The World Ends In 27 Days

Zeyu closed his bedroom door softly and locked it behind him.

It was a completely useless gesture.

After all, no one had followed him from the medical room.

Hanchuan wouldn’t leave Zhiyi unless Qinghe threatened to sedate him, Jingwei had apparently appointed himself her personal guard, and Shichen was busy determining which part of Xiling had tried to kill them.

Nobody needed him, let alone chased after him.

The conclusion shouldn’t have hurt. He’d spent most of his life ensuring no one expected enough from him to be disappointed.

He sat at his desk and opened the family message he had already watched too many times.

The recording came from another country, where the Heat hadn’t yet stripped civilization down to chaos and death.

His family was gathered beneath ordinary lights with enough food to cover the table. Someone lifted a glass. Laughter followed from beyond the camera, and several people turned toward it with the loose, comfortable happiness of those who still believed tomorrow would resemble today.

It was clear that they were celebrating.

Zeyu watched until the recording ended, then started it again without sound.

Nobody mentioned him. Nobody looked toward an empty chair or wondered whether he had eaten. His absence hadn’t left a visible gap in the room.

If anything, everyone appeared more relaxed without the family embarrassment who hadn’t made the flight to another country when theirs got too hot to survive.

Apparently, losing a son was easier when that son had spent years teaching everyone not to miss him.

Zeyu turned the tablet facedown.

He usually knew how to improve an uncomfortable moment. He had a smile that invited other people to relax. He knew jokes that encouraged them to laugh instead of asking questions he didn’t want to answer.

And if neither worked, he could flirt with someone until irritation replaced concern.

But at this moment, there was no one in the room to entertain now.

His smile disappeared without an audience to hold it in place.

The second his shoulders dropped, the sound of the collapsing ceiling returned, echoing in his head like a song he couldn’t get out.

He heard it every time the room became quiet enough. The first crack. The violent movement. The terrible weight coming down where Zhiyi had been standing.

His mind replayed the scene as though eventually it might reveal the moment when he could have changed the ending.

If he had made another decision, recognized another risk or valued the vehicle less, Zhiyi wouldn’t be lying unconscious while Qinghe watched blood gather between her brain and skull.

She might die because Zeyu had wanted back something she trusted him to build.

Hanchuan hadn’t needed to accuse him again. Zeyu had already done it more thoroughly.

He opened the storage case on his desk and spread its contents across the surface. Thin sheets of metal, miniature gears, narrow springs and other components covered the dark wood.

His hands needed something to do before his thoughts tore him apart.

At first, he didn’t know what he intended to make. Then he remembered Hanchuan speaking to Zhiyi about two damaged cups that hadn’t been valuable to anyone except him.

Zeyu had spent more on a single bottle of alcohol than either cup had been worth when it was new. He could’ve purchased an entire warehouse of them without noticing the charge.

And, like him, none of those cups would’ve mattered.

Hanchuan’s blue cup mattered because Zhiyi had placed it beside her green one and accidentally given a lonely man proof that he belonged with someone.

Zeyu wanted something that belonged with Zhiyi. Something that proved he belonged with someone for longer than a single night.

The wanting embarrassed him, although no one was there to see it.

He never struggled to buy gifts for someone who caught his attention. Jewelry, cars and reservations at places with waiting lists had always created the appropriate amount of gratitude.

Zhiyi would probably examine a diamond, identified several industrial applications and wonder why anyone had attached it to an earring.

So, he needed to give her something she wouldn’t politely store away and forget about.

He didn’t want to be forgotten about.

His attention moved across the components until an idea began taking shape.

A puzzle box would give her thoughts somewhere harmless to go.

It wouldn’t demand an immediate answer or crowd her with questions. She could examine it for as long as she wanted, put it down when she became busy with something else, and return to it when she was ready.

The difference struck harder than it should have.

At the boutique, Zeyu had asked one question after another without allowing her to answer any of them.

He had watched her retreat further inside herself and responded by asking more.

By the time he understood he was hurting her, she could barely breathe, and he had needed Hanchuan to explain how to repair the panic Zeyu had caused.

And still, Zhiyi had trusted him afterward.

Not that he understood why.

She hadn’t forgotten what happened or pretended he hadn’t failed. She had simply refused to treat his worst moment as the only information that mattered.

When she needed a vehicle capable of carrying the six of them through disasters no manufacturer had ever anticipated, she gave the responsibility to him.

When recovering that vehicle became dangerous, she went with him.

She had looked beneath every mask he wore and somehow hadn’t found him lacking.

Zeyu wanted to become the man she believed he was. Unfortunately, she had never provided instructions for that particular conversion.

So, instead, he began building.

The box took shape slowly beneath his hands.

Every section concealed another movement. One solution opened the wrong compartment, while another returned the solver to the beginning unless they noticed a nearly invisible change.

Zeyu resisted the temptation to make any step easier. If anything, he doubled down to make it harder.

After all, Zhiyi would notice everything.

He imagined the concentration tightening her expression as she turned the box beneath the light.

She might forget meals while solving it, which meant Hanchuan would hate the gift within several hours. That thought almost made Zeyu smile.

Almost.

He worked until the finished box fit comfortably between his palms.

It was the most complicated puzzle box he had ever created, but difficulty alone wasn’t enough.

Zhiyi would enjoy solving it once. Afterward, it needed another reason to remain with her.

Zeyu placed an encrypted USB drive inside the deepest compartment. It contained protected copies of the shelter plans, inventories, access procedures and vehicle specifications.

She had the information elsewhere, but Zhiyi never once believed that that it was a good thing, having only one of something. She would be able to breath easier, knowing that the information was safely stored somewhere else.

He studied the remaining space. It was small, too small for most things.

Maybe a pair of diamond earrings? No, Zhiyi would just nod her head and never actually use them.

And Zeyu wanted it to be useful.

A compass. A compass, that he made himself, would fit.

Smiling to himself for the first time since everything went down, he built one inside a dark metal casing that matched the box, then stopped before placing it inside.

Hanchuan had two cups.

Zeyu looked at the remaining materials and made a second compass.

He shaped it to match the first, correcting every difference until the two appeared as though they had always belonged together. Their needles moved at the same time and settled in the same direction.

Zhiyi would receive one, in the puzzle box he had made for her.

Without a word, Zeyu slipped the other into the pocket nearest his heart.

He wouldn’t tell her they were a pair.

She would consider the compass a practical backup hidden inside an unnecessarily complicated puzzle. She would never know that Zeyu carried its twin or that he wanted something of his to belong with something of hers.

The secret made the gift feel safer.

He closed the final compartment and worked backward until every panel locked into place.

The box was difficult enough to occupy her, useful enough for her to keep and small enough to carry through every relocation.

It could remain with her even if he didn’t.

Zeyu rested his hand over the compass inside his pocket.

His family was happier without him. Hanchuan could barely look at him. Jingwei wouldn’t trust him near Zhiyi, and Qinghe would never place her care in his hands.

Zhiyi was the only person who had ever looked beneath everything Zeyu pretended to be and believed there was someone worth trusting underneath.

Now she might die because of it.

The answer seemed obvious once he stopped pretending otherwise.

Everyone he loved would be safer if he wasn’t around.