In the early years of the 30th century, the world plunges into chaos following the revolution of molecular biology. The sun blazes like molten gold, scorching the sky with ruthless intensity. A few scattered birds flit unsteadily, their calls faltering as they hasten back to their nests. Life on the surface is desolate, a ghost of its former self - no soul dares set foot outside, for everyone knows the air beyond is poisoned with an invisible, odorless virus. One breath, seemingly an act of survival, is, in truth, a swift passage to the next life. Thus, the underground city is excavated and flourishes. Traditionally, the dead are laid to rest beneath the earth. But times change. The world above becomes the domain of those who have departed - a realm of the dead. Conversely, buried beneath layers of darkened soil is the territory of the living, a sanctuary known as the realm of life.
The existence below bears a striking resemblance to the abandoned world above. After reestablishing civilization, every modern convenience is restored. Virus-purifying oxygen tanks are installed throughout the city. Air filtration units outside each residence hum steadily, working tirelessly around the clock. Commerce remains undisturbed, while electricity and water are partially drawn from factories above and partially siphoned from the massive floating orb hovering atop the city's clock tower - an artificial sun, the singular source of energy for the realm of life.
As the artificial sun dims, plunging the city into darkness, the clock strikes midnight. At the edge of town, the silent surface of the blackened lake begins to stir. Bubbles seethe and froth, churning upwards. From beneath its depths, a peculiar object emerges, gliding swiftly toward the shore. Its form grows clearer - a driverless bus, shrouded in mystery, its engine roaring as it charges into the city.
The guard stationed at the waterfront remains oblivious, engrossed in his night's indulgence - a few empty bottles of beer and the blaring lottery results on television. The numbered balls clatter within the spinning cage before descending one by one into their final slots. The presenter plucks each ball and hands them to the jury. On the screen, six winning numbers flash. The guard, face flushed with intoxication, squints at his ticket, cross-checking each digit with unexpected sobriety. Moments later, he sighs, hiccups, crumples the worthless ticket, and tosses it outside, mumbling in frustration: "What rotten luck! Who could ever win this thing? Should've spent the money on cigarettes instead."
Oblivious to the world beyond his disappointment, he swirls the empty beer bottles in his hands, still lost in dreams of wealth. Behind him, the bus speeds past unnoticed. The surveillance cameras flicker violently before losing signal entirely, failing to capture its presence.
The internet brims with whispered legends of this ghostly bus - stories of passengers who board, only for one to return while the rest vanish without a trace. It is said that they perish above ground, their fates sealed in death's dominion. No explanation is ever offered, not even by the government. The police attempt to track the vehicle, but their efforts bear no fruit. And so, society gives it a name: The Death Bus.
According to survivors and social media accounts, the bus operates at night, automated in its movements, overseen by an enigmatic conductor who veils their face in black lace. Witnesses describe this figure as haunting - always shrouded in darkness, with jet-black hair of varying lengths. Their unnervingly doll-like eyes stare unblinking at passengers, and their lips curl into a perpetual, unsettling smile. More terrifying still, they enforce a brutal game aboard the bus. Every traveler is compelled to play. Those who lose are expelled at the next stop, where the toxic air consumes them mercilessly. The cycle continues until the journey reaches its sinister conclusion.
Despite the government's ban, curiosity only grows stronger. Thrill-seekers seek out the bus, eager to unravel its mystery. Participation is exclusively arranged through an ominous website on the dark web or via cryptic invitations sent by text message. No one can predict who the next victim might be. The bus accepts no fare, requires no commitment - only a signed waiver granting passage. Most unsettling of all is its selection process. Not everyone who registers is chosen. Only those deemed worthy receive a ticket.
It prowls the streets at midnight, hurtling through deserted avenues. Then, abruptly, it halts before a district pulsating with music. The number zero sign flickers to life. At the back of the bus, within the dim glow of the streetlamp, a half-hidden face veiled in lace materializes, perched upon the seat of an unsuspecting passenger. A sinister smile plays on the figure's lips as they murmur:
"It all kicks off now."