Ethan – New York City
Ethan forced himself back into routine.
Groceries. Coffee shop. Work emails. Pretend the world wasn’t unraveling outside his window.
But normalcy kept breaking. The barista at the corner café dropped his cup mid-order, staring blankly at the floor until his coworker shook him back to life. A stranger on the subway began screaming scripture in a voice that didn’t sound like his own, then fell silent and collapsed. Even Ethan’s phone glitched—notifications repeating, his own reflection appearing distorted in video calls.
He told himself he was paranoid. That it was stress.
But then he saw it again: a pale horse reflected in the subway window. No one else reacted. Just him.
The whispers purred, almost kind now.
Chosen. You see what they cannot.
He shut his eyes, praying it would all go away.
---
Mara – Los Angeles
Her shift ended, but Mara didn’t go home.
Home meant silence, and silence meant thinking. So she walked the city, passing boarded-up storefronts and graffiti-smeared walls: GOD IS COMING / TRUST VEYRA / END IS NOW.
She found herself in a bodega, buying instant noodles and batteries with the last of her cash. The clerk’s TV was tuned to the news, showing relief supplies being distributed overseas under Adrian Veyra’s banner. Crowds cheered.
“You believe in that guy?” Mara asked.
The clerk shrugged. “World’s on fire. At least he looks like he knows what he’s doing.”
Mara almost agreed. Almost. But then she remembered the boy’s voice in the ER, rasping like broken glass: Do not trust him.
The noodles felt heavy in her hand, like an omen instead of a meal.
---
Adrian – Geneva, Switzerland
Adrian’s world was accelerating.
Every hour, another leader called. Another crisis found its answer in him. The press adored him, likening him to Churchill, to Lincoln, to saviors of old. His speeches flooded social media, soundbites clipped into mantras: We will rise. We will endure. We will prevail.
He should have been exhausted. But he wasn’t. He felt stronger each day, as though something vast and invisible was feeding him.
In private moments, when no cameras watched, he stood before mirrors and studied himself. Sometimes, in the glass, his reflection wore a crown.
And once, just once, it smiled before he did.
---
Jonah – Chicago
The church was empty when Jonah climbed the bell tower. From there, he could see the whole city—the skyscrapers stabbing at the sky, the streets crawling with unrest.
It was beginning. He could feel it in his bones.
He pulled his coat tighter against the cold wind and closed his eyes in prayer. But this time, no prayer came. Only silence. The heavens were closed to him, as though God Himself had turned away.
When he opened his eyes, a mural on a nearby rooftop caught his attention. It hadn’t been there yesterday.
Painted in blood-red strokes was the shape of a horse. A red one.
Beneath it, a single phrase: PEACE WILL BURN.
Jonah staggered back, nearly falling down the tower stairs. He knew what it meant. The second rider was waiting.
