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On the day the world ended, it didn’t do so with dignity. The internet collapsed first. Influencers screamed into powerless phones, demanding to know who would like and subscribe now. Stock markets followed, tripping over their own algorithms. Governments held emergency meetings that could have been emails—if email still existed. Cities crumbled, alliances broke, and humanity finally admitted it had no idea where it put the instruction manual. When the dust settled, there was silence. No birds. No traffic. No motivational podcasts. And there, in the middle of a scorched plain, stood the only thing that still worked perfectly: an atomic bomb. It hadn’t exploded. It just… waited. Polished. Patient. Slightly smug. “Typical,” the wind whispered, which was impressive because even the wind was barely employed anymore. The bomb hummed softly, as if proud. Everything else—art, love, money, streaming services—had collapsed under complexity. But it? Simple. Elegant. One button. One job. If anyone had been around to see it, they might have laughed. After all, when everything built to last failed, the thing designed to end everything was the most reliable object left on Earth. The bomb continued waiting. Because endings, apparently, have great job security.