Vance Mercer wasn't important. He was the guy people forgot in office emails, the one they sent out to grab coffee or pick up shipments no one wanted to touch. His desk was squeezed between the copy machine and a flickering emergency light, his paycheck barely enough to cover rent for a decaying house on the edge of the city.
The only exciting part of his life was… absolutely nothing.
But Vance had always trusted his gut.
And lately, that gut had been screaming.
The city felt wrong. Not the usual wrong of traffic jams and broken streetlights—but a quiet, building tension that soaked into the cracks of everyday life. People looked over their shoulders more. Some didn't come into work. News channels whispered about strange events, then pulled the articles like they never existed.
Vance noticed.
He saw the way pigeons flew in scattered flocks, as if escaping something only they sensed. He watched the moon flicker like a faulty bulb on some nights. And he listened—carefully—when the man on the subway muttered, "It's already begun. We're just too stupid to notice."
Still, nothing prepared him for the night it all changed.
He came home late, as usual. Rain slicked his jacket and hair, the streets gleaming under broken neon signs. His neighborhood was quiet—too quiet. No drunk laughter, no distant TV sounds, not even a stray dog.
His house greeted him with its usual creaks. Water dripped into a stained bucket in the corner. The walls groaned from the wind. He locked the door behind him, triple-checking the deadbolt. Just a habit.
Vance sighed and peeled off his soaked clothes, tossing them into a corner. As he shuffled toward the kitchen, a sharp ping echoed inside his skull.
He froze.
Something pulsed in the air.
And then—light.
A glowing blue panel appeared before his eyes, floating in mid-air like a HUD in a video game. No matter where he looked, it stayed centered in his vision.
[SYSTEM INSTALLATION COMPLETE]
User: Vance Mercer
Synchronization Rate: 100%
Cognitive Access: Granted
Apocalypse Countdown: 22 Days, 17 Hours, 39 Minutes
System Type: Mobile Fortress Survival Protocol
[WARNING: Humanity Collapse Detected – Solo Preparation Recommended]
His heart stopped.
This had to be a dream, or a psychotic break, or—
The panel flickered again.
[Initiating Emergency Protocol: Base Designation – "Home"]
Integration Incomplete. Mission Required.
Mission: Foundation Upgrade – Phase 1
Objective: Gather Materials
Wood ×100
Scrap Metal ×80
Stone ×60
Time Limit: 72 Hours
Reward: Access to Tech Tree & Devour/Decompose/Refine System | Passive Defense Protocol Lv.1
His mouth felt dry.
Then the final line appeared:
[You have been chosen. You are alone.]
Vance sat in silence for a long time.
He didn't scream. He didn't panic.
He just stared at the flickering message… then slowly stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the city moved on like nothing was wrong. Lights glowed. Cars passed. Life continued in blissful ignorance.
But not for him.
Only he could see the system.
Only he knew the world was ending in twenty-two days.
And he sure as hell wasn't going to tell anyone.
He made his decision fast.
First, supplies. If the apocalypse really was coming—and honestly, the world already looked like it was halfway there—he'd need food, tools, medicine. He placed bulk orders online: dehydrated rations, canned goods, water purifiers, trauma kits, duct tape, lighters, batteries.
Then, he dove into the Tech Tree.
The first node showed simple upgrades: Reinforced Walls, Metal Door Frame, Shatterproof Windows. Affordable—barely. He added the blueprints to his queue and began searching local salvage yards and construction zones for scrap materials.
It was exhausting work. Dangerous, too.
But as the system silently tracked his progress, rewarding him with faint glows and subtle warmth in his chest, he began to feel… alive.
He wasn't just an office drone anymore.
He was building something.
Preparing.
The hardest part?
Pretending to be normal.
He still went to work. Still smiled at his manager. Still answered phones and fetched coffee.
But every free second he had, he was scavenging, hauling materials back to his house, slowly fortifying it from the inside out. Underneath his floorboards now ran cables. His door had been swapped with a welded steel slab. His windows layered with hidden panels of hardened plastic and recycled plates.
Still… it wasn't enough.
He had twenty-one days left, and the upgrades would only get harder.
The system remained silent except for mission updates and a quiet hum when he completed objectives.
And even as the news began to break stories of strange people doing impossible things—lifting cars, breathing fire, vanishing in thin air—Vance said nothing.
He didn't want to be noticed.
He didn't want to be hunted.
On the evening of Day 21, after fortifying his perimeter wall blueprint and caching food in every room, he sat down and pulled up the Tech Tree again.
One node blinked faintly in the corner: "Mobile Conversion – Locked"
So the house would move one day. Just not yet.
"Not bad for a paranoid loser," he muttered to himself.
But no—he wasn't paranoid. Not really.
He was prepared.
Because the world?
The world was just weird.