Surviving World's End

the talking coin

The alarm never rang.It hadn't in three years.

Still, at exactly 5:17 a.m., his eyes opened to the dim gray light leaking through the thin curtains. No panic. No confusion. Just awareness—sharp and immediate, like a blade drawn from its sheath.

For a few silent seconds, Matk lay still on the narrow apartment bed, staring at the cracked ceiling above him. The old fan rotated lazily, clicking once every turn. Click. Click. Click.

His hand had already moved beneath the pillow before his mind fully caught up.

Empty.

Right.

No gun anymore.

The realization came every morning like an old habit refusing to die.

Outside, rainwater dripped from rusted balconies onto the alley below. Somewhere nearby, a tea vendor pushed open his cart with a metallic screech. A motorcycle coughed to life. Ordinary sounds. Civilian sounds.

Mark sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over the scar crossing on his chest. The room smelled faintly of detergent and cigarette smoke from the neighbor downstairs. On the chair beside the bed rested neatly folded clothes: black shirt, faded jeans, worn boots lined perfectly against the wall.Everything organized.Everything controlled.Because chaos was expensive.

He stood barefoot on the cold floor and crossed the apartment in silence, stepping around creaking boards instinctively. Years after retirement, he still moved like someone avoiding sniper sightlines. The habit embarrassed him sometimes.

The bathroom mirror greeted him with the face of a man older than twenty-three. Sharp jaw. Tired eyes. 

Too young to be retired.Too old to feel young.

Cold water splashed against his face. He watched droplets run down the sink stained with rust while the city slowly awakened outside.

Then came the sound.Footsteps in the hallway.Mark froze instantly.

One breath and then two . He calculated silently in his mind

Measured weight. Adult male. Slower right step. Carrying something heavy? No—just tired.

The footsteps passed his door and continued upstairs.

Only then did his shoulders loosen.He hated that part most.

Not the killing. Not the nightmares. Not even the scars.

The waiting.The constant instinct that someone, somewhere, had finally come to settle an old debt.

The kettle whistled softly in the kitchen. Mark poured himself cheap instant coffee and stood by the rain-speckled window overlooking the narrow street below.

Schoolchildren splashed through puddles.

Office workers hurried beneath umbrellas.

A stray dog slept beneath a flickering shop sign.

Normal life.

The kind he once thought he was protecting.

The kind he no longer knew how to live in.

Then a voice suddenly spoke from the table.

"I swear, you're the most paranoid human I've ever seen. It's been three years, and you still act like this every single morning. I already told you—if anything dangerous shows up, I'll inform you immediately."

Mark let out a tired sigh.

"It's an old habit. If you'd been through what I have, you'd understand." He took a sip of coffee before muttering, "Though I don't know why I'm explaining myself to a talking coin."

Oddly enough, the thing speaking to him was exactly that.A coin.

An ancient-looking bronze coin rested atop the wooden table, its surface darkened with age and corrosion. Despite looking fragile, it was absurdly durable. Over the past three years, Mark had tried everything he could think of to destroy it.

Blades, Fire ,Acid .

Even explosives.

Nothing worked.

Forget damaging it—he hadn't managed to leave behind a single scratch.

As if offended by his words, the coin suddenly jumped off the table and landed on the bed.

Yes ,Jumped. On its own. This was not Mark's paronia , it really was a talking coin which could move on its own .

Three years ago, when Mark first obtained the coin, he had assumed he was hallucinating. Maybe the accident on the mountain had damaged his brain. Maybe the years of kidnappings, training, bloodshed, and survival had finally pushed him past the edge of sanity.

But after three years of enduring the coin's nonstop chatter, Mark had come to a terrifying conclusion.

He wasn't insane.The world itself was far stranger than he had ever imagined.

The coin puffed up arrogantly—somehow managing to look offended despite lacking a face.

"Lad, how many times must I correct you? I am not some 'talking coin.' I am the Great Lord Zenith! A supreme existence whose age surpasses your imagination! Compared to me, you are less than dust beneath the feet of ants!"

The coin bounced proudly across the mattress as it continued ranting.

"You should feel honored—grateful, even—that this great lord is willing to reside inside your miserable little apartment!"

Veins bulged along Mark's forehead.

Three years later, the damn thing was still unbearable.

Knowing the coin wouldn't stop anytime soon, Mark grabbed the neatly folded clothes from the chair and walked into the bathroom.

Then he shut the door with deliberate force.

****************************

Humble request to the readers from the author please leave a review behind and do show support if you like the story