DOOMSDAY SUMMONING
Part One
1
"Matt, what you've written is pure shit."
I stood before the editor-in-chief, shifting uncomfortably. "Um..."
"Um my ass!" The editor-in-chief grabbed my manuscript and hurled it at my face. The trajectory was swift, precise, and elegant—like a textbook free kick. Pages scattered from my face, fluttering to the ground. I spotted a page with the headline I'd agonized over all last night: "The Descent of Icarus."
Icarus-3 had recently entered near-Earth orbit. It had been circling the planet for 48 hours—the largest comet ever observed by humanity, with a diameter exceeding 180 kilometers. It was so bright that you could see its trailing tail with the naked eye, glowing against the dark night sky like an enormous shooting star.
As a news outlet, this was naturally our top headline. But the editor-in-chief didn't like my copy—more precisely, he didn't like me. Someone like him, a credentialed elite who'd graduated from a Project 211 university, considered a vocational school grad like me unqualified to touch literature, let alone write a news article. This wasn't the first time he'd thrown papers at my face, and honestly, if a day went by without it happening a few times, I'd probably feel weird.
Luna said I was developing Stockholm syndrome—she called it masochism. Oh, by the way, Luna was my girlfriend. In this garbage city, she was my only emotional pillar. But lately that pillar was leaning, because I knew she'd been chatting enthusiastically with a college classmate who'd started his own business.
"Do you know what information fragmentation means? Do you know what fast-food culture is? You can't even write a headline that isn't low-brow—how are you going to grab readers' attention?" The editor-in-chief tossed his own Icarus-3 article at me. "Read it a few times and learn something!"
"Ah, You Are the Light, You Are the Electricity, You Are the Only Legend"—now that was a clickbait masterpiece. No wonder he'd gone to a prestigious university. I bobbed my head obediently: "Understood, Editor-in-Chief. I'll study it carefully."
Back at my desk, I was utterly deflated. Five days without a published article—my performance bonus this month would be dead last again. I sighed, then casually posted "The Descent of Icarus" to my personal blog. It joined a graveyard of other pieces the editor-in-chief had killed—silent corpses waiting in the dark.
After work, I dragged my exhausted body back to my rental apartment. This was supposed to be the most relaxing moment of the day, but something felt off. Luna was sitting on the bed, wearing makeup and lipstick, a suitcase at her feet.
A bad premonition crept over me. "Luna, you..."
Without a word, she grabbed a piece of paper and flung it at my face.
It was the second time today I'd been pelted in the face, but I wasn't angry. I picked up the paper—it was a landlord's demand for payment.
"The landlord came by when you weren't home. She pointed at my nose and said if we don't pay rent, we have to get out! Matt, I've had enough of this life. I'm telling you—we're done!" Luna finished speaking and grabbed her suitcase, heading for the door. I grabbed her arm. "Luna, trust me. I'll find a way to pay the rent."
"Find a way? What, are you going to sell a kidney or donate sperm?" Luna sneered, her lipstick even redder. "Other people's startups have raised tens of millions in funding, and look at you—you can't even pay rent. Why should I live like this?"
It felt like a knife twisting in my heart. I released my grip, powerless.
Luna slammed the door and left. A massive void and misery immediately engulfed me, like a hand around my throat, suffocating me. I rummaged through the apartment, found a half-empty bottle of baijiu from the last time friends had come over for dinner, and chugged it all at once. The room spun. I felt slightly better.
2
I was woken by the sound of my phone.
When I pulled myself off the floor, my head throbbed as if someone had whacked me with a cudgel—my temples pounding relentlessly. My phone was buzzing nonstop with notifications. Assuming Luna had texted me, I scrambled to check, only to find that the barrage of notifications was all blog comments. I was puzzled—this blog of mine barely got any traffic. What was going on today?
Ignoring that for now, I stepped out in my slippers to buy some painkillers—my skull felt like it might split open. At two in the morning, the entire street was pitch-black. The only place still open was a small pharmacy called "Zhongmin." I walked in. The pharmacist was staring blankly at the TV, his gaze hollow and vacant—a look I recognized all too well.
"What do you need?" He turned to face me. He was in his forties, with weathered skin and an exhausted expression.
"Painkillers," I said, tapping my head. "Drank too much."
The pharmacist turned to get the medicine. I looked up at the TV idly and saw the news was on. An amateur astronomer was speaking through a telescope, telling the reporter that Icarus-3's orbit appeared abnormal—it should have already been heading into deep space, but the comet was lingering in near-Earth orbit, which was highly unusual.
"Dammit, what a curse," I muttered. I really had no fond feelings for the thing.
The pharmacist set the painkillers on the counter and glanced at the TV too. "You believe in that stuff?"
"I don't believe in it, but it's definitely cursed me. If it weren't for Icarus, I wouldn't have written that 'Descent of Icarus' piece, my performance bonus wouldn't have evaporated, and Luna wouldn't have—" I paid and turned to leave. "Since it showed up, nothing good has come of it."
I was barely out the pharmacy door when I heard footsteps behind me. Before I could turn around, a cloth was pressed over my mouth and nose. The smell was sharp and pungent—ether. I struggled twice, and then everything went black.
When I opened my eyes again, my head hurt even worse—but I no longer had the luxury of worrying about that, because I discovered I was strapped to a chair. My hands and feet were bound, and I couldn't move an inch. The pharmacist sat across from me, still looking exhausted.
I gasped in terror. "Where am I?"
"The storage room behind the pharmacy." The pharmacist checked his watch. "You were only out for five minutes. Not bad—decent constitution."
"What are you doing? Is this a robbery? Or—" I felt a distinct tightening in an unfortunate place.
"Neither. I just need you to wait here for someone."
"Wait for someone? Who?"
"You'll find out."
About five or six minutes later, a young woman appeared and asked immediately: "Where is he?"
The pharmacist pointed at me, tied to the chair.
"You're Matt?"
I scrutinized her. She was in her early twenties, with a ponytail, pretty features, and a lean, wiry build. Before I could answer, she started patting me down, found my wallet, pulled out my ID, and examined it. She nodded to the pharmacist: "That's him."
"What the hell are you people doing? Money or my life?" I yelled.
"The article 'The Descent of Icarus'—you wrote it?" She confronted me.
"Yeah, so what?" I swallowed hard.
"Do you know how many views that article has gotten?"
I scoffed. "I just posted it on my personal blog. Barely anyone reads it."
She pulled out her phone, opened a webpage, and held it in front of me. I stared—and my jaw dropped. A hundred thousand plus.
Am I...am I about to become famous?
"You need to come with me. Right now." Her tone brooked no argument.
"Why?"
"Because of this." She pulled a gun from her jacket and aimed it at me.
"Okay, I'll come." I caved instantly.
She untied my ropes and led me out through the back of the pharmacy. Parked by the curb was a intimidating Yamaha motorcycle. She told me to sit behind her, warning me not to try anything or she'd shoot me.
"Don't worry, I won't move a muscle," I said. "I'm not good for much, but I value my life."
"Put this on." She produced a strip of cloth.
"Why?"
"Stop asking questions. On or else!"
I had no choice. I tied the cloth over my eyes, plunging into total darkness. She patted my hand. "Hold on to my waist."
I understood—she was worried I'd peek—but I was still a bit embarrassed. "Come on, I'm a grown man..."
"Stop talking. Do you want to die?"
I jolted and immediately wrapped my arms around her waist. Damn—slim, supple, felt really nice.
At three or four in the morning, the Yamaha roared like a wild horse through the empty streets, flying at what felt like at least 120 km/h. Though I couldn't see, I could feel the wind slicing across my face like a blade.
Guns and speeding motorcycles—this woman was wild.
3