This was not a drill.
Pei Ran stepped away from the window and closed the curtains, glancing instinctively at the time on her wristband.
1:40 PM.
She returned to the door.
The peephole was still glowing red. No one in the hallway. The dog had vanished—no second "flower" bloomed.
After a moment's observation, she twisted the doorknob.
The moment the door opened, the stench of blood hit her like a wall—thick, metallic, nauseating.
Blood was everywhere. Shredded, unidentifiable flesh littered the corridor. It looked like a slaughterhouse had been bombed.
The middle-aged man's clothes had been shredded to pieces. Even his shoes were in tatters. The only thing that remained intact was his wristband—flung across the floor, lying near the door.
The virtual screen had somehow survived. It hovered silently in the air, glowing faintly.
The lock screen displayed a photo received forty minutes ago: white background, black text. The same warning image Pei Ran had received.
She spared the screen a glance, then crouched down to examine the aftermath.
Up close, she changed her mind about what had happened.
The explosion pattern looked... familiar.
The fragments were evenly distributed, splatter radius tight and controlled—not at all like a typical internal detonation. It resembled something else from her old world—a weapon known as the Pulse Shredder.
The Pulse Shredder was a specialized weapon, capable of pinpoint attacks through any obstruction. It created a defined blast radius that tore apart any living matter within it.
Charred arc-shaped marks scorched the floor.
Pei Ran brushed aside bits of flesh and traced the arc with her finger.
It extended right to the apartment door.
A perfect circle. Roughly one meter in radius.
Exactly what the Pulse Shredder would leave behind.
Everything inside the circle was gone—except the door and the wristband. The man had been obliterated. Part of the dog had entered the blast zone too—its tail and hind leg were shredded.
If it was the Pulse Shredder, then it had been calibrated to a biological kill setting, targeting only living things.
Meaning: a one-meter radius death ring centered on the victim.
Anything alive within that range would be torn to pieces.
She stood and dragged the small cardboard box near the doorway inside. It had been close to the explosion, splattered with blood and flesh.
Pei Ran fetched a cloth from the kitchen and wiped it clean.
After scrubbing her hands, she returned with a fruit knife and sliced the box open.
It was a grocery delivery—canned food and compressed biscuits, packed neatly.
Having supplies at hand eased her nerves.
She collected her thoughts.
This wasn't a simulation. Not a game.
People were dying. She had smelled the blood. Touched the flesh.
So far, the only clear trigger was: speech.
Speaking meant death.
Even a simple "ah"—just a sound—was fatal.
But animals seemed unaffected. That dog had howled earlier and lived.
Pei Ran had witnessed three explosions and timed one of them.
Roughly three seconds passed between speech and detonation—like something needed that long to verify that a human had spoken.
If the warning image was accurate, even text messages were deadly.
It hadn't just been sent to her—the man outside had received it too. Maybe he hadn't seen it. Maybe he thought it was a scam. Either way, he hadn't taken it seriously.
Given their panic and lack of defense before death, this wasn't a normal occurrence in their world.
When Pei Ran received the warning around noon, she could still hear people talking outside. No explosions had happened yet.
The message must have been an early warning, just minutes ahead of disaster.
Now she needed to know:
Is it just this building? This city? Or is it the entire Federation?
That would decide where—or whether—she could escape.
But the first line of the warning had read:
"All citizens of the Federation, please take note."
Not a good sign.
Too bad the net was down. She had no way to know what was happening elsewhere.
Pei Ran returned to the window and parted the curtain just slightly.
On the street below, more "flowers" of blood had bloomed. No people. No hovercars.
No enemy soldiers roaming the streets with guns.
No screaming, no stampede.
Silence.
Terrifying, unnatural silence.
Like a city drowned.
Pei Ran shut the curtain.
No sound. No voice. Not even a whisper.
She repeated it to herself like a mantra.
Even talking to herself was off-limits.
If she wanted to survive, she had to stay completely silent.
She looked down at her wristband.
Full signal.
She remembered the security guard who had tried to call the authorities earlier—police, emergency lines—nothing had gone through.
The only message that had arrived was that one image.
It had said:
No text. Only pictures are safe.
Pei Ran frowned.
What was different? In terms of byte transmission, both text and images were just data streams. Why would one be safe and not the other?
She couldn't figure it out.
Opening her contacts list, she spotted a name: Aisha.
Aisha had mentioned she lived on the far west side of the city. Maybe she knew if things were bad over there too.
She needed to send a picture.
The original user had saved a lot of memes. Pei Ran scrolled through and picked a confused-looking cat topped with a row of question marks.
She hesitated.
The warning itself had been an image. And she'd safely sent a photo of beef noodles earlier—but that had been before the silence began. Back when people were still speaking downstairs.
She wasn't sure it was still safe now.
Just then, her wristband buzzed.
A new image.
From Aisha. She was alive.
White background. Red text. Clearly a screenshot.
[Are you still alive?]
Then more images came through, one after another:
[I'm in the supermarket near my place. A lot of people are dead.]
[I'm hiding in the staff lounge with a bunch of others. No one's talking. We're okay so far.]
[What's it like on your end?]
She was definitely alive. The messages had come more than three seconds apart.
But that still didn't prove image-sending was truly safe.
Maybe the warning had been wrong. Or maybe the delay before death was longer than three seconds.
Still—Pei Ran desperately wanted information.
She hovered her finger over the screen.
Survival was a gamble.
These past two days, she'd eaten delicious pizza, chips, cake, drank cold soda, slept in a room with a real window.
She had already lived well enough.
She opened the notepad, typed a message, took a screenshot.
[Still alive. Same situation here. Do you know how far this thing spreads?]
Deep breath.
Send.
A minute passed.
She was still alive.
A new image arrived:
[Thank god.]
[I knew you'd still be alive.]
[I asked my classmate in West Tai City—same thing happening there.]
[I messaged a friend in Ellen Harbor up north—he hasn't replied at all, which is not normal. I think it's bad there too.]
[I'm starting to think the whole Federation's gone to hell. What is this thing?!]
Pei Ran didn't know.
But in the bunker world, there was one golden rule:
Trade.
Information was as valuable as food or medicine. If you took, you had to give.
She typed on an image:
[I don't know. But here's some advice—try to stay away from other people.]
Aisha replied: [Why?]
Pei Ran: [I watched several explosions. They don't just kill the speaker. Anyone within a one-meter radius is shredded.]
[Watch out for someone near you suddenly blurting something out.]
Cramming into a break room with a group of people—if someone lost control, there might not even be space to run.
Aisha was clearly shaken.
It took her a moment to respond:
[Pei Ran, thank you.]
Followed by a heart emoji.
Aisha had nerves of steel. Still had the energy to send emojis at a time like this.
Though to be fair, emojis were easier than editing a photo. Fast, safe.
Pei Ran scrolled through the meme stash and replied with a heart of her own.
Then opened the rest of her contacts.
Not many people. Some looked like classmates or coworkers. Others were probably sales reps.
Didn't matter who.
She sent that "Don't speak" warning image to all of them.
Text messaging worked one-on-one. If anyone responded, she might learn more.
But no one replied.
Most had probably died before they realized what was going on.
Only Aisha sent another picture:
[Wait—something else just exploded here.]
Pei Ran frowned.
Of course something exploded. Wasn't that expected now?
Aisha:
[It was the Public Security Bureau—right next door! The whole building's gone!]
[Nothing left but dust! Our floor even shook! I'll send you a photo.]
She did.
The picture was taken from the supermarket entrance.
Shelves had toppled, items scattered. The glass door was shattered. Outside, the air was filled with dust and debris.
Opposite the supermarket, where there had been a tall office tower—now just empty air.
Pei Ran recognized the site. She'd walked past it yesterday.
A commercial district. The building had read:
Federation Library.
Another message from Aisha:
[The university's gone too! So is the high school next to it!]
[My roommate's in grad school there, but she happened to be out. At first, she didn't even know how to add text to a photo, so she just sent me an emoji that said "School exploded."]
Efficient. Straight to the point.