The world wasn't perfect, but it worked. At least, that's what I told myself. People got up, went to work, came home, and did it all over again the next day. That's how life was supposed to be—predictable. Safe.
I liked it that way.
For twenty-three years, I lived in the same city, walked the same streets, and avoided anything that even remotely smelled like trouble. I had no grand ambitions, no earth-shattering dreams. Just a decent job at a convenience store, a tiny apartment, and the occasional bowl of instant ramen. Life was simple, and I was okay with that.
But then the first rift appeared.
I still remember the news report. A faint, glowing tear in the sky above an abandoned parking lot downtown. The media called it the "Sky Scar." At the time, I didn't think much of it. Just another weird headline in a world that loved its fifteen-minute fascinations. People flocked to see it—some out of curiosity, others for the clicks and likes. Scientists studied it. Politicians argued over what to do about it.
But I didn't care. Why would I? It wasn't my problem.
Then, more of them appeared.
At first, the rifts seemed harmless, just floating wounds in the fabric of reality. But people who went near them—scientists, soldiers, even regular civilians—started disappearing. Some came back, raving about alien worlds, strange creatures, and lands that didn't follow the rules of nature. Others didn't come back at all.
And then the monsters arrived.
They came through the bridges—rifts that led straight to Hell, or at least something close enough. I didn't see the first attack myself, but I saw the aftermath. Streets torn apart. Buildings reduced to rubble. And bodies—so many bodies. The news couldn't keep up with the death toll. Entire cities were gone in days.
People fought back. The government mobilized the military, heroes emerged, and alliances were formed to battle the creatures. I watched it all unfold from my TV screen, gripping my bowl of ramen like it was some kind of shield.
I told myself it wasn't my fight.
But when the rifts started appearing closer to home, when the screams echoed through my own neighborhood, I realized there was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.
I wasn't ready for this. Hell, who would be? I wasn't a soldier or a hero. I didn't even know how to throw a proper punch. But the world didn't care. The monsters didn't care. They came for us all, no matter how ordinary we were.
And so here I am, standing at the edge of a world I barely recognize, with no idea how I'm supposed to survive.
I'm not a hero. I don't want to be a hero. But in a world like this, maybe you don't get a choice.