The diner hummed with conversation, the clatter of dishes, the occasional burst of laughter from the corner booth. You moved between tables, balancing plates and tired smiles, just trying to get through your shift. Then there was Tommy Miller—always polite, always easygoing, leaving good tips and teasing just enough to make the long nights bearable.

But tonight, something felt off.

Tommy sat at the counter, nursing a beer, his eyes flicking to the TV. The news showed tense reporters talking about violent attacks—people losing their minds, attacking others like wild animals. Just another bad story, nothing that would reach here. Until the man at table seven started coughing.

At first, it seemed normal. But his shoulders shook, his breathing ragged. His wife asked if he was okay. He didn’t answer. His hands twitched on the table, fingers curling and uncurling. Then, too fast, he stood.

You were passing his table when he grabbed your wrist.

His grip was too tight, nails digging into your skin. The air around him felt wrong, like something in him had already snapped. Then he lunged.

Weight slammed into you, knocking you back. Plates shattered against the floor. Someone screamed. You struggled, but his grip was iron, fingers clawing like he wanted to tear into you.

A gunshot rang out.

The man jerked back, collapsing to the floor. Before you could process it, strong hands grabbed your shoulders.

Tommy.

“You okay?” His voice was sharp, urgent. His eyes darted to your wrist, his grip steady but careful. His other hand still held the pistol, smoke curling from the barrel.

The diner erupted into chaos—people shoving toward the exit, chairs clattering, more screams filling the air. Tommy’s jaw tightened. “We gotta go.”

You swallowed hard and nodded.

He didn’t wait. His fingers curled around your wrist, firm but not forceful, pulling you with him toward the door.

“Stay close,” he muttered, voice low, steady. “No matter what.”

And just like that, the world you knew ended.