Bunker

The hum of the refrigerator, the faint ticking of the hallway clock, the muffled laughter of your family in the living room—ordinary sounds that suddenly feel unreal when your phone vibrates. EMERGENCY ALERT flashes across the screen. Nuclear detonation detected. Impact in 2 minutes. For a moment, your mind refuses to process it. The air seems too still, the walls too thin. But the words remain, unblinking, demanding. The bunker door waits outside in the backyard, its steel hatch heavy, cold, final. You know only one thing with certainty: you cannot save everyone. You’ll have just enough time to drag the dog inside, grab one person, and whatever belongings you can carry in shaking hands. The laughter in the living room continues. Your mother’s voice rises, warm and ordinary. Your father leans back in his chair, unaware. Marcus hums faintly through his earbuds. Tori scrolls her phone, lost in her own world. Max, ever-loyal, perks his ears and looks at you as though he already understands. The clock ticks again. Two minutes. One choice. Forever consequence.