In that ominous April of 2026, the world made a choice: it would either turn to ash in nuclear fire or seek refuge under the proxy of darkness. As mushroom clouds tore through the sky, our ancestors chose the latter. That day, the ancient blood-owners emerged from the shadows, wrenching the nuclear triggers from humanity's hands and replacing them with shackles.
Now, years later, we pay the price for this "generosity" with our very veins.
Where we live is not a city ,it is a Vivaricus Nuclear Zone. We exist in that limbo between the shelters and the surface, beneath massive nuclear shields stretched over the skeletal remains of metropolises. Outside, beyond the shield, radioactive dust dances with the speed of the wind; inside, there is only the breath of the Masters.
The rivers are no longer sources of life, but the bleeding wounds of the earth. The liquid flowing through them shimmers like a silvery poison. Fish that once leaped with joy are now heaps of flesh, belly-up, their scales dissolved by acid. The soil is merely a concrete graveyard not a single green sprout can raise its head without the System's permission.
The first gift given to us at birth was not a warm embrace, but that freezing liquid dripped into our eyes. Before we could even see our mothers' faces clearly, biometric lenses were sealed onto our pupils. These lenses are not for us to see the world, they are for the Masters to see us.
Every moment of our lives is like a daily soap opera for the "Elites." To them, mocking our lifespan is nothing more than a few seconds of entertainment, as if we were lab rats living inside a computer game.
We are 24-hour live broadcasts for the Masters of Vivaricus. Our pain, our hunger, our betrayals toward one another; it is all "Reality Show" content for them. A vampire on the other side of the screen might "sponsor" me a slice of fresh bread based on my mood or snuff out my life with the press of a button. That smooth, silky voice echoing in every corner of the System reminds us.
"We saved you from your own savagery. Now, behave, so we may love you."
A domesticated soul has no honor. Those with honor are the rebels, living with storms raging inside them, unable to voice a single word. We gnaw on moldy bread, dreaming of the day we will tear down their reign.
The advertisements rotating on the giant digital billboards in the square burn my soul more than the hunger in my stomach. "ADOPT A HUMAN." On the screen, a vampire woman in silk robes strokes the hair of a collared youth.
"Adopting a domesticated human is a lifestyle," says the voiceover. "Tame your wild nature, take your place in a comfortable palace."
"Exclusive prices for your pets... a pet should never be bored. Harem bonuses now only 1 million Viva!"
"Become a homeowner early! Open a live stream to multiple Masters and win a discount voucher for a shack on the Vivaricus Islands."
"UNMISSABLE PRICES! Vivaricus Film Studios offers a guaranteed 1+0 first-league apartment in exchange for the '1 Night with 150 Vampires Challenge.' Check your system messages for candidacy."
Some of us crave this. To escape the dampness of the shelters and the radioactive dust, they consider it salvation to become a vampire's "pet," living like a dog waiting for a treat under a table. Seeing those in the square looking up at the balconies, performing somersaults and shouting, "Look at me, Master! See how obedient I am!" makes me clutch my stone-hard, stale bread even tighter.
I am Dorian.
I am the glitch born into this system who refuses to be a part of it. Though my lenses reflect an obedient slave to the Masters, there is a darkness I hide in the depths of my mind.
I tear off a piece of bread and toss it into my mouth. The taste of mold sears my tongue. This bread did not come from the System it came from the small crumbs I earned because I hid—because I did not sell my honor. A "pet candidate" passes by me in shiny clothes, eyes fixed on the cameras above, shouting "Thank you, Master!" with a fake smile.
I don't even look at him.
The world might be dead. The sky might never brighten again. But among these dusty ruins, a single knee that refuses to bend is enough to shake the foundations of those magnificent palaces. Our story began in the dampness of the shelters, but it will not end until the cold marble of the palaces is stained with blood.
The advertisements smell. The screen is filled with constant "Escape from Misery" propaganda.
"A 10-YEAR FOOD POLICY FOR THOSE WHO BRING THEIR ELDERLY RELATIVES!"
"BABY INCENTIVES: HEALTH, CLEANING SERVICES, AND HOME COMFORT FOR BIRTHS OF 3 OR MORE CHILDREN!"
"SERVE THE MASTERS WITH ONE CLICK VIA ONLYVIVA, SWEEP UP THE REWARDS. LINK IN YOUR SYSTEM DMs."
"A BRAND NEW PRODUCTION FROM VIVAWOOD FILM PRODUCTIONS: APOCALYPSE APRIL 2026—HUMANITY'S BETRAYAL AND THE VAMPIRES' MERCY…"
As the damp breath of the shelters mingled with the metallic dust clogging my throat, my lungs wheezed like bellows. Every step I took was broadcast live to a Master sipping fresh blood from a crystal goblet on a velvet armchair miles away, transmitted through those cursed lenses nailed to my pupils. I kept my gaze locked on the ground, pretending to count the cracks in the ruins while actually searching for my soul's escape routes.
We had built makeshift shacks in the heart of the dead city, amidst heaps of concrete and the skeletons of extinguished forests. Peace had long since abandoned this world; our shacks were merely glass cages where our executioners could watch us more easily.
I slipped inside. Joseph, Adalin, Ulysses, and Ava were there. To the "System," everything looked as it should,five miserable humans gathered around a radiation-grayed table, talking about the most senseless, numbing topics.
"Did you see the color of the synthetic soup packet that arrived yesterday?" Ava asked, her voice trembling with forced excitement. "Our Master is so thoughtful; orange is my favorite color."
My eyes locked with hers. While her lips spewed this nonsense, her hands were dancing over that rough, embossed paper under the table.
The Masters heard, the Masters saw; but the Masters were unaware of that old tactile alphabet we had salvaged from the ruins—the silent scream at our fingertips.
Ulysses notched the paper with his fingernail. As my fingers touched the page, the code decrypted in my mind.
"East wing of the palace, guard change, midnight."
"Yes," Joseph added with a fake laugh. "Maybe we'll be chosen as 'pets' in a commercial tomorrow, who knows? There's nothing like being a lucky servant."
My fingertips traced the raised bumps on the paper. Adalin's trembling fingers tapped a rhythm on the edge of the table. In that shack where betrayal and loyalty were inhaled simultaneously, each of us was burying our own internal revolution into the texture of that paper. We were pawns on their screens, but beneath the table, we moved like kings.
At that exact moment, the heart of the world stopped.
First, a low hum rose from the depths, making my teeth ache. Then, a terrifying roar erupted, as if a giant had gripped the earth with both hands and torn it apart. The ground beneath the shack shuddered and split in two.
As the makeshift walls tore like paper, a massive, bottomless pit opened beneath our feet.
As dust clouds and screams collided, the earth continued to shake beyond the shield above, like the awakening of a beast that had slept for thousands of years. The earth had opened its mouth, ready to swallow us along with our secrets.
I held my breath. Darkness was reaching upward to pull us in.