Day by day, the world kept pretending it was alive. Joseph sold what remained of his family’s legacy — his parents’ old house in the suburbs, his father’s watch, the small farmland that had never grown anything but weeds. Every signature he wrote was a farewell to the living world, another brick torn from the walls that held the dead apart from the living.  

Every dollar he gained became paper gold. Every paper gold became flame.  

He burned them all: neat stacks of Mingbi, folded and marked with his own name, each one whispering upward into the smoke. The neighbors thought he was losing his mind. Maybe he was. But madness and faith often spoke the same language.  

Time slipped like ash through his fingers. Twenty days became ten. Then five. Then one.  

The last night before the end, Joseph checked into the Grand Solace Hotel — the most expensive building still standing, glittering with chandeliers and the scent of synthetic perfume. He ordered the finest meal, poured expensive wine, and stared at his reflection in the mirror.  

There was no fear. Only certainty.  

He had nothing left but Mingbi and the memory of fire.  

When the world ended last time, he remembered the chaos: the small ghosts appearing first, feeding on chance and curiosity. They killed by **Rules**, strange laws written into their existence.  

- Say “hello” to the wrong person, and your throat would open like a second mouth.  

- Refuse to pay a delivery man who asked for ghost money, and he’d collect your heart instead.  

- Look too long at your reflection after midnight, and the thing inside the mirror would charge you interest.  

Joseph poured another glass of wine and watched the city lights below. He had learned not to speak, not to answer doors, not to look back. This time, he would wait the storm out.  

The clock struck eleven fifty-nine.  

Outside, the air trembled. The lights across the skyline flickered — one by one, like candles blown out by invisible breath.  

He rose from the couch and stood before the floor-to-ceiling window. The city looked almost peaceful, frozen under the weight of its final second.  

He whispered to the glass, “Here we go again.”  

**5.**  

The first car alarm screamed.  

**4.**  

The clouds split open, bleeding violet light.  

**3.**  

A low hum rose from beneath the earth — not mechanical, but alive.  

**2.**  

The scent of burning filled the air, though nothing yet burned.  

**1.**  

The world exhaled.  

And then the dead returned.  

Across the street, the jewelry boutique began to twist — glass turning to bone, metal softening like wax. Shadows crawled across its sign, reshaping the letters into something written in ash.  

Joseph smiled faintly, the glow of the apocalypse reflecting in his eyes.  

“This time,” he whispered, “I’m ready to collect.”