Chapter 1: The Game Begins

With a metallic chime, the system prompt snatched me from oblivion and dropped me into the chaos of an apocalypse game.

Suddenly, I stood in a surreal space—like Mumbai’s Churchgate station at peak hour—crowded, anxious, buzzing with the clatter of slippers on sticky floors. Someone’s backpack brushed my arm, and the oily smell of samosas from a hidden kiosk mixed with the scent of sweat and perfume. An old Bollywood tune, barely audible, played from somewhere above, as if the system wanted to remind us that even in the afterlife, the city never really slept.

A glance at the public chat screen showed 300 players logged in. Names flashed—some regular, some like “MirzapurDon” and “ShantiAunty42.” The number felt small compared to the city’s population, but here, it was all that mattered. Everyone eyed each other warily, the tension as sharp as when you realise your wallet’s missing on a packed local.

The system’s voice, flat as a Dadar platform announcement, told us we’d all died in the real world. If we wanted rebirth, we had to survive this apocalypse game.

For a heartbeat, I wondered if my parents even knew I was gone, or if they’d just think I was running late, as usual. The memory of the accident—metal shrieking, the bus flipping near the flyover—flashed through me. My chest tightened, grief and guilt threatening to swallow me, but the system’s voice cut through, cold and final: only one could win, only one would return.

System: [Now, please choose your initial item.]

A virtual shelf shimmered into existence, stacked with glowing objects. It felt like Diwali shopping at Phoenix Mall—except here, your life was the price tag.

I scanned the shelf, my fingers trembling between powers like "invulnerability," "telepathy," and "beast transformation." Some items sparkled as if they were vying for my attention: “Pick me, beta! Mummy will be so proud!” The pressure was suffocating. Even in death, the urge to top the list clung to us like humidity.

The world chat exploded as players scrambled for superpowers—English, Hinglish, pure Hindi, all mashed together: “Bro, teleportation gone! Arrey, who took mind reading?!” It was like a Mumbai local about to leave—if you didn’t push, you’d be left behind.

Numbers for abilities like lightning strike, wind blade, teleportation, healing—dropping fast, just like the last stock at a Big Bazaar sale. “Healing only 2 left, yaar!” someone typed. “Lightning OP, must get!” My pulse quickened, a bead of sweat sliding down my neck, just like when the exam bell rings and you’re still scribbling your answer.

On the last page, I spotted it—a lone gold coin labelled “infinite wealth.”

The coin didn’t glitter, it glowed—quiet, almost bashful. I hesitated. Who picks money when the world’s ending? But then I remembered Papa, counting notes late at night, whispering, “Beta, paisa bura nahi hota, bas sahi jagah lagana aana chahiye.” Money had saved us more than once. Maybe it could save me here too.

I chose the gold coin, heart pounding.

It felt warm, almost alive, as if Lakshmi Ma herself was tucking it into my palm. I held it tight, ignoring the certainty that everyone else would think I was crazy.

Among the crowd, I recognised a few faces—college mates from the bus accident. In this strange place, they felt like the only family I had left. We clustered together, first-year hostelites on day one, lost but not alone.

Rohan, our class prefect, picked mind control. He turned to me, eyebrows raised in classic Delhi boy style, and snorted: “Oye Neha, kitna paisa chahiye tujhe? Apocalypse mein bhi Ambani banegi kya?” The group burst into laughter. I rolled my eyes, half-smiling, half-exasperated, imagining my mother’s approving nod.

Before I could reply, his gaze flicked to Priya—the college beauty—who had picked the ability to obtain love.

Priya, ever the heroine, tossed her hair and adjusted her dupatta with a flourish. “I can obtain the love of humans—even the love of zombies. With true love as my shield, I can’t die.”

Someone snorted behind me; another whispered, “Filmi hai yeh ladki.” I hid a smile behind my hand as the group dissolved into giggles. Priya winked, soaking up the attention. If anyone could charm zombies, it would be her.

As soon as the last item was picked, the system’s voice boomed:

[You have one year to train your superpowers and make preparations. The apocalypse will begin in one year.]

The announcement echoed. For a split second, no one breathed. Then—*clunk*—someone’s phone slipped from their hand, a water bottle hit the sticky floor. The air was electric, as if Sachin had just hit a six on the last ball.

[Please note: there will only be one winner in this game. Only the last surviving player is eligible for the reward.]

Silence, thicker than monsoon mud, blanketed us. Even Priya’s smile faded. We all understood—this wasn’t a group project. It was every man and woman for themselves.

Faces tightened. Some stared at their items, others at each other. A few exchanged glances—old friendships evaporating, new rivalries blooming. It was as if someone had stirred poison into our chai.

The hopeful talk of alliances vanished. Now, every handshake felt like it hid a knife. Someone muttered, “Log kya kahenge? But here, log khud hi sabse bada khatra hai.”

Here, there were no friends. Only enemies.

A cold shiver ran down my spine. I looked at Rohan, at Priya. Yesterday’s classmates—today’s competition. In this game, trust had an expiry date.