My name is Nguyen Van Loc.
Today was like any other day: I woke up at 11:47 a.m., opened my eyes, stared at the ceiling fan spinning like it had a personal vendetta against silence, and thought the same classic thought:
“Eh… it can keep spinning.”
I dragged myself out of bed, brushed my teeth by swishing some leftover rice water (efficient), and showed up late to work like usual. On my way out, I glanced at the fan one more time.
Still spinning.
Still not my problem.
That was it. Nothing dramatic.
I had no idea that the exact moment I chose not to turn off that ceiling fan… was the moment I officially kickstarted the end of the world as I knew it.
---
My downstairs neighbor, Lan—34, single, and aggressively anti-noise—had a very low tolerance for nonsense.
My ceiling fan? Old. Wobbly. Bearings clicking like a metronome from hell: *clunk… clunk… clunk…*
Usually she could deal with it because I was rarely home. But today, thanks to my late start, that fan had been running nonstop since 11:47 a.m.
In her mind, it had been running forever.
11:53 a.m.: She bangs on my door. No answer.
12:07 p.m.: She posts on Facebook:
> “The guy upstairs has had his fan sounding like a helicopter ALL MORNING. If I get up there, I’m cutting off that fan—and maybe something else too.”
Twelve likes. All from a group chat called “Apartment Residents Who Are Done With Everything.”
12:45 p.m.: A food delivery driver scrolling his phone between orders sees the post. It’s 100 degrees out, he’s sweating through his shirt, and he’s already in a bad mood.
He comments: “Send me the address. I’ll go turn it off.”
Lan replies: “4th floor, corner unit. Door’s unlocked.”
---
The driver’s name was Tung. He was 26, recently cheated on, and desperately in need of feeling like a good person again.
He heads up to the 4th floor, pushes the door open (it really is unlocked), and steps into my empty apartment.
The fan is still spinning.
He looks up at it and mutters, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He grabs the pull cord and yanks.
Here’s the problem: my fan is ancient. The wiring had been half-chewed through by mice months ago.
So when Tung yanked the cord—
*SNAP.*
Exposed wires spark.
The spark drops to the floor.
On the floor is a small puddle of soda I spilled the night before and never cleaned up (because, you know… priorities).
Spark hits liquid.
Short circuit.
Fourth floor goes out.
Then the whole building.
Main breaker trips.
It’s now a full blackout.
At noon.
In 100-degree heat.
---
1:20 p.m.: The building is now a human oven.
Lan, the original poster, is sitting downstairs, fanning herself with a magazine, drenched in sweat. Suddenly she snaps:
“THIS IS ALL THAT GUY UPSTAIRS’ FAULT!!!”
Within minutes, everyone agrees: *the upstairs guy* caused the blackout.
(Technically, I just… didn’t turn off a fan.)
2:00 p.m.: A group chat is created: “Stop The Ceiling Fan Guy.”
87 members join in 40 minutes.
2:30 p.m.: A middle-aged man suggests:
“We should cut his power so he learns a lesson.”
3:10 p.m.: They accidentally shut off power to the entire block.
---
That night, I get off work and walk home.
The whole neighborhood is pitch black.
No streetlights. No apartment lights. Just moonlight… and hundreds of phone flashlights flickering like a low-budget zombie movie.
A guy runs past me yelling:
“GET THE CEILING FAN GUY! MAKE HIM PAY!”
I stop. Blink.
“Wait… my ceiling fan?”
I still have no idea what’s happening.
My only thought is: *Did everyone lose their minds today?*
I get upstairs, open my door, and—
My ceiling fan is lying on the floor.
In pieces.
The blades have been removed. One of them has dried blood on it.
I sigh. Sit down on my bed.
“I just wanted to turn off the fan and go to sleep…”
Right then—
The power comes back on.
But not normal power.
Every light in my apartment turns on at once.
Purple.
Bright, flickering, nightclub purple.
From the hallway, people start screaming:
“WHY ARE THE STREETLIGHTS TURNING INTO DISCO LIGHTS?!”
I look at the broken fan on the floor.
Then at the purple lights flashing like a rave.
I let out a long, tired sigh.
“Welcome to a new week.”
I turn off the (purple) lights, lie down, and mumble to the ceiling:
“I forgot to turn off the fan. One time.”
Outside my window, the entire neighborhood starts moving—
dancing involuntarily under the pulsing purple glow…
like the apocalypse just got a DJ.
