grip tightened on the gun.

“Who’s there?” he hissed.

Silence.

Then a whisper, not audible, but in his mind. They will find you.

Carlos clenched his jaw. He had fought the whispers before, the darkness that crept at the edges of his mind, whispering doubt, fear, surrender. But not tonight.

He turned back to the screen. One minute. A static pulse rippled through the feed. They were trying to shut him down. He scrambled, rerouting through multiple servers. Almost there.

“Do not be afraid,” he urged, his voice rising. “We were warned this would come. But there is still a choice. Light or darkness. Truth or deception. The time is now.”

The door burst open. Carlos barely had time to react before the butt of a rifle slammed into his shoulder, sending him sprawling. The screen crashed to the ground, flickering, struggling to maintain the stream. Heavy boots surrounded him. The room spun as pain shot through his ribs.

A man in a black tactical suit knelt beside him, gripping his jaw roughly, forcing him to meet his cold, unblinking gaze. “Carlos Medina,” the officer said, voice smooth and devoid of emotion. “You’re under arrest for digital subversion.”

Carlos spat blood. “You’re too late.”

The officer’s brow twitched. “Shut it down,” he barked to the technician behind him.

“I can’t,” the man stammered. “It’s out.”

The officer’s grip tightened. “What did you do?”

Carlos grinned through the pain. “I set the world free.”

A sharp pain exploded at the base of his skull as the rifle came down again. Darkness swallowed him, but not before he heard the voice echoing in his mind, clearer than before.

Well done, my good and faithful servant.

The cell smelled of damp stone and sweat. Rahim knelt on the cold floor, his hands bound behind him, the rough rope cutting into his wrists. Outside the barred window, the sounds of distant sirens and the mechanical hum of drones patrolling the city filled the night. The Resistance had been shattered. Their underground church was no more. And now, Rahim’s time had come.

The single bulb overhead flickered as the prison door clanked open. Heavy boots echoed in the small chamber as two guards entered. Between them stood General Al-Masih, his presence as cold as the steel walls surrounding them.

“You know why I am here,” Al-Masih said, his voice devoid of emotion. “Your people are in ruins. The world has moved on. You are clinging to a fantasy. Accept the new order, and you can live.”

Rahim lifted his gaze, his eyes unwavering. “The truth does not bend to power,” he said. “The Son of Man will return, and every knee will bow.”

The general’s lips curled into a tight smile. “You still speak of these prophecies. You, of all people, should know how many have died waiting for them. You watched your friends fall. Your church burned. And now you kneel before me, clinging to a dead man’s promise.”

Rahim closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. He thought of the others—Carlos, Jessica, Lin Mei. Some had been captured. Others had vanished. Had any escaped? He prayed they had.

“Faith is not weakness,” Rahim said, meeting Al-Masih’s gaze. “And death is not the end.”

The general sighed, glancing at his watch. “Time is short, Rahim. There is a world to save. The old faiths have failed. Your God has abandoned you.”

A surge of warmth flooded Rahim’s chest. No, he thought. My God has never left me.

Outside, the night deepened. Rahim knew what would come next. The execution chamber awaited. The world would watch his death, a final warning to any who resisted. But Rahim had one last thing to do.

He straightened his back, ignoring the ropes cutting into his skin. “Before I go, let me pray.”

The general hesitated, then gestured to the guards. “You have one minute.”

Rahim closed his eyes and took a slow breath. The air in the cell seemed to shift, charged with something unseen. A presence filled the room, pressing against his skin like warm oil.

“Heavenly Father, into Your hands I commit my spirit.”

A tremor passed through the walls. Al-Masih stiffened. The guards exchanged nervous glances.

Rahim continued.

“Let my death be a witness. Let those who watch see Your power. Do not let their hearts be hardened. Let them know You are near.’

A sound, low and vibrating, filled the air. The light above flickered wildly. The ground beneath them trembled.

One of the guards stepped back. “Sir, something is—”

“Silence,” the general snapped.

Rahim’s voice grew stronger. “You are the Beginning and the End. The Alpha and the Omega. You reign forever.”

A sharp wind howled through the cell, though no windows were open. The metal bars groaned. The walls seemed to breathe.

Then, the light above them shattered.

Darkness swallowed the room. A collective gasp filled the space as a deep red glow pulsed from Rahim’s body. Not fire. Not light. Something else. Something eternal.

A whisper rippled through the air. A voice not of this world. Not a scream, nor a cry, but something ancient and boundless, as if the heavens themselves were speaking.

Rahim opened his eyes, and they shone like molten gold.

The guards stumbled back. One fell to his knees. The other covered his ears, his mouth moving in silent prayer.

Al-Masih’s face darkened. “What is this trickery?”

Rahim smiled. “It is not a trick.”

The prison doors burst open, and a deafening wind roared through the corridor. Beyond, the sky had turned the color of blood.

The prophecy was unfolding.

Rahim exhaled one last breath. His vision blurred, then sharpened. The world around him faded. He felt himself lifted, weightless, as if hands unseen had taken hold of him.

Then, there was light. And peace. And the sound of trumpets.

In the ruined cell, the guards remained frozen, eyes wide with terror. The ropes that bound Rahim now lay empty, burned away as if consumed by fire not of this earth.

Al-Masih turned away, his hands clenched into fists. He would not speak of what he had seen. He could not. For the world had just witnessed a miracle.

And miracles were dangerous.

The low hum of servers surrounded Kenji, the lifeblood of the New Order’s global surveillance system pulsing in neon-green data streams on the screen before him. Lines of code scrolled rapidly, each keystroke unraveling the tightly woven net of the regime’s control. His breath was slow, measured—an eerie calm in the face of certain death. There was no turning back now. He had already gone too far.

From a small server farm buried beneath the ruins of an abandoned Tokyo metro station, Kenji worked at breakneck speed, bypassing firewalls that had been designed by minds as sharp as his own. His dark eyes flicked to the monitors—feeds of the Resistance’s hidden sanctuaries, flagged individuals marked for execution, and the Antichrist’s latest address to the world, broadcast on an endless loop. Each flicker of digital light was a soul, ensnared in the tightening grip of tyranny.

His fingers hesitated over the keyboard. He had been a ghost for years, hiding in the cracks of the world’s digital infrastructure, feeding the Resistance with vital intelligence. But today, he wasn’t a ghost. Today, he would make himself known.

Kenji initiated the upload—an untraceable virus crafted in secret, its purpose singular: to expose the Antichrist’s hidden agenda. In minutes, classified data would be broadcast to every remaining free network, smuggled through encrypted satellite bursts and buried within seemingly innocuous news feeds. It would be enough to shatter the illusion of peace, to wake up the sleepers before the world was lost entirely.

A red warning flashed across his screen. Intrusion Detected.

A chill ran down his spine.

They had found him.

The facility’s lights flickered, and in the next instant, the sound of boots on concrete echoed through the tunnels. He had anticipated this. The New Order’s elite cyber-police were ruthless, an extension of the Antichrist’s omnipresent eye. Kenji exhaled and pressed a final key, locking his program in an irreversible countdown. The data would be free in exactly two minutes.

A deep voice crackled through the intercom. “Kenji Nakamura, by order of the Supreme Leader, you are under arrest for crimes against the New Order. Surrender now, and you will be given mercy.”

Kenji smirked bitterly. Mercy? There was no mercy left in this world.

He grabbed his sidearm and backed away from the console, his heart hammering in his chest. The steel door to the server room groaned as it was breached. Shadows flooded the space before the first figure stepped through—a soldier clad in black, rifle raised.

“Hands up!”

Kenji moved before the command had finished, diving behind the server racks as a burst of gunfire shredded the air. Sparks rained down. He returned fire, forcing the soldiers back. It was a futile effort. He was one man against an army.

But then, the lights dimmed, and a strange, electric presence filled the air. Kenji felt it before he saw it—a pulse, as if something vast and unseen had entered the room. The soldiers hesitated, their earpieces buzzing with static.

And then, the shadows moved.

A piercing wail echoed through the chamber, not of this world. A presence, blacker than the void, curled through the space like living smoke, swallowing light as it moved. The soldiers faltered, their faces contorted in terror. They opened fire wildly, but the bullets passed through the darkness like pebbles through water.

Kenji watched, paralyzed. He had read about them—the Nephilim, the dark servants of the Antichrist. This was no ordinary battle. It was spiritual.

A soldier near the entrance screamed as he was lifted off his feet, his body twisting unnaturally before vanishing into the shadows. Another turned and ran, but the darkness caught him, dragging him into its hungry maw.

Kenji clenched his jaw. He would not die cowering.

He turned back to the screen. Ten seconds.

The soldiers still standing fought to regain control, their rifles trained on the encroaching darkness. Then, the lead officer—his voice steadier than the others—stepped forward. His eyes were black, hollow, devoid of humanity. The air around him shimmered with an unnatural heat.

“You think you can stop us, Kenji?” the officer asked. But the voice that came from his mouth was not his own. It was layered, ancient.

Kenji swallowed. The entity speaking through this man was powerful, but it could not touch him.

“I don’t need to stop you,” Kenji whispered, his voice firm. “I just need to reveal the truth.”

A deafening alarm blared from the console. The upload had completed. Across the world, billions of screens would now display the Antichrist’s secret plans, the executions, the indoctrination camps, the undeniable proof of the deception. The Resistance would have its proof.

The officer’s blackened eyes flickered in realization. The deception had been exposed.

Kenji grinned weakly. “Checkmate.”

The officer snarled and raised his hand. Kenji braced for the blow, expecting the end—

—but a blinding white light erupted between them.

A roar of agony filled the chamber as the darkness recoiled, writhing. The soldiers fell to their knees, screaming. And standing in the center of the light was a figure cloaked in radiant fire.

An angel.

Kenji’s breath caught in his throat. He had heard stories, whispers of divine intervention, but to see it—to feel its presence—was overwhelming.

The angel raised its sword, and the darkness howled in fury before dissipating into nothing. The lead officer collapsed, his human form left twitching on the floor, void of the entity that had possessed him.

The remaining soldiers, broken and terrified, fled into the tunnels. The battle was over.

Kenji felt his knees weaken. He had done it. The world would see. The world would know. But his body was failing. Blood seeped from a wound he hadn’t noticed, staining his shirt. He staggered back against the console, his vision swimming.

The angel turned to him, its gaze deep as eternity itself. Its voice, though powerful, was gentle.

“You have fought well, Kenji Nakamura.”

Kenji exhaled. He could barely stand. His mission was complete. There was nothing left but the peace of knowing he had done his part.

The angel extended a hand. “It is time.”

Kenji nodded. He had no fear. He reached forward, and as his fingers brushed the angel’s, a warmth unlike anything he had ever known engulfed him. The world faded.

And Kenji was gone.

Across the world, millions of screens flickered with the truth. The Resistance, battered but unbroken, saw their call to rise.

Kenji had given everything. And the war was far from over.

The world held its breath.

Every screen, every device, every holographic projection flickered to life with the same image—the grand stage of the newly erected Global Unity Temple in Jerusalem. Towering pillars of black onyx stretched into the sky, reflecting the glow of artificial daylight that bathed the city in an eerie luminescence. At the center of the stage, beneath a massive inverted obelisk, stood Arif Demir.

His arms were raised, his silhouette a stark contrast against the gleaming altar behind him. The air vibrated with an almost imperceptible frequency, a subtle hum woven into the broadcast. It was designed to entrance, to subdue, to pull the minds of billions toward him with unseen chains.

Jessica sat in the underground bunker, watching the broadcast with the Resistance. She clenched her fists as Demir’s voice, deep and velvety, poured through the speakers like liquid fire.

“Today,” Demir intoned, his voice laced with an otherworldly resonance, “we step beyond the borders of nations, beyond the divisions of faith. Today, I call upon all of humanity to transcend. The time of gods is over. The time of truth is now.”

The crowd gathered in the temple—a meticulously curated audience of global leaders, clergy, and influencers—erupted into applause. Behind them, banners of the New Order rippled in an artificial breeze. Drones hovered, capturing every angle, streaming it in flawless resolution to every remaining city and village worldwide.

Demir lowered his hands, and the applause died instantly. The silence was oppressive. His golden eyes burned with the fire of a new age.

“For too long, we have been shackled by myths, by outdated beliefs that have kept us divided and weak. I have given you peace. I have ended the wars, the suffering, the uncertainty. I have done what no god before me could do. And now, I give you the final truth.”

He stepped aside, revealing a massive screen behind him. A flickering series of images appeared—cataclysms, wars, pandemics, destruction. And then, his own face, emerging from the darkness like a beacon of salvation.

“I am the Alpha and the Omega,” Demir declared. “I am the embodiment of all that was and all that will be. The gods of old are dead. The prophets have lied. Their texts have misled you. But I…” He spread his arms. “I am the fulfillment of all prophecy.”

Jessica’s breath hitched. She knew this moment was coming, but to hear it spoken—to see the rapture on the faces of those who had once been skeptics—chilled her to the bone. The world was watching the birth of ultimate deception, and they were drinking it in like poisoned wine.

“Some of you will resist,” Demir continued, his eyes locking onto the cameras, as if speaking directly to the hidden enclaves of the Resistance. “Some of you will cling to the falsehoods of the past, hoping for salvation from a god who has abandoned you. But there is no salvation outside of me.”

Jessica felt Rahim’s hand tighten on her shoulder. The room was deathly silent. Even the air felt heavier.

Demir stepped forward. “And so, a choice must be made.”

At his signal, the temple doors parted, and a line of prisoners was led forward—men and women in ragged clothes, their hands bound, their eyes hollowed by suffering. One by one, they were forced to kneel before him. The camera zoomed in on the first captive, a gaunt woman whose lips moved in silent prayer.

“You wish to serve your god?” Demir asked mockingly, tilting his head. “Then let him save you.”

Without another word, he raised his hand. The woman gasped, her body seizing as if some unseen force crushed her from within. Blood ran from her eyes, her nose, her mouth. And then—she collapsed.

A gasp rippled through the bunker. Jessica covered her mouth, horror coiling in her stomach.

Demir turned back to the camera. “This is the fate of those who refuse truth.”

He spread his arms again, his voice rising. “But for those who accept me… there is life. There is prosperity. There is eternity.”

The audience inside the temple erupted in a fervor. Some fell to their knees in worship. Others sobbed, as if witnessing a revelation.

Jessica could barely hear past the blood pounding in her ears. She turned to Kenji, his fingers flying across the tablet in front of him, attempting to break into the global feed. But the encryption was like nothing he had ever seen before. The moment was slipping through their fingers, and there was nothing they could do.

Rahim whispered, “It has begun.”

Jessica closed her eyes. The world had just crossed the final threshold. There was no turning back.

The night was thick with smoke, the acrid scent of burning metal and flesh saturating the air. The streets of Jerusalem, once teeming with whispers of resistance, now lay in ruins—pockmarked by drone strikes, collapsed buildings, and the haunting glow of burning wreckage. The Resistance had held on longer than anyone expected. But now, under the relentless onslaught of the Global Dominion’s forces, the last stronghold was crumbling.

Carlos wiped the blood from his brow, his hands trembling as he reloaded his rifle. He had known this moment would come—had felt it in his bones—but nothing could prepare him for the overwhelming force that had descended upon them. Their underground network, built upon faith and defiance, had been infiltrated. The Dominion’s intelligence units had tracked every whisper, every encrypted message. Someone had betrayed them.

He glanced around the dimly lit basement of an abandoned cathedral, where the last remnants of the Resistance gathered. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the stone walls. Eyes met his—some filled with fear, others with defiance. Among them was Priya, her face streaked with soot, her knuckles white as she clutched a rusted pistol. Rahim, the former journalist turned fighter, knelt in the corner, whispering a desperate prayer. And Kenji, their tech genius, sat at a terminal, his fingers flying across the keyboard, trying to break through the Dominion’s satellite uplink one last time.

“They know we’re here,” Kenji said, his voice hoarse. “They cut the last relay. It’s over, Carlos. We can’t get a message out.”

Carlos gritted his teeth. They had spent months exposing the Dominion’s atrocities, broadcasting the truth to what remained of the free world. Now, it would all be silenced. The people who had put their faith in them would be abandoned to darkness.

A distant explosion rattled the floor. The ground shuddered, dust cascading from the ceiling. The end was near.

Outside, through the broken stained-glass windows, floodlights swept across the ruined streets. The whine of hovering drones cut through the air like a thousand electric wasps. Then came the sound they had all dreaded—the mechanical march of the Dominion’s elite enforcers, clad in black exosuits, their crimson visors glowing like hellfire. The hounds of the Antichrist.

Carlos turned to his people. “We don’t surrender. We fight.”

Rahim looked up, his prayer unfinished. “Carlos, there are too many. If we go out there—”

“We die on our feet,” Priya interjected, chambering a round into her pistol. “I’m not kneeling to Demir.”

Carlos nodded. “We buy time for those who can escape.” His eyes flicked to Kenji.

Kenji hesitated. “There’s one last thing I can do. A kill switch. If I can breach the Dominion’s primary relay, I can disable their surveillance for a few minutes—long enough for some of us to get away.”

Carlos exhaled. “Then do it.”

Kenji plugged in a small device, his fingers shaking. “Give me cover.”

Another explosion. This time, it was closer. The main doors blew inward, sending a shockwave of heat through the sanctuary. Soldiers poured in—faceless enforcers, their weapons raised, their movements precise.

Carlos squeezed the trigger. The first shot took down a soldier, but the second missed. The air filled with the crack of gunfire, the Resistance fighting tooth and nail against the overwhelming force. Rahim was hit first—a burst of plasma searing through his shoulder. Priya took down two soldiers before a shock baton sent her sprawling. Kenji, still typing, barely flinched as bullets whizzed past him.

Carlos moved instinctively, his rifle running hot. But for every soldier they took down, more filled the space. The Dominion’s army was unrelenting.

Kenji suddenly gasped. “Got it! The system’s down for five minutes!”

Carlos grabbed Kenji’s arm. “Come on, we can still make it!”

Kenji shook his head. “If I leave, they’ll trace this back to everyone. This is the only way.”

Carlos clenched his fists. He knew Kenji was right. But that didn’t make it any easier.

But Kenji didn’t move. He held his hands over his terminal, his eyes filled with something Carlos couldn’t quite place.

“I stay,” Kenji said. “If they trace this back, they’ll find the others. If I overload the system from here, they won’t know where the hack came from.”

Carlos grabbed his friend by the collar. “We can’t lose you.”

Kenji smiled, a sad, weary thing. “They’ve already won if we all die. Someone has to tell the world what happened here.”

Carlos wanted to argue, but the soldiers were closing in. He turned, firing until his clip ran empty. A hand yanked him backward—Priya, pulling him toward a side exit.

“Come on!” she yelled.

Carlos hesitated for just a moment longer, looking back at Kenji. Their eyes met. Kenji gave a small nod, then turned back to his terminal, typing furiously. As Carlos and Priya bolted down the tunnel, he heard the unmistakable sound of Dominion weapons discharging.

Kenji’s sacrifice had bought them moments. But it wasn’t enough.

The tunnels beneath the cathedral were old, damp, and collapsing in places. Carlos and Priya ran, stumbling through the darkness, the echoes of war reverberating above. As they reached the last exit—a rusted sewer grate leading into the city’s ruins—Carlos turned back. The cathedral above them groaned under the weight of its own destruction. Flames licked at the walls. He knew no one inside had survived.

Priya grabbed his arm. “We have to go.”

Carlos clenched his fists, swallowing the lump in his throat. Then, with a final, grief-stricken glance at the place that had once been their sanctuary, he turned and disappeared into the night.

Above them, in the skies of Jerusalem, a new message played on every Dominion-controlled screen. A declaration of total victory from Arif Demir himself.

The Resistance was over. The world belonged to him now.

The night swallowed them whole. A heavy fog clung to the ruins of what was once a bustling city, now reduced to a skeletal frame of crumbling infrastructure and burning debris. The Resistance had fallen. The air carried the acrid scent of scorched metal, blood, and something fouler—despair.

Carlos crouched behind a shattered wall, his breath controlled but shallow. His pulse hammered against his ribs as he glanced over at Lin Mei, who clutched a small child to her chest. The boy, no older than four, had not spoken since the raid. His wide eyes mirrored the terror Carlos himself struggled to suppress. Kenji’s fingers flew over his wrist interface, hacking into the drones’ thermal sensors. He created a false heat signature two blocks away, just enough to buy them seconds.

He adjusted his cracked glasses and tapped his wrist interface, bringing up a faint blue glow.

“They’ve deployed drones,” he whispered. “Facial recognition scanners. We have five minutes, maybe less, before they sweep this sector.”

Jessica exhaled sharply. “Then we move. Now.”

Carlos nodded. “We take the tunnels beneath the church. If we make it out the other side, we can reach the extraction point before sunrise.”

Lin Mei’s lips pressed into a thin line. “And if they’ve sealed the tunnels?”

“Then we pray they haven’t,” Carlos replied.

The group moved swiftly, hugging the walls of the bombed-out alley. Every step was calculated, each breath measured. Overhead, the distant hum of automated patrol drones sent a shiver down Carlos’ spine. The world had changed overnight. What was once paranoia had become reality; what was once conspiracy was now gospel truth.

The Marked roamed the streets freely now, their biometric implants making them gods in this new order. Those who resisted had been hunted like vermin. Jessica had barely escaped execution. Lin Mei had seen her brother dragged into the darkness, never to return. Kenji had used the last of his resources to hack into the Global Network and leak proof of Arif Demir’s atrocities. But none of it mattered. The world had turned a blind eye, ensnared by the digital chains of the Beast.

A sudden clang echoed in the distance. They froze.

Carlos raised a hand. Wait.

The sound of approaching boots reached their ears, crisp and deliberate. Then, the sickening mechanical whir of a drone scanning the area.

A voice, low and modulated, rang out through the speakers of the hovering machine. “Unmarked individuals detected. Surrender for processing.”

Jessica pulled out her pistol, suppressor already screwed onto the muzzle. “We run or we fight.”

Carlos clenched his jaw. “We run.”

Kenji tapped furiously at his wrist device, sending a false heat signature twenty meters to their right. The drone adjusted, turning toward the decoy, and in that split second, they bolted.

The church ruins loomed ahead, the once-glorious stained glass shattered, its steeple a skeletal husk against the night sky. The entrance had caved in, but Kenji had foreseen this. He led them to a side corridor where a collapsed archway revealed a narrow opening.

Carlos squeezed through first, then reached for the child. Lin Mei hesitated before passing him over, her fingers trembling as she let go. Jessica and Kenji followed, sliding into the darkness beneath the ruins.

The air was thick with dust and decay. The underground passage was lined with forgotten relics—candles burnt to their base, a wooden crucifix still standing despite the destruction above.

A flickering emergency light barely illuminated the space, casting long, shifting shadows. Jessica held up a hand for silence, listening.

Nothing.

Then—

“I know you’re in there,” a voice called.

Carlos stiffened. He knew that voice.

Gabriel.

A former Resistance fighter turned collaborator. The one who had betrayed them.

“You can’t hide forever,” Gabriel continued, his footsteps deliberate. “Demir has seen this night in a vision. He knows who among you will survive. He has foreseen the names of those who will kneel, and those who will fall.”

Jessica tightened her grip on her pistol.

Kenji whispered, “There’s another way out, but it’s risky.”

Carlos exhaled. “We have no choice.”

The ground trembled as an explosion rocked the city above. Dust rained from the ceiling. Lin Mei pressed her lips against the boy’s forehead, whispering silent prayers.

Carlos motioned to Kenji. “Lead the way.”

Gabriel’s voice grew closer. “They say your God will save you. But where is He now? Where was He when your friends begged for mercy? When your so-called heroes were paraded through the streets before execution?”

Carlos fought the urge to respond. To rage. To cry out. But he had seen what the Marked had become—soulless vessels, their allegiance sealed with the sign of the Beast.

Kenji reached the back of the passage and began working on the rusted grate covering the exit. “Thirty seconds.”

Gabriel’s voice was right outside the entrance. “Surrender, Carlos. Give up the fight. Join us.”

Carlos met Jessica’s gaze. She gave a small, imperceptible nod.

“Now!” Kenji hissed.

Carlos pushed Lin Mei and the child through first, then followed. Jessica was next, then Kenji, who yanked the grate back into place just as boots entered the passage.

They emerged into the cold night, stumbling into an overgrown graveyard behind the church. In the distance, the city burned. The sky pulsed an eerie red, as if the heavens themselves mourned.

They ran.

Carlos didn’t look back. He didn’t have to. He knew this was only the beginning.

The world was waking up to its darkest hour. And they were the last ones left to fight.

The air above Jerusalem was thick with the weight of prophecy. The skyline, once dominated by the golden shimmer of the Dome and the solemnity of the Wailing Wall, now flickered with the glow of distant fires. The world had changed, fractured under the weight of a force that no one could name but many had come to fear.

Arif Demir stood at the pinnacle of the rebuilt temple, draped in garments laced with gold and scarlet. Below him, thousands had gathered—some in fervent worship, others in silent horror. His voice, amplified through unseen means, resonated across the city.

“The time has come,” he declared, his arms outstretched as if commanding the heavens themselves. “The gods of old have fallen, and I alone remain. Your Messiah is here.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. The faithful among them, those who had longed for the fulfillment of scripture, felt their stomachs turn. This moment—this blasphemy—had been foretold.

Hidden within the ruins of an old church, Carlos wiped sweat from his brow. The small group huddled around him listened as the message crackled through the hidden radio. The frequency had been hijacked; there was no avoiding it. Demir’s voice filled every channel, every device. The world was listening.

“He speaks the words of the serpent,” Rahim whispered, his fingers tightening around the small, tattered Bible he carried. “Revelation warned us of this moment.”

Jessica exhaled sharply, glancing between Carlos and the others. “Then this is it? The abomination of desolation? We’re here?”

Carlos nodded grimly. “And if prophecy is right, then something is about to happen.”

Above the city, the sky groaned. A tremor ran through the ground, unsettling loose rubble from collapsed buildings. The crowd before the temple gasped as the sky, as if wounded, split apart in streaks of crimson. A supernatural storm brewed with unnatural force. A blood-red glow spread across the heavens, painting the ruins of the old world in eerie, pulsing light.

“What is this?” someone in the crowd screamed.

The question hung unanswered as the temperature shifted, an unnatural chill sweeping over the city. The crimson sky swirled, forming something—someone—within the clouds. A figure, robed in light, stood suspended above the temple.

Jessica’s breath caught. “No… it can’t be.”

Carlos reached for the scope of his rifle, adjusting his vision. The figure was unlike anything he had seen before. Radiant yet terrible, its presence alone was enough to drive the crowd to their knees.

Demir, however, did not kneel.

Instead, he lifted his chin, his expression unreadable. “I knew you would come,” he said, though his voice lacked the reverence of a true believer. It was the tone of a man prepared for war.

The figure in the sky did not speak. Instead, a sound like a thousand rushing waters filled the air. Scripture spoke of voices like trumpets, of angels descending with warning. But this—this was something beyond human comprehension.

A wind howled through the temple courtyard. Those who had pledged allegiance to Demir cried out, clutching their heads as if something unseen clawed at their minds. Others, those who had resisted, felt a different pull—a call deep within their souls.

Rahim fell to his knees. “God, give us wisdom.”

Jessica’s heart pounded. The weight of the moment pressed into her chest. This was real. Everything she had doubted, everything she had mocked—it was happening before her eyes.

Demir took a step forward. “I am the rightful ruler of this world,” he declared, his voice battling the storm. “I have conquered its nations. I have unified its people. You cannot stand against me!”

The wind did not falter. If anything, it grew stronger.

Then, without warning, the figure in the sky raised an arm.

Light burst forth—not a beam, but an explosion of purity, cutting through the thick air. The temple trembled. Stones cracked beneath Demir’s feet. He staggered but did not fall.

His laughter—cold, defiant—echoed through the ruins. “Is this all you have?”

Then, the unthinkable happened.

From the depths of the earth, shadow tendrils emerged, blacker than night itself. They slithered up the temple steps, reaching, writhing, consuming. Demir did not shrink back; instead, he lifted his arms, embracing the darkness as it coiled around him.

Jessica’s stomach churned. “Carlos, we need to move. Now.”

Carlos was already backing away, Rahim pulling at his arm. “This is not our fight.”

A new voice cut through the storm—clear, commanding.

“It is written: ‘The Lord will consume the lawless one with the breath of His mouth.’”

Demir’s face twisted. The darkness recoiled. For the first time, a flicker of something—uncertainty, fear?—crossed his features.

But then he smiled. “Not yet, He won’t.”

The sky screamed. The storm of red light shifted, pulsing outward. A crack of thunder unlike any before it shook the foundations of the city. And just like that, the figure in the sky was gone.

The crowd was silent.

The prophecy had been fulfilled.

And the world would never be the same.

The sky bled red.

It had begun.

Across the world, the nightmarish reality of what so many had dismissed as ancient fables now bore down upon humanity with ruthless force. Cities still burned from the coordinated strikes against the Resistance. The air reeked of smoldering steel and charred flesh. Those who survived lived in the shadow of a new world order, ruled by one man who now declared himself divine.

Arif Demir stood before the grand stage in Jerusalem, the very heart of a world once divided, now unified under his dominion. Dressed in an obsidian robe adorned with gold-threaded sigils, he lifted his hands to the sky. His voice, deep and commanding, echoed through the ruins of the Temple Mount. His image was broadcast globally, projected onto every screen, every city square, every surviving home.

“My children,” he began, the subtle undertones of a serpent hidden in his voice, “we stand on the precipice of a new age. An age of peace. An age of unity. An age where suffering is no more, and all who pledge their loyalty to me shall never want for anything.”

The crowd before him was massive—thousands of onlookers gathered in rapture, their eyes glassy, their faces void of independent thought. The Mark glowed on their hands and foreheads, pulsing faintly, as if responding to his words. Those who had resisted were either executed or forced into hiding, scattered remnants of a once-mighty defiance now reduced to whispers and desperate prayers.

But in the crowd, a remnant still existed. Hidden beneath hoods, veils, and desperate disguises, those who refused to bow felt the weight of prophecy pressing down upon them. Carlos was among them, sweat trickling down his spine as he dared to watch the spectacle unfold. His heart pounded—not from fear, but from something far greater. Conviction.

He glanced at Rahim, once a man of quiet faith, now risking everything to smuggle families out of the city before it was too late. Rahim’s lips moved in silent prayer. His fingers trembled around the tiny fragment of scripture he had managed to keep hidden—a torn page from the Book of Revelation. It was enough.

Jessica, standing beside them, her once-unshakable skepticism shattered by all she had witnessed, clutched her hands together so tightly they had turned white. She had doubted. She had run. But now, with the world spinning into madness, there was no denying the truth.

Arif Demir turned his gaze upward, raising his arms as if drawing power from the heavens. And then, it happened.

A storm unlike any seen before erupted in the sky. Thunder rolled, deafening, shaking the very ground. The sky itself seemed to fracture, ribbons of light and darkness intertwining as unnatural forces clashed. And then, as if the very breath of the Almighty exhaled upon the earth, the air trembled.

A voice, not human, not earthly, resounded in the ears of all who still had the ears to hear.

“Woe to the inhabitants of the earth, for the time is at hand.”

Gasps filled the plaza. Even Arif Demir hesitated for the briefest second, his jaw tightening before he regained his composure. He turned his gaze to the people before him, his eyes blacker than the void.

“Fear is the language of the weak,” he said, his voice smooth yet filled with venom. “But you, my children, have no reason to fear.”

The Marked ones fell to their knees in reverence, murmuring words of praise. The few who remained unmarked exchanged glances of horror. They knew this was not the beginning of peace but the descent into something far worse.

Rahim clutched his torn scripture tighter. “The Trumpets…” he whispered to Carlos. “They are about to be sounded.”

A ripple of movement in the crowd caught their attention. Armed enforcers, clad in black armor, their helmets obscuring their faces, began moving through the gathered masses. Searching. Identifying.

Jessica’s breath hitched. “They’re looking for us.”

Carlos exhaled slowly, his mind racing. There was no time to run. No place to hide. The only option left was to stand.

Then, without warning, a piercing wail shattered the murmurs of the crowd. A woman, clothed in rags, had collapsed to her knees, her hands clutching her stomach. “No… no, no, no!” she screamed, her voice ragged with despair. “I see them! I see them coming!”

Her voice rose into an inhuman shriek, and for the briefest moment, those around her saw what she saw—shadows, writhing and twisting, crawling from the edges of existence, unseen horrors spilling forth into the world.

Arif Demir only smiled.

“They come not as your enemies,” he said, gesturing toward the unseen forces, “but as your saviors.”

The moment shattered like glass. The woman’s scream was cut short as an enforcer silenced her with a single shot. The gunfire echoed through the square, punctuated by the sudden, suffocating silence.

Carlos gritted his teeth. His fists clenched. They couldn’t just stand here. But Rahim placed a hand on his shoulder, his voice calm despite the chaos unraveling around them.

“Not yet.”

Jessica looked between them, her eyes brimming with questions. Fear. But beneath it, something else flickered.

Faith.

Above them, the sky continued to churn, as if the heavens themselves were bracing for war. The beginning of the end had arrived, and only one question remained—who would stand, and who would fall?

As the enforcers drew closer, Carlos made his choice.

“We run,” he whispered. “And when the time comes… we fight.”

With that, they vanished into the crowd, the first fugitives of the Tribulation.

The hunt had begun.

Tokyo, Japan

The city pulsed beneath him, neon veins feeding a beast that no longer belonged to the people. Tokyo had fallen—not to war, not to fire, but to the silent machine of control. Every heartbeat tracked. Every thought predicted. Every breath owned. A silent hand now controlled its breath, its movement, its soul.

Kenji Nakamura coughed, his lungs seizing, his vision tilting. Blood splattered his palm, dark and wet. His body was shutting down, but his mind raced—one last move, one last fight. His body was failing, the wound in his side burning like a live wire, but he had one last move to make. The shadows of the abandoned skyscraper stretched long in the moonlight, concrete walls closing in around him like a tomb.

He adjusted his earpiece, his fingers slick with sweat and blood, and tapped into the hidden network one final time.

The Resistance hadn’t vanished. They had become the ghost in the machine, the whisper in the code, the shadow that even the AI could not erase.

And he had what they needed.

A tremor ran through him, the weight of his own choices pressing against his chest. The greed that had blinded him. The comfort that had cost him his soul. Naomi had tried to warn him—again and again, she had tried.

He hadn’t listened.

Not until it was too late.

The tablet in his lap flickered to life, casting eerie blue light over his face. Lines of code scrolled down the screen, a lattice of control, of surveillance, of a system so perfect it could track a man’s breath before he exhaled.

Kenji had built this.

And now, he was going to break it—the machine he had once called progress. The beast he had fed. The system that had swallowed him whole before he finally saw its teeth.

Outside, the city groaned beneath the weight of the new world order. Massive LED billboards glowed like unblinking eyes, cycling through a single hypnotic message. Arif Demir’s face—smiling, eternal—filled every screen. ‘Fear is the past. Unity is the future. Take the mark, and never suffer again.’

“Do not be afraid. A new day has dawned. Join us in unity, and there will be no more suffering.”

Kenji sneered. Lies. All of it. He had seen the raw data. The disappearances. The untraceable “re-education facilities.” The cities that simply stopped responding.

And soon, they would come for him.

A distant rumble vibrated through the building, low and menacing. He tapped a key, activating the security feed. The grainy black-and-white footage revealed figures moving in the lower levels—precision, military.

They had found him.

A voice crackled in his earpiece.

“Kenji-san… please, tell me you have it.”

It was Elias, a Resistance coder, his voice taut with urgency.

Kenji swallowed the metallic taste of blood, his fingers trembling over the keyboard. His hands slipped—too slick with sweat, too weak. He forced them to move. A single mistake would cost everything.

“The whole system is compromised,” he muttered. “Everything is routed through a central Nexus housed in Geneva. The biometric tracking, facial recognition, social scoring—every citizen marked for compliance or eradication.”

Elias exhaled sharply. “Can you kill it?”

His breath hitched—ragged, unsteady. His ribs ached with each inhale, his lungs burning like raw metal. “Not completely. But I can give you the backdoor.”

A file began to upload—a set of blueprints, weak points in the code. A way for the Resistance to ghost themselves out of the system. A way to disappear.

“Kenji, they’re moving fast! We lost their heat signatures five minutes ago—whatever you’re doing, finish it now!”

He coughed again, vision tilting. “Not happening.”

A new voice entered the line.

“Nakamura.”

Cold. Mechanical. A voice he knew too well.

Kenji’s muscles locked. “Director Aoki.”

The AI Security Chief. The man who had once been his mentor, his boss. Now, the executioner of Demir’s regime.

“Shut it down. You don’t have to die here, Kenji.”

Kenji smirked, pressing deeper into the code.

“Funny. I was about to say the same to you.”

Aoki sighed, almost regretful.

“I warned you, Nakamura. You played your part well. You built the system. You benefited from it. But this… this is treason.”

Kenji’s fingers tightened around the tablet. “Treason?” His voice wavered, half a laugh, half a sob. “Treason is what I did before. Watching them erase people like digital footprints. Pretending I didn’t see the pattern. Pretending I didn’t care.”

He hacked a final layer, sending the Resistance a direct kill-switch to disable the tracking systems—one time, one shot. They wouldn’t get another chance.

His pulse was slowing. His fingers felt like ice. He wasn’t sure if he would see the result, but it didn’t matter. The machine would.

Kenji pressed SEND. A single keystroke. A single rebellion.

Silence. No response. No reaction. The AI hadn’t flinched. Had it failed?

A flicker in the network. A stutter in the screens. A single line of corrupted code slithering into the machine’s core.

And then—the code surged like lightning. Somewhere in the heart of the beast, something cracked.

Aoki sighed again. “You just signed your death warrant.”

Kenji let out a breathless laugh. “Yeah. But at least this time, I’m on the right side.”

The walls shook. Boots pounded up the stairwell.

They were almost here.

Kenji leaned against the desk, breath shuddering. The world was blurring at the edges. His mind felt light, slipping away.

But he wasn’t afraid.

His eyes flickered to the old Bible Naomi had left behind—once discarded, now resting beside his bloodied hands. He had never opened it. Never dared.

“You’ll understand one day,” Naomi had said, pressing the book into his hands years ago. “When the world burns, you’ll look for what doesn’t.” He had laughed then. But now, as the fire came for him, he finally reached for it.

His fingers brushed the worn cover.

A deep peace settled over him.

The door burst open. Armed enforcers flooded in, weapons raised, faceless beneath the visors of the new regime.

Kenji exhaled, smiling through the pain.

“Too late,” he whispered.

And then, nothing.

And somewhere, in the heart of the Resistance, a firewall crumbled.

The system glitched.

And for the first time since the Antichrist’s rise, the world saw a flaw in his control.

A fracture.

A chance.

A spark of rebellion.

Chapter 9: The Tribulation Begins

New York City

The lights were blinding, sterile, and merciless. They burned into Jessica’s skin, amplifying every imperfection, every strand of hair out of place, every bead of sweat forming at her temple. The world was watching.

Her wrists were shackled, cold steel biting into her flesh, tethering her to the elevated platform in the heart of what had once been Times Square. Now, it was New Eden Plaza, a monument to the New Order’s dominance. Towering holographic screens loomed above, broadcasting Arif Demir’s voice like the whisper of a god descending upon the earth.

“Justice is mercy. Mercy is unity. Those who reject unity reject life.”

Jessica lifted her gaze, her heartbeat steady, defiant. The air hummed with an eerie silence, thousands gathered yet deathly still. They had come to witness her renounce her faith. To see her break.

Or to see her die.

The Antichrist stood before her, immaculate in his tailored midnight suit, exuding power that transcended charisma. His presence commanded. It devoured. His eyes, like black onyx, reflected no light.

“Jessica Reynolds.” His voice was silk over steel, each syllable calculated for the global audience tuned in. “You have been charged with sedition, treason, and crimes against the Order. But I am not without mercy.”

A hush settled over the crowd.

“You were once a woman of influence. A truth-seeker. A journalist who gave voice to the weak.” His lips curved, almost… saddened. “And yet, you abandoned reason for an archaic faith. You have turned from me.” He stepped closer, his presence suffocating, the air itself seeming to grow heavier. “But I offer you one final chance.”

Jessica exhaled, slow and steady.

“You may live,” Demir continued. “Renounce your false god. Embrace the truth of the New Age. Accept your place in the world I have created, and you will want for nothing.”

A flicker of movement in the crowd caught her eye. A mother clutching a child, tears spilling down her face. She recognized the look—fear wrapped in longing.

Jessica knew that look.

Because she had once worn it.

But now… she saw the lie.

Lifting her chin, she turned her eyes to the camera drones circling above, broadcasting her image to every screen across the globe. The Resistance would be watching. The undecided would be waiting.

She would give them her answer.

“I am the way, the truth, and the life.” Her voice, though hoarse, cut through the still air, unwavering. “No one comes to the Father except through Him.”

The air shifted. A tremor in the silence.

Demir’s expression hardened.

“Jessica,” he said, almost sorrowfully, shaking his head. “You were always a fool.”

His hand lifted.

The soldiers on either side of her tensed.

The execution order was coming.

The world held its breath.

And then—

The screen glitched.

Static rippled through the airwaves. The holograms wavered, then collapsed into a flood of distorted images. A voice—her own voice—echoed through the sound system.

“You are being lied to.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Demir’s eyes narrowed.

Jessica’s secret reports—the ones she had buried deep within the encrypted servers of the Resistance—were hijacking the global feed.

The footage she had recorded in the early days of the Antichrist’s rise spilled across every screen, revealing the deception, the mass graves, the shadow executions, the enslaved masses working in the hidden cities.

Images of Kenji flickered—his final transmission. His voice, broken but unyielding.

“The system is not flawless. The lie is not complete. You are not alone.”

Demir’s control had been breached.

Jessica’s lips parted.

Kenji.

The young hacker had done it. Even in death, his work lived.

The New Order’s illusion was cracking.

Demir’s expression darkened. His fingers twitched at his side. The energy in the air pulsed, charged with something more than mere anger.

Something… unnatural.

He was losing control.

Jessica smiled.

“Execute her,” Demir commanded, his voice like a blade.

A soldier stepped forward, rifle aimed.

Jessica inhaled deeply, her spirit calm.

“Father, forgive them.”

A gunshot rang out.

The plaza erupted into chaos.

Some screamed. Others fell to their knees, weeping as truth poured from the corrupted airwaves. The spell was breaking. The lie was no longer absolute.

A young woman in the front collapsed, clutching her chest, sobbing. “It’s true… oh God, it’s true…”

Across the world, hidden believers awakened.

Underground Resistance cells activated.

And in the heart of the New World Order, the first ember of the rebellion ignited.

Jessica’s blood pooled beneath her, yet her face, frozen in death, bore a peace that defied the darkness.

And in that moment, she became more than a martyr.

She became a symbol.

Jerusalem

Priya stood frozen at the edge of the massive courtyard, her body rigid as she took in the sight before her. The Third Temple, its golden exterior gleaming beneath the storm-laden sky, loomed over the vast assembly gathered in obedient silence. The air was thick, electric with something unnatural—a force unseen, yet felt.

It wasn’t just the storm that made her shiver.

It was him.

Arif Demir.

The man the world now called ‘Savior’. The one she knew was a lie.

He stood on the platform at the temple’s entrance, his arms outstretched, eyes closed as if drinking in the adoration of the tens of thousands who had gathered. The massive digital billboards lining the streets of Jerusalem broadcast his image, his voice amplified to every corner of the world.

“People of the New Order!” His voice carried with a supernatural resonance. “The time has come. The final age is upon us. I have returned to you—not as a ruler, but as your god.”

A deafening crack of lightning split the sky, illuminating his form in an unholy radiance. Then, the impossible happened.

A statue, one of the many golden effigies erected in his likeness throughout the city, began to move.

The crowd gasped in awe as the massive figure turned its head, its eyes glowing with an eerie blue light. Then it spoke, its voice a metallic echo of Demir’s own.

“Bow before the one who has given you peace. Worship him, or be no more.”

A great roar of thunder followed. Priya felt it in her bones, a low vibration that rattled her ribcage, sent tremors through the ground beneath her feet. She staggered back, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

It was happening.

The prophecy was real.

All around her, thousands of people dropped to their knees, arms raised in worship. Even the most hardened skeptics—scientists, world leaders, soldiers—collapsed in reverence. The power emanating from the temple was too much, overwhelming, intoxicating.

And then, she saw him.

Her father.

No.

He stood near the front of the gathering, clad in the regal uniform of the Global Elite, his once-kind eyes hollow with devotion.

Priya’s stomach turned.

How had she been so blind?

Her father had always sought power, but this—this was beyond ambition. It was surrender.

“He’s gone,” a voice whispered in her mind. “It’s too late for him.”

Tears stung her eyes.

“Priya.”

The voice wasn’t in her mind anymore.

It was his.

Arif Demir.

Her head snapped up.

He was looking directly at her.

From the temple steps, his piercing gaze locked onto hers, a slow smirk curling at the edges of his lips.

How?

The plaza was overflowing with thousands of people. Yet he had found her.

A slow, measured step forward.

“Come.” His voice was barely above a whisper, yet it rang in her ears as though he were standing right beside her. “Your father has already accepted me. Why do you resist?”

Priya’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. She wanted to run. Wanted to scream.

Instead, she stood her ground.

“You’re not God,” she said, her voice shaking but firm.

A hush fell over the square.

The worshippers around her stiffened, as if the very act of denying him was a curse.

Demir’s expression darkened.

“Priya, Priya,” he sighed, descending the steps toward her, his movements slow and deliberate, almost… inhuman. “You, above all, should understand. You have seen my wonders.”

“I’ve seen your lies.”

A flicker of something—rage?—passed through his onyx eyes before he regained his composure.

“Is it a lie,” he murmured, gesturing to the golden statue that still moved, still spoke, “if the world sees it as truth?” He tilted his head, studying her. “You still cling to the illusion of the past. The old world is gone, Priya. It is time to accept the new one.”

A murmur swept through the crowd.

Priya swallowed hard.

He was testing her.

Trying to break her.

She forced herself to look at her father once more. He stood motionless, eyes empty, the mark of the New Order glowing faintly on his forehead.

“He’s lost.”

And so were thousands—millions—more.

It was too late.

Priya took a slow step backward.

Demir’s smirk widened. “Ah.” He nodded slightly, his voice almost tender. “So you finally understand.”

She did.

The world had already chosen its god.

But she never would.

Demir’s smile vanished.

“Very well.”

A horrible silence gripped the air, a vacuum of sound, before a sudden blast of energy erupted from the temple. It was a wave of heat, of unnatural fire, sweeping across the plaza.

Priya screamed as the force threw her backward, slamming her into the cold stone pavement. Around her, others collapsed, clutching their heads, writhing in agony.

A new proclamation boomed across the square, not from Demir, not from the statue—but from the very air itself.

“WORSHIP ME, OR DIE.”

It was a command.

It was a sentence.

All at once, people scrambled to their feet, their terror transforming into obedience. Those who had hesitated—those like her—were being dragged forward by armed enforcers.

A woman next to her screamed as a soldier wrenched her up by her hair.

A man, shaking uncontrollably, collapsed, whispering desperate prayers under his breath.

Priya forced herself to move, her body protesting in pain.

She had to get out.

Had to run.

Had to survive.

And then— a whisper.

“Run.”

She whirled, expecting to see someone at her side.

But there was no one.

Yet, the voice had been so clear.

Priya didn’t question it.

She turned and ran.

Delhi

The knock at the door came like a hammer striking metal—three sharp, deliberate raps.

Priya froze, the half-eaten piece of chapati falling from her fingers.

A warning stirred deep inside her, primal and immediate. Run.

But it was too late.

The front door swung open, and they poured in—men in dark uniforms, the insignia of the Global Authority emblazoned on their shoulders. Their movements were swift, mechanical, efficient. The house filled with the acrid scent of ozone, the unmistakable presence of advanced weaponry.

Her father stepped forward, his face expressionless, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender.

“She’s here.”

The words sliced through Priya like a blade to the heart.

She had suspected, feared, but she had refused to believe it—until now.

Her father, her own flesh and blood, had turned her in.

For a moment, time slowed.

She searched his eyes, desperate to find some hesitation, some flicker of guilt. There was none. His stare was resolute, his lips pressed into a thin line of duty.

“You don’t understand,” he said, his voice eerily calm. “I’m saving you.”

Two soldiers seized her by the arms.

“No—no, let go!”

Priya fought, twisting, kicking, but their grips were ironclad. She turned to her father in horror.

“You don’t have to do this!”

His jaw tightened.

“You left me no choice.”

A paralyzing fear rushed through her veins. She had known the world had changed. Known that resistance came with a cost. But she had still believed family was sacred.

Now, she was being handed over like a criminal.

As they dragged her from the house, she heard her mother’s stifled sobs from the next room. But no one stopped them.

No one saved her.

The armored prison van rattled as it sped through the streets of Delhi. The windows were sealed, the interior suffocating with the recycled stench of sweat and fear.

Priya sat between two other prisoners—both young, both silent.

In front of them, a mounted holographic screen flickered to life.

Arif Demir’s image appeared, his voice smooth, hypnotic.

“My children, the world has entered a new age. The old ways—fear, division, hatred—are gone. I bring you unity. I bring you peace. But those who resist… they resist not just me, but the future itself.”

The video cut to footage of mass “re-education” rallies—crowds kneeling before Demir’s golden effigy, their foreheads glowing with the digital mark of the New Order.

The voiceover whispered, “Join us, and be free.”

Priya turned away.

She would rather die.

A shuddering breath came from her left.

The soldier at the front noticed.

“You still doubt?” he asked, his voice eerily serene. He turned toward them, removing his helmet. Beneath it, his features were sharp, inhumanly perfect, his dark eyes holding an unnatural glow.

He had taken the mark.

“You don’t understand yet,” he continued. “But you will. Soon, all will bow before him. Those who resist will not just be broken. They will be erased.”

His words settled over the prisoners like a death sentence.

Priya clenched her fists. Not if I escape first.

The van screeched to a halt.

Something was wrong.

A flickering light outside—then gunfire.

Shouts filled the air. The guards tensed.

A split second. Priya’s only chance.

Before she could process the decision, a deafening explosion rocked the van, throwing them sideways. Smoke poured in through a gaping hole in the side, the scent of burning metal choking the air.

One of the soldiers collapsed—a gunshot to the head.

The remaining officer barked orders into his communicator, but a second shot silenced him forever.

The doors swung open.

A soldier stood at the entrance—but he wasn’t one of them.

He wore the same uniform, but something about his stance, the urgency in his face, told her he wasn’t here to take her back.

“Come with me.”

Priya hesitated.

“Now.”

She ran.

The air was thick with the scent of rain as Priya climbed higher and higher, her muscles screaming in protest.

The Himalayan foothills were rugged, merciless, but she had to keep going.

Every few minutes, she looked back, expecting to see drones, tracking signals, the night sky flooded with sirens. But there was nothing.

Only the sound of her own breath, the rapid beat of her own heart.

She had escaped.

But for how long?

Finally, the soldier—her rescuer—stopped.

“Here.”

Priya collapsed onto the ground, gasping for air.

It wasn’t much—a hidden stone structure, a remnant of some forgotten outpost. But inside, candlelight flickered. Shadows moved.

She wasn’t alone.

The underground church.

She had heard whispers of them—the remnants, the ones who refused to bow.

A woman stepped forward, her face worn but her eyes bright with something Priya had never seen before.

“You made it,” she said, offering Priya a cup of water.

Priya took it, her fingers trembling.

“What is this place?”

The woman smiled, motioning toward a wooden table.

On it lay Bibles—old, tattered, forbidden. Handwritten notes filled the margins.

Priya’s breath caught in her throat.

The last words her father had spoken echoed in her mind. “I’m saving you.”

No.

This was salvation.

She picked up a fragile, yellowed page and began to read.

“I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.”

The words hit her like a thunderclap.

A slow realization unraveled inside her, something she had resisted, denied, buried beneath layers of skepticism.

The world had chosen its god.

And she had chosen hers.

Tears blurred her vision.

She wasn’t running anymore.

She was home.

Dhaka

The rain came down in sheets, thick and relentless, drenching the crumbling alleyways of Dhaka’s Old City. The dim glow of neon billboards flickered in the distance, illuminating streets that no longer belonged to the people.

Rahim pulled his hood lower, his breath steady but his pulse hammering in his ears. The checkpoint was just ahead, a towering steel gate reinforced with biometric scanners and armed sentries clad in the black and silver of the Global Authority.

Beyond it—freedom.

Inside the rusted van beside him, huddled together in silence, were five souls whose only crime was their faith.

A mother clutched her child, whispering hushed prayers in Bengali. Two brothers—barely more than boys—sat with their hands gripping each other, their eyes darting toward Rahim, waiting for the signal. An elderly man, once a respected professor, held a small leather-bound book under his coat like a relic from a forgotten world.

A Bible.

The last of its kind.

Rahim exhaled. There was no turning back now.

The van rolled forward, tires splashing through puddles. Rahim adjusted the forged credentials on his wrist—just enough for the scanners to pick up, but not enough to expose them.

The guard stepped forward, his eyes hidden behind augmented reality lenses. The lenses analyzed, searched, categorized—Rahim could feel them scanning him, stripping away his cover layer by layer.

“Destination?” The guard’s voice was cold, unnatural.

“Supply transport to sector twelve,” Rahim said, keeping his tone measured.

The guard’s fingers hovered over his tablet. Processing. Deciding.

“Step out of the vehicle.”

A knot formed in Rahim’s stomach. Something was wrong.

Two more guards approached. Their hands hovered near their weapons.

The van’s passengers shifted. Rahim knew what they were thinking. If this went south, none of them would live to see another sunrise.

Then—a gunshot.

The guard staggered. Blood sprayed across the checkpoint terminal, a single red stain against the silver tower.

The resistance strike team had arrived.

Chaos erupted.

Alarms shrieked. The checkpoint’s floodlights ignited, casting everything in harsh, artificial white. Bullets tore through the night, shattering glass, ricocheting off steel.

“Move!” Rahim yanked the door open, shoving the woman forward.

Gunfire rained down as they sprinted for the exit. The two brothers ran ahead, weaving through crates and overturned barriers. The professor stumbled, Rahim catching him at the last second.

The checkpoint was burning.

And then, they were through.

They ran through the slums, past crumbling mosques and silent streets where no one dared look out their windows.

In the distance, drones cut through the sky like metal vultures, scanning, searching.

Rahim led them deeper into the labyrinth, into places only ghosts remembered.

Finally, they reached the safe house—a forgotten basement beneath an abandoned textile factory. The smell of oil, sweat, and old prayer mats filled the air.

“We’re safe for now,” Rahim panted.

The professor knelt on the ground, clutching his Bible, his lips moving in silent gratitude.

The woman sobbed, holding her son close.

The brothers sat in silence, their faces pale, eyes still wide with shock and disbelief.

Rahim watched them all, the weight of what had just happened settling over him like a burial shroud.

How many more times would he have to do this?

How many would they lose before the end?

Rahim closed his eyes, trying to block out the images—the blood, the gunfire, the face of the young resistance fighter who had died so they could escape.

His hands trembled. This mission was supposed to be clean.

“We lost people today,” a voice said.

Rahim turned.

Zaid. The leader of the underground network in Dhaka.

His face was lined with exhaustion, his one good eye searching Rahim for something he couldn’t give.

“There was no other way,” Rahim murmured.

Zaid didn’t respond at first. Instead, he reached into his coat, pulling out a small data drive.

“This was smuggled out of Istanbul last week,” he said. “It’s from Dan Shepherd.”

Rahim’s breath caught.

Dan Shepherd. The journalist who had exposed the first lies of the New Order. The man who had vanished before the world collapsed.

Rahim took the drive and plugged it into a tablet.

A text file appeared.

The words on the screen sent a chill down his spine.

The time is short. The world believes the lie, but the Remnant still stands. The underground church is growing, but the enemy hunts us like prey. If you are reading this, you are part of something greater.

Rahim scrolled down, his fingers shaking.

They are rewriting history. Deleting scripture. Burning what remains. But we have preserved the truth.

At the bottom of the file, a map. A network of safehouses and hidden caches of Bibles, letters, and encrypted sermons—a blueprint for survival.

Rahim’s heart pounded.

“This changes everything,” he whispered.

Zaid nodded. “We have a mission now. A bigger one than any of us realized.”

For the first time in a long time, Rahim felt something stronger than fear.

Hope.

São Paulo

The rain had stopped, leaving the alleyways of São Paulo slick with blood and neon light. The city had become a war zone—a sprawling maze of shattered glass, abandoned favelas, and flickering billboards bearing the symbol of the New Order.

Diego crouched behind the remains of a rusted taxi, his fingers tightening around the grip of his old 9mm Beretta. It had been years since he held one for anything other than defense, but tonight, it was different.

Tonight, he wasn’t running.

The underground church had been compromised. The men he once called brothers—the cartel he had built with blood and iron—were now mercenaries for the New Order, hunting believers in exchange for power, protection, and synthetic salvation.

Diego had made his peace with death.

But first, he had to get his people out.

“Jefe, we’re surrounded.”

Gabriel’s voice was low, steady. Too young for this war, but willing to fight anyway.

Inside the crumbling warehouse, twenty souls—women, children, elderly—huddled together in whispered prayer, their fate balanced on the edge of a trigger.

Diego turned to his second-in-command, Marcos. The man had once been his enforcer, a legend on the streets. Now, his faith burned brighter than his fury.

“Take them through the tunnels. The old sewer lines lead past the checkpoints.”

“And you?” Marcos already knew the answer.

“I’ll buy you time.”

Marcos hesitated.

“Diego, you don’t—”

“Go.”

Their eyes met. Diego saw the pain there—the understanding. Marcos nodded, then motioned for the others to move.

The crack of gunfire split the silence.

They had been found.

Diego sprinted to the second level of the warehouse, his boots thudding against damp steel, his lungs burning from the acrid scent of gasoline and smoke.

Through a shattered window, he saw them—dozens of them, black-clad, armed with military-grade rifles.

The cartel he had once commanded.

Now dogs of the New Order.

A voice crackled over a loudspeaker.

“Diego Costa. We know you’re in there.”

The voice was familiar. Rico. His former lieutenant.

“Come out, hermano. The world has changed. There’s no need to fight anymore.”

Diego laughed bitterly.

“The world hasn’t changed. It just picked a new master.”

Silence. Then—a slow, deliberate response.

“The world picked the right side. You didn’t.”

A floodlight ignited, blinding him.

“Last chance, Diego. Come back. Swear allegiance, and you will be given a place of honor in the New Order.”

Diego exhaled. He had once ruled these streets with fear, with blood, with the false belief that power meant purpose.

But he knew better now.

“I already have a King,” he said.

Rico sighed. “So be it.”

Then—all hell broke loose.

The first grenade shattered the wall behind him.

Diego rolled, dodging the rain of debris, his gun spitting fire into the night.

Bullets ripped through the air, carving through crates, ricocheting off steel. He took down two men before diving behind cover.

But they kept coming.

Flooding in. Hunting him like an animal.

A bullet tore through his shoulder. He didn’t stop.

Another grazed his ribs.

He fought harder.

Downstairs, he could hear Marcos leading the escape, the sound of desperate footsteps disappearing into the night.

It was working.

Then, a shadow moved in the firelight.

A blade in the dark.

Rico.

The knife sank deep.

Diego grunted, twisting away, but Rico was fast. Too fast.

They crashed through a broken railing, hitting the ground hard.

Diego’s vision blurred, the pain in his side like liquid fire.

Rico stood over him, breathing hard.

“You should have come back, hermano.”

Diego spat blood, his vision swimming.

“You sold your soul.”

Rico knelt, pressing the blade against Diego’s throat.

“You don’t get it, do you? The New Order isn’t just a government. It’s God now.”

Diego smiled—a red, bloody grin.

“Then why are you still trying to kill me?”

Rico hesitated.

And in that moment, Diego struck.

With one last surge of strength, he twisted free, grabbing the flare gun from his belt.

One shot.

Straight into the fuel barrels stacked in the corner.

Rico’s eyes widened.

Diego laughed.

“See you in hell, hermano.”

And then—the world exploded.

Diego felt nothing.

Just the heat.

The fire swallowed the warehouse, consuming the past, consuming everything he had once been.

Through the flames, he saw her.

His mother.

Kneeling in the street.

Praying for him.

Tears filled his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Mamá.”

She looked up. Smiling. Peaceful.

“You came home, mijo.”

Diego’s breath hitched.

The fire faded.

The pain was gone.

Light filled the darkness.

And for the first time in his life, Diego felt free.

Mexico City

Carlos knelt in the darkness, his fingers gripping the worn leather cover of the Bible he had carried since the world collapsed. The underground compound smelled of earth, sweat, and candle wax—the last refuge for those who refused to bow to the New Order.

Outside, the city belonged to the Antichrist.

Mass surveillance drones hummed over the ruins of once-thriving markets, their infrared eyes seeking the unmarked. The streets, once alive with laughter and the scent of street tacos, had turned into a graveyard of abandoned cars and propaganda posters.

“A new era has begun,” the broadcasts declared. “Swear allegiance, and enter paradise.”

Carlos knew better.

Because he had seen the truth.

And he would not be silent.

The survivors sat in a tight circle, their faces half-lit by candlelight, eyes haunted yet hopeful.

Among them was Elena, a young mother who had lost her husband to the first wave of purges. Javier, a former tech engineer who had escaped the biometric tracking system. And Miguel, a teenager whose family had turned him in for refusing the Mark.

Carlos looked at them.

“Do you understand what we’re doing here?” he asked.

Silence.

Elena’s voice was barely above a whisper. “They’ll find us.”

“Maybe.” Carlos held up his Bible. “But they cannot stop what’s coming.”

Javier shook his head. “You really believe that?”

Carlos met his gaze.

“I know it.”

Then he opened the Scriptures.

That night, Carlos dreamed.

He was standing in Jerusalem, beneath the ashen sky, where the Temple had been rebuilt in defiance of God.

Two men stood at the altar.

Their voices were thunder.

“Repent, for the kingdom of God is at hand!”

The ground shook. Lightning split the heavens.

And then—the world turned against them.

Carlos woke gasping, sweat dripping from his brow.

“Señor…” he whispered.

He had read of these Two Witnesses before.

But now—he had seen them.

Prophecy was unfolding.

And he knew—his mission was clear.

Global

The world had changed overnight.

In every city, every village, every remote outpost, the announcement came simultaneously, a synchronized declaration that rippled through every screen, every speaker, every mind.

The branding of ‘666’ was not a theory anymore—it was the final step. Soon, every citizen who received the Mark would also be visibly branded on their forehead or right hand, ensuring complete allegiance. Any attempt at forgery, resistance, or noncompliance would be met with immediate execution. The world had stepped beyond surveillance—it was entering total subjugation.

“From this day forward, no one shall buy, sell, or trade without the Mark.”

The voice was smooth, absolute, unbreakable in its authority. Arif Demir, the leader who had promised unity, peace, and a new era for humanity, had now drawn the line in blood.

The time for choices was over.

You complied, or you perished.

The streets of Mexico City, once chaotic and alive, were now eerily silent. The bustling markets, the scent of grilled corn and sizzling meat—gone.

Instead, barricades lined every major intersection.

Government patrols, armored and faceless, marched in rhythmic precision, carrying rifles embedded with biometric scanners. Above them, drones patrolled the skies, scanning for the unmarked.

The world had crossed a threshold, and Carlos knew it.

He pulled the hood of his coat tighter over his head as he slipped through an alley, his heart pounding like a war drum. Every step could be his last.

The checkpoint was one block ahead. A digital sign flickered on a metal wall, displaying an urgent message in glowing red letters:

NO MARK. NO FUTURE.

A young woman ahead of him hesitated.

Carlos saw her trembling fingers touch her wrist, where there was no Mark.

The guards noticed.

“Citizen, present your verification!”

She hesitated.

Carlos saw the flash of cold steel, the black barrel of the rifle rising—

“No!” she gasped.

The shot was instantaneous.

She collapsed, a lifeless heap on the ground, as the crowd stepped over her body and moved on as if nothing had happened.

Carlos turned away before the guards could lock eyes with him.

He had seen enough.

The Mark was here.

Neutrality was dead.

Deep underground, in the hidden compound beneath a crumbling church, the Resistance had gathered.

The air was thick with tension, the dim candlelight casting flickering shadows against the damp stone walls.

Carlos stood at the center of the room, his fists clenched.

“They’re starving us,” someone whispered.

“They’re hunting us,” another voice added.

Javier, the ex-tech engineer, slammed his fist against the table. “We have to fight back.”

Carlos shook his head. “No. We survive first.”

Elena looked up, her eyes filled with exhaustion. “How?”

Carlos exhaled.

“We take the food they deny us.”

Silence.

Then—realization.

They weren’t just hiding anymore.

They were going to steal from the beast itself.

The grocery store had been repurposed as a ration center, guarded by soldiers loyal to the New Order.

Everything was tracked, monitored, scanned.

Carlos and his team moved like shadows, slipping through the back alleys, avoiding the infrared sweeps of the aerial patrols.

Javier worked on the electronic locks, his fingers moving with calm precision.

“Five seconds,” he whispered.

Carlos counted.

Four. Three. Two—

The door slid open.

They moved fast—grabbing bags of rice, canned food, medical supplies.

Carlos felt a rush of adrenaline, the undeniable thrill of defiance.

Then—the alarms blared.

“They know.”

A gunshot rang out.

“Go! GO!”

They ran—bullets ricocheting against the metal walls, the sound of boots thundering behind them.

Carlos saw the exit ahead, his heart hammering—

But then—

The sky went dark.

The city plunged into darkness.

The sun had vanished.

A heavy, unnatural eclipse swallowed the world, a black veil that defied science and reason.

Gasps of terror and confusion rose from the streets.

Carlos stumbled to a stop, his breath caught in his throat.

A soldier froze mid-step, his rifle lowered, his face contorted in disbelief.

It wasn’t just night.

It was something else.

The entire world had been blinded.

A voice whispered in Carlos’ soul:

“The time has come.”

The world was bleeding.

It began in silence—a stillness unnatural, suffocating, as if the earth itself had drawn its last breath. Then came the famine. The wars. The executions.

The governments of men had been swallowed whole, replaced by a single will, a single law, a single god—the one who sat on the throne of the world, Arif Demir.

And in one final decree, he named the true enemies of the New Order.

“Christians and Jews.”

“Their faith is treason.”

“They must be eradicated.”

Across every screen, in every country, his voice echoed like thunder, rolling across the ruins of civilization like a final, chilling prophecy.

“This is the dawn of true peace.”

But the world had never been farther from peace.

The Streets of New York

The once-glorious city had turned into a wasteland of ashes.

Buildings, once stretching into the heavens, now crumbled into ruin, their windows shattered, their steel bones exposed to the darkened sky.

Martial law reigned. Curfews were absolute. Surveillance drones hovered like metallic vultures, scanning the streets for anyone who dared resist the Mark.

The Resistance had become ghosts, flickering in and out of the shadows, their numbers dwindling, their hope fading.

Inside an abandoned subway tunnel, Carlos pressed his back against the cold brick, breathing heavily, gripping the edge of his rifle. He wasn’t alone.

Across from him, huddled in the dim glow of flickering emergency lights, fifty believers whispered prayers, clutching each other’s hands, trembling with fear.

Among them, a child no older than eight held her mother’s arm tightly, her lips forming silent words:

“Our Father, who art in Heaven…”

Carlos turned away, pressing his forehead against the wall.

They wouldn’t survive much longer.

Food was gone. Medicine was gone. The world had turned against them.

And soon, they would be found.

The Antichrist’s army had risen.

No more nations. No more borders.

Only one force—a global military, outfitted with cutting-edge surveillance, AI-driven strike systems, and weapons linked to biometric scans of every citizen on earth.

The faithful were now fugitives.

Across the globe, millions were dragged from their homes, lined up before execution squads, given one final choice.

Swear allegiance to the Beast.

Or die.

Bodies filled the streets, left unburied as a warning to those who still held onto faith.

And yet, even in the face of death, some refused to bow.

The sky above Jerusalem cracked open with lightning, the air trembling as though the city had become the eye of a cosmic storm.

Then—they appeared.

Two figures, draped in sackcloth, stood before the Western Wall, their voices thundering like rolling fire.

“Repent!” one called out.

“Turn back before it is too late!” the other declared.

Their presence was undeniable, their words carrying a force beyond human reckoning.

Arif Demir watched from the screen in his private chamber, his golden eyes narrowing.

“Shut them down.”

His generals hesitated.

“Sir… we can’t.”

Demir turned slowly. “What did you say?”

The general swallowed. “They cannot be silenced.”

Demir’s lips curled into a snarl.

He had crushed the nations, silenced the prophets, and rewritten the laws of men.

And yet—these two remained.

It was the one thing he had feared.

The one thing he had not foreseen.

Location: Underground Resistance Headquarters
Time: 2:37 AM

The air inside the bunker was damp, thick with the scent of sweat and gun oil. The dim light of an oil lamp flickered against the cracked concrete walls, casting long, wavering shadows that made the narrow space feel even smaller.

Carlos sat at the center of the group, his back against an overturned crate, rifle propped against his knee. Across from him, Priya held a rosary between her fingers, eyes closed in silent prayer. Rahim stood near the entrance, his body tense, ears trained for any sign of movement beyond the steel door.

They were all that was left.

At least, all that was left that they knew of.

The Antichrist’s forces had swept through the cities like a plague, rounding up those who refused the Mark. Some had fled. Some had vanished. Some… had chosen the easier path.

Carlos had watched his own brother, Miguel, walk willingly into a biometric station three days ago. No hesitation. No regret.

The memory burned inside him, a wound that would never heal.

We are losing.

But that was when it happened.

A sudden static pop burst through the underground radio transmitter, making the room go silent.

Rahim spun toward the ancient system—a rusted relic from a long-forgotten war—his hands flying to the dials, adjusting the frequency.

The static crackled, then cleared.

And then—a voice.

A voice they had not heard in a long, long time.

“If you’re hearing this, know that you are not alone.”

Carlos’ breath caught in his throat.

The others leaned in, listening, their eyes wide with shock and disbelief.

“The time has come to prepare.”

A low hum trembled beneath the words, like an encrypted signal carrying something deeper, something more.

“The war for souls has begun.”

Then silence.

A beat later, the transmission ended with two simple letters.

D.S.

Priya gasped.

Rahim exhaled sharply.

Carlos clenched his jaw.

Dan Shepherd.

A man who had disappeared years ago.

A man who had once been the loudest voice against the One World Order.

A man who should not be speaking from beyond the grave.

And yet—his voice had come through the radio.

Carlos swallowed hard, trying to suppress the fear clawing its way up his spine. His fingers tightened around his rifle, his knuckles turning white.

“It has to be an AI,” Rahim murmured, his hands still frozen over the transmitter. His voice was steady, but his eyes—his eyes screamed doubt.

“Maybe,” Priya whispered. She was still clutching the rosary, but her hands were trembling now. “Or maybe it’s something else.”

Carlos shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what it is. The message was real. The war is here.”

A heavy silence filled the bunker.

Then—a deep, distant rumble.

Carlos’ breath hitched.

Rahim turned toward the steel door, ears straining.

Priya’s grip on the rosary tightened.

They all heard it.

The sound of marching.

The rhythmic, synchronized pounding of thousands of boots against the streets above them.

The Antichrist’s army was on the move.

From the cracked, dust-covered window of an abandoned high-rise, a lone figure stood watching.

Draped in shadow, barely visible against the moonless sky, the figure’s face remained hidden beneath the hood of a tattered cloak.

But their eyes burned with light, reflecting the marching soldiers below, their formation stretching for miles, an unstoppable force of darkness.

A single whisper slipped from the figure’s lips.

“It begins.”

***

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Current events are aligning with Biblical prophecy

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