Lulu was lying on his bed when the alert hit.
The news was blunt: A nuclear strike was confirmed. Impact in ten minutes. He was at the edge of the city, 10 kilometers from the center. Most people would have spent those minutes screaming or praying. Lulu didn't. He looked at the ceiling and did the math. To survive the heat and the initial fallout, he needed to hit the 22-kilometer mark.
He didn't look at his parents. He didn't call out to his sister. He didn't even warn the neighbors. He knew the cost of a conversation: Time. And time was the only currency he had left.
He grabbed his bicycle and pedaled.
Outside, the neighborhood was a mess of confusion. People were standing in their doorways, explaining the news to their families, trying to decide what to pack. Lulu ignored them all. While they were talking, he was moving.
He reached the highway just as a car tore past him, pushing 220 km/h. The driver was desperate. Lulu didn't hesitate; he lunged and grabbed the roof rack. The wind nearly tore his skin off, but he held on as the car screamed down the asphalt.
Then, the sky turned white.
The shockwave hit a second later. At that speed, the car stood no chance. It clipped a pole and spun out of control, heading for a direct impact. Lulu jumped. He hit the ground hard, tumbling through a thicket of trees. The branches sliced into his feet like knives. The car smashed into a pool nearby—the driver didn't make it.
Lulu dragged his body toward an underground parking lot. Both his hands were shattered, hanging limp at his sides. He was 17 kilometers out. He was alive, but the radiation was coming.
He found a car in the dim light of the garage. The keys were in the ignition and the tank was full. He had never driven a real car, but he had spent years behind a screen in simulations. He forced his broken hands onto the wheel, ignoring the white-hot agony shooting through his arms.
He drove. Precisely. Carefully. Avoiding the cracks forming in the earth.
Five kilometers later, he hit the 22-kilometer mark. He saw the Army barricades at the toll plaza. He stopped the car and stepped out, his clothes soaked in blood. He wasn't alone; a few others had made it—some on bikes, some on foot, all silent.
Now, lying in a hospital bed, Lulu stares at the wall.
His entire family is gone. His neighbors are ash. He knows that if he had stayed to explain, if he had let emotion take over for even sixty seconds, he would be dead with them.
He feels no regret. He took action while others took notes.
Lulu is alive. That is the only thing that matters.