The Year 2050. The hands of the clock had lost their meaning long ago. The once-bustling streets of Dhaka now lay scattered like the grey, skeletal remains of a forgotten giant. A gust of wind carried the bitter metallic tang of burnt plastic and ancient dust. The sky was no longer blue; looking up felt like witnessing the universe itself tearing apart in agony. The cosmic hell unleashed by the collision of two massive galaxies had painted the heavens with blood-red nebulas and violet hues, reducing the sun to a pale, ghostly disc. Even at high noon, a somber, haunting twilight draped over the dying world.
Ethan sat alone on the jagged concrete beam of a collapsed flyover. His tattered black hoodie flickered in the wind, making him look like a solitary wraith amidst the desolate ruins. He stared out at the skeletal remains of the city's skyscrapers. The hand he pulled from his pocket was trembling. Beneath his pale skin, veins of pulsating violet flowed like sinister vines. Ethan could feel every cell in his body screaming, yearning to break apart under the pull of an unknown force.
He had no memory of who he was before this celestial apocalypse began. His past was a collection of shards from a shattered mirror—everything was there, yet nothing fit together. Occasionally, a pair of cold, piercing eyes and the crystalline crash of breaking glass would flash before him. But any attempt to grasp those memories triggered a localized storm of pain in his brain, as if a thousand needles were piercing his skull at once. All he knew was his name—Ethan—and that something was awakening inside him that was a curse to this dead earth.
Suddenly, a sharp, mechanical hum sliced through the oppressive silence. Ethan didn't look up; he knew they were coming. The 'New World Order'—scavengers who clung to power even as the world bled out. A sleek, black drone hovered directly in front of him. Its red scanning laser locked onto Ethan's face, and a harsh, synthesized voice crackled through the air:
"Subject 00-Zero detected. Identify yourself or face immediate termination."
Ethan let out a long, weary sigh. His voice, raspy from days of silence, was barely a whisper. "Your machines talk too much."
In the next heartbeat, a machine gun barrel deployed from the drone's underbelly. The thunderous roar of gunfire shattered the stillness of the ruins. But Ethan didn't flinch. A swirl of pitch-black mist began to seep from his right palm. The bullets, inches away from his flesh, didn't impact—they simply vanished, dissolving into the air like soot in a gale. Ethan's pupils were no longer human; they had transformed into swirling, primordial black holes.
With a slight, almost effortless flick of his wrist, the drone began to groan and buckle. It crumpled inward as if an invisible, titanic hand was crushing it like a tin toy. There was no explosion, no flash, no sound. The drone simply ceased to exist, erased from reality itself. Ethan looked down at his hand, the dark aura still dancing around his fingers. He felt it—this was only the beginning of the destruction. And where it would end, perhaps even God did not know.