The morning came… too quiet.
Ava opened her eyes to birds chirping outside the window. It should've felt peaceful. Normal.
But it wasn't.
Something was wrong.
She didn't know how she knew. It was just… there. A stillness in the air. A weight on her chest. The kind of silence that didn't belong in a world still spinning.
Beside her, little Nazi was curled up, his small fingers clutching the fabric of her shirt. He looked peaceful in sleep, completely unaware.
Ava reached for her phone.
No new messages.
No missed calls.
Weird.
She scrolled through her social feed out of habit, and then she froze.
"My daughter disappeared last night."
"My pastor's gone."
"Why aren't the trains running? No staffs?"
"WHERE ARE THE KIDS?"
Ava's breath hitched. Cold spread in her chest.
She bolted upright and grabbed Nazi gently, shaking his shoulder.
"Hey, baby. You okay?" she whispered, trying to keep the fear out of her voice.
Nazi stirred, rubbing his eyes. "I'm hungry…"
He was still here.
He was still here.
But other children weren't.
Ava scrambled for the remote and turned on the television. Every channel was chaos.
Plane crashes. Pilotless flights. Traffic collisions. Empty schools. Hospitals frozen. Churches abandoned mid-sermon. The same story echoed across countries.
All at once.
Then the whispers started, online, on the news, in terrified phone calls.
The Rapture.
People said they heard it before it happened. A loud, impossible trumpet echoing from the sky.
And then… they were gone.
The faithful.
The children.
Just like the Bible said.
But her son why her son still here
Ava looked at Nazi, now tugging at her sleeve with sleepy eyes.
Ava held Nazi close, his small hand still warm in hers.
She should've felt relief. Joy, even.
Her son was still here.
But if this really was the Rapture… then things were only going to get worse. Much worse.
She looked out the window, the city skyline standing quiet, distant, like it knew something she didn't.
She thought about the farm.
Her father's farm.
No, fortress.
Ava used to get so angry at him for wasting everything he had on it. He spent all his savings building that place like they were waiting for the end of the world. Concrete walls nearly seven meters tall wrapped around the whole hectare of land. Five inch steel-reinforced gates. Floodlights. Solar Panels. Underground storage. It didn't look like a farm anymore. It looked like a bunker pretending to grow tomatoes.
People used to make fun of them. Called it "The Doomsday Garden." Even Ava had mocked him.
But now?
Now, it sounded like the only safe place left.
Ava stood up and started to prepare.
She didn't pack much. Only what mattered. Clothes, documents, cash. Canned food. Water. First-aid kit. Nazi's milk and diapers. Her father always told her to be ready. She used to laugh at him for that.
Now she wasn't laughing.
She swallowed hard and tightened her grip on the bag she packed. She gently picked up Nazi, still half-asleep and clinging to his stuffed duck, and carried him to the car.
Within the hour, Ava was in her car. Nazi sat in the backseat, munching on crackers, quiet but calm.
They drove.
At first, it was traffic. Bad, but not unusual. People honked. Some shouted. Others had their windows down, phones in hand, crying or screaming into the void. Panic was spreading. News of the disappearances was everywhere now. Every car radio blasted the same words:
"Confirmed vanishings of children…"
"...no sign of survivors…"
"...government response pending, some officials gone…"
Ava turned it off.
She didn't need more fear.
They passed a grocery store. People were hoarding. Screaming. Fighting. Glass shattered as someone broke through a window. Police sirens wailed somewhere in the distance, but no one seemed to be in control anymore.
It was only the beginning.
After nearly two hours, they finally arrived.
The road to the farm was lined with thick trees. Wild and quiet.
Ava honked twice.
Click.
The heavy steel gate groaned open.
Pablo stood just inside, wearing his usual flannel shirt and muddy boots. He had taken care of her father's farm for over twenty years. Even at sixty-two, he still looked strong.
"Miss Ava," Pablo said, surprised. "Didn't expect you here this early."
"You're okay," she breathed.
He blinked, confused. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Ava stepped out, Nazi in her arms.
"Did you hear the news?"
Pablo scratched his head. "News? No, ma'am. Don't watch TV much. Got no signal here either. My phone's just the old one." He patted the keypad phone in his pocket like it was a loyal pet.
Ava didn't have time to explain.
"Lock the gate, Pablo," Ava said firmly. "Keep it shut. Don't let anyone in. No one."
Pablo hesitated. "Even the neighbors?"
"No one," she repeated.
He nodded. "Understood."
Inside, the farmhouse felt cold but safe. Familiar, yet distant. It had been so long.
She carried Nazi upstairs. He had fallen asleep. Gently, she laid him down on her father's bed and kissed his forehead.
Then, she made her way to the vault.
Inside, she took out a small box and opened it.
Two contact lenses glinted in the dim light, pale silver, almost translucent. Cold to the touch.
Her father's letter echoed in her head.
"It will be useful when the sky opens and the world turns dark."
Her hands trembled.
She took a breath.
Then, carefully, she placed the first lens into her right eye.
Nothing happened.
She hesitated… then inserted the second.
The moment it settled…
A spark.
Not painfully, but intensely. Like a jolt. Like something sliding into her mind. Her heart skipped. Her body froze.
The lens fused itself to her eye instantly, locking in place. She tried to blink it out, even reach to pull it, but it was no longer just sitting there. It was part of her now.
"Connection established."
A voice.
Soft. Mechanical. Genderless.
Floating letters appeared before her vision, glowing faintly in the air, transparent, like a heads-up display.
[System Initiated.]
[Welcome, User: Ava Katsumi.
Legacy Code: Verified.
Preparation Protocol: Activated.]
Ava rubbed her eyes. 'What the hell is this?'
[Would you like to open your starter bonus box?]
The glowing words floated just above her line of sight, faint enough not to disturb her vision, but impossible to ignore.