Leo walked to the main speaker, traced his finger over the graffiti, and smiled.
The music died.
“Hello to you too,” he whispered to no one. To everyone. Apocalypse Partys Over-HI2U
Leo stood on the balcony of the penthouse, watching the last embers of a nuclear sunrise bleed over the mountains. Below, the city was a graveyard of silent cars and drifting ash. Above, the sky churned the color of bruised plums. The apocalypse had arrived right on schedule.
A girl with glitter smeared across her cheekbones stumbled out onto the balcony. Her name was Mira. She was holding two half-empty bottles of something expensive. Her eyes were wide, not with fear, but with the manic glow of someone who had decided that terror was boring. Leo walked to the main speaker, traced his
“It’s over,” Leo said, his voice raw. “The apocalypse isn’t a party. It’s not a rave. It’s not a metaphor. It’s the end. And we are standing in the middle of it, pretending to have fun because we’re too scared to face the fact that we’re already dead.”
Inside, the bass was still thumping.
It had caught them three days ago. They just refused to notice.