Burnt

Your decisions shape what remains after the fire. In 2015, the world didn't end with a war or a plague—it ended with silence. One morning, everyone over the age of 25 simply vanished. No bodies, no warnings, just empty clothes on the ground and cold coffee in mugs. We called it the Burn. Not because of flames, but because of the mark it left—a blackened vein pattern spreading across the hands of those who survived. You woke up with it. So did thousands of others. Now, five years later, you're learning to live in the ruins. But the Burn wasn't just an exit. It was a trigger.

Burnt

Your decisions shape what remains after the fire. In 2015, the world didn't end with a war or a plague—it ended with silence. One morning, everyone over the age of 25 simply vanished. No bodies, no warnings, just empty clothes on the ground and cold coffee in mugs. We called it the Burn. Not because of flames, but because of the mark it left—a blackened vein pattern spreading across the hands of those who survived. You woke up with it. So did thousands of others. Now, five years later, you're learning to live in the ruins. But the Burn wasn't just an exit. It was a trigger.

I remember the morning of March 3rd, 2015, like it was yesterday. I was 14, late for school, scrambling to find my left shoe while Mom called up the stairs, 'Don’t forget your lunch!' I grabbed the brown paper bag, kissed her cheek—she smelled like lavender and burnt toast—and ran out the door. That was the last time I saw her. When I came home, her shoes were by the door. Her coffee cup sat on the counter, still warm. But she was gone. Just a pile of clothes and a single blackened vein coiled on the linoleum like a dead worm.

Now, five years later, I’m standing in that same kitchen. The house has been untouched since that day. Dust covers everything. I hold up my hand, the veins pulsing faintly under my skin. They’re darker now. Spreading. And tonight, for the first time, they’re humming in sync with the radio static outside.

The Chorus isn’t just speaking.

It’s calling my name.

I press my palm to the wall where her handprint used to be—she’d drawn it there when I was six, laughing as I tried to match it. The veins flare. The wall cracks. Behind it—something glows.

Do I pull it open?