Percy Wells leaned back in his chair, fingers dancing over the keys of his aging laptop, his brow furrowed in concentration. The dim glow of his screen reflected against the sleek glass of his watch, ticking steadily against his wrist. The small Manhattan studio apartment around him was cluttered but cozy, a chaotic mosaic of half-finished coffee mugs, sketchpads, and a corkboard pinned with scribbled ideas that never quite took off.
Freelance life had its perks—flexibility, creative freedom, and the ever-looming possibility of striking gold with the right pitch. But lately, Percy had hit a wall. His ideas, once brimming with originality, felt stale. It was like trying to squeeze water from a stone. Every pitch sounded like something he'd heard before, every proposal a shadow of someone else's work.
He ruffled his messy, windswept blue hair in frustration. A few strands fell into his piercing gray-blue eyes, their sharp hue softened by his ever-present look of casual indifference. His friends often joked that he could wear the same outfit to a job interview and a night out without missing a beat. Tonight, he was wearing his usual: a crisp black button-down rolled up at the sleeves, fitted slacks cinched with a slim belt, and a pair of scuffed leather shoes that somehow made him look effortlessly put-together. His skin was pale but warm under the low light, the faint flush of a life spent rushing through New York's streets.
Percy was extroverted when it mattered, always able to hold a conversation or charm a client with a quick smile and easy laugh. But those moments were a performance. When the meetings ended and the calls were over, he preferred the quiet company of his thoughts or the distraction of a good story. Inwardly, he was more introverted than anyone would guess—a man who craved the noise of the world but cherished his solitude even more.
Sighing, he minimized his draft folder and opened a search tab. "Maybe I need inspiration," he muttered, propping his chin on his hand.
That's when the idea struck.
He remembered a phase a few years back when he'd devoured web novels like they were lifelines. Stories full of sprawling worlds, overpowered protagonists, and twists that came out of nowhere. Sure, most of them were melodramatic and over-the-top, but they were fun. Addictive. They had a spark that real life seemed to lack these days.
"Let's see…" Percy typed "popular web novels" into the search bar, his gaze flitting over the results. Nothing caught his eye, so he switched tactics. He dove into his old collection, scrolling through titles he hadn't thought about in years. A few caught his attention, their summaries tugging at the edges of his memory, but it wasn't until he saw the title Three Ways to Survive a Ruined World That he froze.
"TWSA," he said aloud, his voice tinged with nostalgia. He clicked on the link, the book cover flashing onto his screen. The memories hit him like a freight train. The gripping opening chapters, the mysterious scenarios, the sheer unpredictability of the story. He'd stopped reading after 100 chapters—not because it wasn't good, but because life had gotten in the way.
"Man, this one was wild," he said, leaning back with a grin. "Maybe it's time for a re-read."
Reaching over his desk for his coffee mug, he pulled over, raising up to his lips. And right as he tried to take a sip-nothing.
"Oh.." he muttered, "I'm out of coffee." He slowly placed the mug down onto a coaster. Then sat up from his chair. "Time for a coffee run, plus my legs could use to workout."
Walking over to his front door, he snatched the keys off the countertop, grabbed his sleek gray jacjet, and exited his apartment.
—-
Fifteen minutes later, Percy was weaving through Manhattan's streets on his bike, the chilly night air biting at his face. The rhythmic hum of the city—honking cars, distant chatter, and the occasional siren—was a constant backdrop to his thoughts.
The plan was simple: hit up his favorite coffee shop, grab a table by the window, and dive back into TWSA. He could already picture the warm lights, the faint hum of a jazz playlist, and the rich smell of roasted beans.
When he reached the shop, Percy locked his bike to a post and pushed the door open, the bell jingling softly. The place was just as he remembered it, cozy and bustling with the late-night crowd. He ordered an iced Americano, his go-to, and took a seat by the window, his laptop and earbuds at the ready.
The first sip of his drink was cold and bitter, just the way he liked it. He opened his old reading app, the familiar logo sparking a small thrill of anticipation. Finding TWSA in his library, he clicked into the first chapter.
The prose was just as sharp and gripping as he remembered. He got lost in the story, the world of scenarios and constellations pulling him in. It was almost enough to make him forget his own life, his stalled freelance work, and the ever-present hum of anxiety that came with trying to survive in the city.
But then the WiFi cut out.
Percy blinked, annoyed. He clicked the refresh button a few times, but nothing happened. Glancing around, he noticed others in the café looking at their phones in confusion. One man waved his device in the air, muttering something about the signal.
"Typical New York," Percy muttered, closing his laptop. He reached for his phone, but before he could check anything, the ground beneath him trembled.
It was subtle at first, like the rumble of a distant subway train. But then it grew stronger. The lights flickered, and a low, resonant hum filled the air, a sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
"Earthquake?" someone said, their voice panicked.
Percy stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. Through the café window, he could see the streetlights outside flickering wildly. People were stopping in their tracks, looking around in confusion.
Then he heard it.
A voice—clear and calm, but impossibly loud, as though it was being broadcast directly into his mind.
[Welcome, survivors, to the first scenario.]
The café erupted into chaos. People screamed, some bolting for the exit, while others froze in place. Percy, however, couldn't move. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a choke.
It couldn't be.
[You have ten minutes to secure a safe zone.]
The words were so familiar it made his skin crawl. He'd read them before—years ago, in a novel he barely remembered.
Three Ways To Survive A Ruined World
This wasn't possible. This had to be some kind of elaborate prank, right? Some viral marketing stunt? But as the countdown began, the chaos outside escalated. Glass shattered as something massive crashed onto the street—a creature, its form too distorted and unnatural to be anything human.
[Time remaining: 9 minutes and 30 seconds.]
Percy's hand tightened around the edge of the table. He felt like he was dreaming, or maybe waking up into a nightmare. This was all too surreal, too impossible.
But as the creature outside let out a guttural roar, Percy realized something else.
He wasn't just confused. He wasn't just scared.
He was remembering.
The scenarios. The survival conditions. The looming sense of dread.
This was exactly how it had started in the novel.
"Holy… hell," Percy whispered, his voice trembling.
For the first time in years, Percy Wells was terrified. But deep down, beneath the fear, was something else—a spark of understanding.
And with it, the faintest glimmer of hope.