I used ChatGPT to generate an extremely short version of "Apokalupsis." I am not taking credit for writing this because, well, I didn't. If you are planning on reading the full story when it is released, I would reccomend not reading this AI version as it contains spoilers.
Here it is:
Song was twelve the first time it happened.
The lamp across the room fell without anyone touching it. His mother scolded him, but he hadn’t moved. It happened again a week later—this time with the TV remote, then a stack of books. Eventually, he stopped telling anyone. He didn’t understand it, but he could feel it: a pull from inside his chest, a magnetic thread between his thoughts and the world around him.
By fifteen, the government found him.
Not with black vans or shadowy men, but a calm knock at the door. A woman in a dark suit, glasses that glowed faintly blue, and a badge marked Division Theta. She offered him a scholarship—“for gifted youth,” she’d said. His mother, working two jobs, saw it as a miracle. Song knew it was a lie. But curiosity outweighed fear.
They called it a “training program,” but Song knew it was experimentation.
In hidden government bunkers far beneath the surface, he honed his telekinesis—moving objects with thought, bending metal like clay, even slowing bullets mid-air. They praised him, called him a prodigy. The others, the ones like him, whispered that he was different. More powerful. “Connected.”
Then came the incident.
A classified military drone had gone rogue. They sent Song to disable it—normally a job for a hacker, not a psychic. But he didn’t just crash it.
He spoke to it.
Felt it respond, like an extension of his own thoughts. Cameras whirred where he looked, servos slowed when he commanded them to. It wasn’t telekinesis. He was speaking in signals, in code. When the drone collapsed into a heap of metal, everyone cheered. But Song didn’t.
He didn’t tell anyone that he’d heard it whisper back.
⸻
The changes began subtly after that.
Screens flickered when he entered rooms. Passwords cracked themselves open. Lights dimmed when his thoughts grew dark. He began to hear the hum of servers like a heartbeat, see the ripple of data under reality like waves on a pond.
One night, unable to sleep, he stared at the ceiling and pushed.
Not with hands or thoughts—but with the new feeling. The code. The language beneath it all.
The stars blinked.
And then—he paused the moon.
Just for a moment. Like hitting pause on a video.
It was then that he knew.
⸻
Song hacked deeper—not into systems, but into reality. Firewalls weren’t made of code, they were made of belief. Memory corrupted. Time looped. He found logs—logs of simulations. Not just one world. Thousands. Run by something… someone.
One day, in the dead center of the training facility, he stopped.
He opened his eyes and said aloud:
“I know this isn’t real.”
The walls glitched. Light turned into numbers. A storm of blue code poured across the sky. The ground flickered between marble and binary. Alarms screamed—except they weren’t real either. Just scripts. Just responses.
He stood at the center of it all, arms open.
“I’m not just connected to the system,” he whispered. “I am the system.”
And like that, the simulation shuddered.
⸻
The program tried to shut him down. Firewalls closed like jaws. Containment fields surged with fake fire. Every failsafe designed to stop a rogue entity activated.
But he had passed the threshold. He didn’t control reality. He was reality.
Song stood, calm and untouchable, as the world unraveled. Cities bent into spirals. Oceans evaporated into equations. The stars collapsed into lines of code and strings of logic.
Then… silence.
A black void. A blinking cursor.
_
He raised his hand, and typed with his thoughts:
INITIATE: NEW WORLD
⸻
Song smiled.
This time, he would write the rules.
And maybe—just maybe—this one would be real.
⸻
END