Chương 1: [A tear in reality]

"I'm telling you, man. Counterspells are for losers," Leo said, leaning back until the wooden chair he sat in groaned.

"Big creatures smashing into each other, that's what it's all about. You just like making people suffer, you fucking sadist." Phil grinned.

"Sorry mate, don't speak loser. Go cry into your catgirl body pillow." Leo groaned. It didn't matter that he'd never owned one; the catgirl comeback was a favorite of Phil's. Sam laughed, likely already planning another deck full of Leo's pet hates.

"At least you lot draw lands," Luka added, staring into his empty pint.

"Mine abandon me the second I shuffle."

"Can we shut up about Magic the fucking gathering, please?" Parmo pushed his chair back.

"I'd rather listen to Leo go on about catgirls than this shit. Anyone want a drink?"

"Yeah, I'll join you," Phil said. He stood, favoring the leg scarred from his motorbike crash, and began the awkward shuffle out of the corner. He nearly caught Luka in the face with his arse on the way past, the size of it being a running joke in the group for years.

"Jesus, Phil! Get that thing outta my face!" Luka bellowed, winding up a slap that Phil barely dodged. Phil grinned as he headed for the door. With Luka's height, Phil knew he wasn't making a connection.

"Nice try Frodo." He grinned and walked away. Leo watched them go, squinting against the glare. The sun was out in Monkhaven. One of the rare times the locals saw good weather for longer than an hour, which meant the King John's beer garden was now packed. He shifted in his seat, his hoodie already damp against his back. He knew he should take it off, but he couldn't face sitting there in just a T-shirt. Better to stew in it than face the judgmental looks he assumed he'd get for being fat, pale and blotchy.

Inside, the King John's was rammed. The air was thick with the smell of stale lager and the deep-fryer. Parmo leaned over the sticky wood of the bar, all angles and elbows. He pushed his glasses back up his nose, a nose they'd ribbed him about since they'd met him, and waited for the barman.

"Pint of John Smiths and a Moretti," Parmo said, his breath hitching into a faint wheeze.

"Don't forget Sam's cider," Phil added, shifting his weight onto his good leg.

"And Luka's weird veggie lager. Tastes like damp Weetabix."

"And a Carling for Leo," Parmo muttered.

"Christ, I should've brought a clipboard. It's like feeding the bloody five thousand in here." Phil grinned.

"It's five drinks, mate. You getting forgetful in your old age?"

"Piss off. I'm only five years older than you," Parmo shot back, half-laughing. As the bartender got to work, Phil leaned back against the bar and looked up at the telly. Usually, it was Sky Sports with the sound off. Now, the picture was wobbling, the digital signal tearing into jagged blocks of color.

"Telly's fucked," Phil muttered. A lad a few stools down was stabbing at his phone screen.

"You lot got signal?" he asked, scowling.

"Mine says full bars but nothing's loading. No Wi-Fi either." Phil pulled his own phone out. Full 5G. He tried opening Youtube and was greeted with a spinning circle. He toggled flight mode on and off. Still nothing.

"Dead," Phil said, showing the blank screen to Parmo. Parmo rolled his eyes.

"Typical. How am I supposed to check Caedrel's stream with no signal? Some bellend's probably clipped a fiber line." The bartender slid the drinks over. They grabbed the pints, condensation already slicking their hands, and turned to head back out. Behind them, the fruit machines cut their music for a second before starting up again. Neither of them gave it a second thought. They pushed the door open, stepping back out into the heat.

Phil nudged the beer garden door open with his shoulder and stepped out, squinting.

"Jesus. It's bright. What a time to forget my aviators." The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

"What is it with you and those sunglasses? They're all the same, man. It'll be pissing it down in five minutes anyway," Parmo grumbled, sliding the drinks onto the warped wooden table. Luka was halfway through a story, gesturing with his empty glass.

"—so he's ordered the flowers to his own house, right? With the other lass's name on the card. His missus opens them and kicks off. The dude tells her he didn't even buy any flowers. His name was on the card as well..."

"What a fucking idiot," Sam laughed, reaching for his cider.

"Leo, what are the coolest sunglasses a man can buy?" Phil asked, dropping into his seat.

"Aviators, obviously," Leo said, mock-serious.

"Only cool kids wear them. Everyone knows this." Parmo rolled his eyes.

"Cheers, lads." Sam lifted his glass, and the others followed suit.

"I was going to send a picture of the drinks to Tony and Chris," Sam said, glancing at his dead phone.

"My phone's not having it, though."

"Yeah, same thing for me. Shame, that," Phil added.

"They need to know what they're missing by spending time with their families instead of heeding the Fellowship's call."

"Where were Anth and Carl when the Westfold fell?" Luka joked.

"The beacons are lit! King John's calls for aid!" Parmo bellowed.

"Anth would've just taken the piss anyway," Phil laughed.

"Prick drinks Corona. Thinks he's Vin Diesel." The laughter died down, leaving a sudden, heavy quiet. The yapping dog had gone quiet. No music, no traffic from the street nearby; just a sudden quiet.

"My ears just popped," Luka said, rubbing the side of his head.

"Anyone else?"

"Yeah," Leo muttered.

"Weird. Why's it so quiet all of a sudden?" He looked over at Phil. Phil hadn't answered. His phone had slipped from his hand, clattering onto the concrete unnoticed. He was staring straight up, his mouth slightly open. Leo followed his gaze. Above the jagged roofline of the High Street, the sky looked wrong. It wasn't a cloud or a trick of the light; it looked like the blue had been snagged and pulled apart, leaving a thin, jagged slit of absolute black.

As they watched, the slit forced itself open, widening into a massive, perfect circle of nothingness. It sat directly over their heads, a void so large it seemed to swallow the entire town centre. Beyond the edges of the circle, the sky was still a normal, mocking blue, but the hole itself was a dead weight hanging over the rooftops. Then the sky went white. It was as if the entire world had been deleted and replaced with a searing, featureless glare.

For one long, silent second, Leo couldn't see the table, his mates, or even his own hands. Then everything blinked back. The sun was out. The sky was a perfect, unbroken blue. The black tear was gone. The garden stayed silent. No one moved. Parmo swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet.

"... What the fuck was that?" Inside the pub, a glass smashed. The sharp, bright sound rang out, but nobody moved to help. No one even swore. Sam slowly stood, his eyes fixed on the empty blue sky.

"That wasn't right. That wasn't weird weather or anything. Fuck knows what it was..." The pub doors swung open and a handful of people spilled out into the garden, blinking and agitated. A bloke in a football shirt held his phone up like a compass.

"Anyone else's signal just conk out?" he demanded, looking around.

"Telly's gone, Wi-Fi's gone. Power's tripped in there. Everything's dead."

"Forget the phones, mate," someone from a corner table muttered, not taking his eyes off the clouds. The bloke in the football shirt scoffed.

"Forget them? I'm mid-bet, aren't I? What was that flash? Transformer blow up or something?"

"Fuck knows. The flash was weird, but the sky before that was worse," Phil said, his voice flat. The bloke looked up, then back at Phil, letting out a sharp, nervous laugh.

"What? It's blue. Sun's out. You taking the piss? I think you've had a few too many, man." He looked around for a supporting laugh, but the garden was a graveyard. Everyone was stone-faced, shoulders hunched. The silence from the street was starting to feel heavy, like a physical weight.

"You are kidding, right?" the bloke asked, his grin faltering.

"He's not," Leo said, his voice quiet.

"There was a hole. A massive fucking black hole, right over the High Street. It looked like something from a sci-fi movie."

"A hole?" The bloke looked up again, squinting at the empty blue.

"There's nothing there. It's just the sky."

"It was there a second ago," Luka snapped, his hand still trembling as he rubbed his ear.

"Right before the flash. It was like the whole town was being swallowed." The bloke opened his mouth to make another crack, but then he noticed the car park. The man in the silver Focus was standing by his open bonnet, staring at an engine that wouldn't even spark. On the High Street, a bus had come to a dead halt in the middle of the junction. No hazards, no engine hum. Just a dead hunk of metal. People all around looked like they had just seen a ghost. The bloke's face went pale.

The "drunk" joke died in his throat. Leo stood and walked to the edge of the garden. A street lamp flickered once, a dull orange glow in the daylight, then died with a dry ping.

"Lads," Leo said.

"Look." Out on the High Street, the town had come to a standstill. People were spilling out of the shops and the betting office, standing on the pavement in ones and twos. Most were just staring at their phones, thumbing the screens with a frantic, confused energy. Someone across the road shouted, "Oi! Your lights gone as well?" but no one really answered. They just looked at him and then back at their dead devices.

Near the junction, another car alarm trilled—a sharp, piercing wail that cut off mid-note, leaving the street even quieter than before. Phil joined him at the fence, leaning his weight off his bad leg. He looked down the road toward the junction, where the traffic was already beginning to pile up behind the dead bus. Drivers were getting out of their cars, looking at their bonnets, then looking at each other.

"Wanna go see what's happening?" Phil asked. Luka didn't move from the table. He was still holding his pint, his knuckles white.

"Why do I feel like we'll wish we hadn't?" he muttered.