The radio crackled to life, a raspy old thing, it had seen better days, not unlike the man leaning over it.

hunched over in his worn armchair, fingers stained with nicotine, he tapped a slow rhythm on the armrest.

The faint smell of coffee hung in the air, a relic from his morning ritual.

Outside, the world baked under the heat of an unyielding sun, but he barely noticed. His world, as it had been for years, was tuned to the only working frequency of this battered radio.

“This is the six o’clock news,” the announcer’s voice began; steady, practiced, but with an edge to it that betrayed the calm veneer. “We interrupt our scheduled programming to bring you breaking news of a tragic incident unfolding in the city.”

The man leaned closer, gray eyebrows furrowed.

“Reports are coming in of a catastrophic collision between two subway trains. Early accounts suggest both trains were traveling at full speed when they collided head-on in the heart of the central subway line. The details are still emerging, but witnesses describe a deafening explosion, followed by darkness and chaos.”

Static buzzed briefly, filling the room with an oppressive silence before the announcer continued.

There was a pause, the awkward kind that comes when someone is handed a microphone before they’re ready. Then, a younger voice broke through, raw and immediate, with the crackle of police radios and the murmur of a crowd in the background.

“Yes, thank you, Diane. I’m here just outside the perimeter that rescue crews have established around the scene. From where I’m standing, I can see dozens—no, hundreds—of emergency responders. Fire trucks, ambulances, police units—they’re all here, working tirelessly to sift through the wreckage.”

“I’m told the crash occurred at one of the deepest sections of the line, making access extremely difficult. Rescue crews are descending into the tunnel as we speak, but I must stress that the conditions are hazardous. We’re hearing reports of mangled steel, flooding, and unstable ground complicating the efforts.”

The reporter’s voice faltered, the sheer overwhelm breaking through the professional tone. “As of now, at least,” he continued, a somber weight settling over his words, “I regret to report that it appears as if there are no survivors.”

The old man exhaled, a soundless, measured release, as though the news had stolen something from him he hadn’t been ready to part with. He reached for his coffee cup, only to find it empty.

The break room was alive with the hum of conversation and laughter, punctuated ONLY by the occasional click of a camera. Ryan stood at the center, a paper plate in one hand and a knife in the other, slicing through frosted cake. The frosting was pale gray, almost silver.

“Speech! Speech!” someone called out, and the crowd of coworkers chimed in, their voices a chaotic rally.

Ryan smiled—a practiced, faintly tired gesture that he’d perfected over decades of practice—and set the knife down. He held up his hands to quiet the room.

“All right, all right,” he said. His voice was steady, calm. “What can I say? It’s been… an interesting journey.” There were a few chuckles, and Ryan’s smile widened just enough to seem genuine.

“I’ve had the privilege of working with some of the most dedicated, hard-working souls in the business. The kind of folks who don’t draw a line at long hours, tough assignments, or the occasional existential crisis.”

That got a louder laugh, though Ryan noticed a few nervous glances exchanged in the crowd. He pressed on.

“This isn’t the kind of job you can do half-assed. You have to be all in. Every assignment, every name, every file—THEY. ALL. MATTER. And I’d like to think I’ve done my part to keep things moving smoothly.”

More laughter, scattered applause. Someone raised a cup of what passed for champagne in this office—a dark, inky liquid that shimmered unnaturally in the light—and shouted, “To Ryan.”

Ryan finished off his slice and that was that. Now there was just his final task: clearing out his locker and his office.

He pulled down a small Polaroid of himself and two others—Eddie and Susan, both long gone now.

The three of them had been inseparable in the early days, back when assignments were scrawled in ledgers instead of uploaded to sleek black tablets.

Ryan collected his things, revealing a collection that would have raised eyebrows in most circles: scythes of various sizes, from ornate to sleek, modern designs; black leather-bound books with no visible titles. A small hourglass filled with sand so black it seemed to drink the light, and a Glock, ‘cause the world is fucking insane.

It occurred to him that he wasn’t even sure he was doing the right thing, but he was certain that he would not watch one more addition to the adverse events counter.

And just like that, 185 years were packed away and ready for a change of address. His jaw hurt with all of the niceties, and while it was easy to hate the system, he was long past such emotions.

Ryan took a final look at the empty office. It was time to go. Just one more thing to do. He accessed the employee wifi for the last time. He typed in his password—“iamastowaway”...

The virus would propagate quietly in the background, with the intent of corrupting centuries of data logs and allowing Ryan remote access.

He wasn’t sure what consequences awaited should he be caught.

He sent an email to HR—goodbye. thanks for all the 360 assessments, then signed off. And just like that, he had started the calamity.

He was under no illusion that he would not be found out, he just needed time to complete the plan. Beyond that? Who knew.

“Big day?” the driver asked, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.

“You could say that.”

Ryan glanced at the phone resting on his knee. The trigger app was there, a single button waiting to be pressed. He felt a spike of anxiety wanting to simultaneously stop everything and press the button right fucking now.

Instead, he stared out the window at his new life, his bag of old tools at his feet.