The jet engines roared like a beast tearing through the night. Chana Mehra sat in the leather seat of his private jet, but luxury meant nothing when the world itself had turned hostile.
Outside the window, the clouds didn't drift like they used to. They writhed. Shapes slithered through the mist. Pale, jagged, and unnatural, as if the sky itself had grown teeth. One of them pressed a faceless head against the glass, its mouth opening wide in a scream no one could hear.
Below, the sea of city lights that should've been Tokyo flickered like dying embers. Entire districts were blacked out, swallowed by smoke. From thirty thousand feet, it looked as if the city itself was bleeding light into the ocean.
Fire traced through the streets in crooked veins, and something vast moved in the clouds above the skyline.
"It's actually happening everywhere," he murmured.
