A madman's biography of the apocalypse

The sky doesn’t just open, it rips like a clearance‑rack zipper, and suddenly there’s another planet staring down with cotton‑candy colors and a bad attitude. Then the voice shows up — not a holy messenger, not even a cool sci‑fi AI, but the kind of smug, corporate call‑center demon that calls you a “dumb fucking boomer” before offering you a free trial of survival. Two active skills, one passive, twenty‑four hours to choose or get deleted. Deleted. Like a typo. And just when you’re trying to figure out if this is a psychotic break or the world’s most expensive prank, monsters start falling out of the sky like cosmic loose change. Neighbors scream, dogs bark, and the System keeps droning on like it’s reading from a script written by Satan’s HR department. You don’t have weapons, you don’t have a plan, and you definitely don’t have time — but you do have a skill list. And if you don’t pick something fast, you’re about to find out what “termination” really means. AC+LOLA (Thank you as always Lewd Leah)