Lauren: What Do You Mean, It's a Glitch?

"—and we're back with more breaking news on the mysterious countdown that's taken over smartphones worldwide. If you're just tuning in, millions of people woke up this morning to find their phones displaying a countdown timer labeled 'World's End.' Phone manufacturers are scrambling to—"

Pressing a button, I search for another station. Looking for anyone with the real answers.

No such luck.

"—conspiracy theorists are having a field day with this one, folks. Some are claiming it's a government plot to—"

Click.

"—Anonymous strikes again? The hacker group has yet to claim responsibility, but many experts believe—"

Every station, the same story. The same confusion. The same wild speculation.

A horn blares behind me. I jolt, realizing I've been crawling along at a snail's pace. The light ahead is green. Pressing the gas, I try to focus on the road, but my mind keeps drifting back to that countdown.

Two days, twenty-three hours, fifty-nine minutes, and fifty-three seconds. That's what it said when I first saw it. Now, glancing at the clock on my dashboard, I realize over two hours have passed.

At first, I thought it was just my phone. When I realized it was a bigger problem, I was relieved—until I realized no one had answers.

What happens when the timer reaches zero?

"Get it together, Lauren," I mutter, shaking my head. "It's just some stupid prank."

But if that's true, why can't I shake this feeling of dread?

I flip through a few more stations, hoping for a distraction.

"—leading theory is that it's an elaborate marketing stunt. Remember the 'Cloverfield' viral campaign? This could be something similar—"

"Right," I scoff. "Because nothing says 'buy our product' like convincing the world it's about to end."

The radio host drones on, listing other possibilities. A glitch in the system. A coordinated hack. A government test gone wrong.

None of it makes sense. How could something like this affect so many devices simultaneously? And why?

Traffic slows to a crawl as I approach downtown. Normally, I'd be frustrated by the delay. Passing by a shopping center, I'm shocked by the amount of cars in the parking lot when the sun's barely risen.

When I squint hard at the people wheeling their carts to their cars, I'm surprised to see what looks like bottles of water and toilet paper.

"—reports of mass hysteria in some areas. People are flooding grocery stores, stocking up on supplies. Authorities are urging calm—"

Ah, that makes sense.

I switch off the radio, unable to listen anymore. The silence that follows is almost worse. It leaves too much room for my thoughts to wander.

What if it's real? What if the world really is ending?

No. That's ridiculous. It can't be real. It's just a prank, a hoax, a...

My eyes drift to a billboard looming over the highway. 'REPENT,' it screams in bold red letters. 'THE END IS NEAR.'

A chill runs down my spine. How long has that been there? I drive this route every day, but I've never noticed it before.

Or maybe I have, and just never paid attention. It's amazing what your brain filters out when you're not looking for it.

The car in front of me inches forward. I follow suit, my mind racing. If this is real—and that's a big if—what would I do? What would I change?

Leave my job? Tell my family exactly what I think of them? Find Brian?

The thought of my twin brother sends a pang through my chest. It's been years since I've seen him, heard his voice. Does he know about the countdown? Is he worried? Is he safe?

My phone buzzes. With a sigh, I fish it out of my purse at the next red light.

The countdown stares back at me, a stark reminder of... whatever this is.

[World's End: 02:21:45:17]

* * *

"What do you mean, half the night shift called out?"

I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing away the headache already forming behind my eyes. The phone crackles with static, and I strain to hear the night manager's frantic explanation.

"I don't care if it's the apocalypse. We have a business to run."

Hanging up, I slump in my chair. The countdown on my phone blinks mockingly as I check it for the millionth time today.

[World's End: 02:17:32:41]

Of course. Cell phones still down.

Pushing that thought away, I stretch out my arms with a groan before sitting up straight once again. My fingers fly across the keyboard, drafting an emergency email. The words flow easily, born from years of practice:

[Attention all staff,

Due to recent events, we are implementing a strict attendance policy for the next 72 hours. Any unapproved absences will be treated as no-call, no-shows. This may result in disciplinary action up to and including termination.

We understand these are unusual circumstances, but our customers rely on us. Your dedication is appreciated.

Sincerely,

Lauren Whittaker

Executive Assistant]

I hit send just as a bellow erupts from my father's office.

"What do you mean, it's a glitch?"

Dad's voice carries through the walls, making me wince. I hurry to his door, knocking softly before entering.

He's red-faced, his desk phone clutched in a white-knuckled grip. "I don't care if it isn't something you can deal with. Figure it out! That's what I'm paying you for! Cell phones are computers, too!"

The phone slams down, and he turns his glare on me. "What?"

"I've sent out a strict attendance policy to discourage more call-outs." I keep my voice steady and professional in the face of his irate mood. "Is there anything else you need?"

His scowl softens slightly. "Good. At least someone around here is competent."

The praise, meager as it is, warms me. I straighten my shoulders. "I've also contacted our suppliers. They've assured me our deliveries will continue as scheduled."

Dad nods, already distracted. "Fine, fine. Just keep things running smoothly."

I retreat, closing the door softly behind me. Back at my desk, I tackle the mountain of emails that have accumulated in just a few short hours. Everyone wants answers I don't have.

The morning blurs into a series of fires to put out. I juggle supplier concerns, employee questions, and customer inquiries. All while that damn countdown ticks away in the corner of my eye.

By noon, exhaustion settles into my bones. I've barely had time to breathe, let alone eat or drink. Just as I'm considering a quick run to the vending machine, the elevator dings.

Marian glides out, Marissa in tow. My stepmother's smile is razor-sharp, her eyes cold as they sweep over me.

Marian's the picture of elegance in her designer dress and perfectly coiffed hair. Not a single strand is out of place, her makeup flawless despite the chaos gripping the world outside. She looks like she's just stepped out of a photoshoot, not a care in the world.

I can't help but resent her a little. While I've been running myself ragged, fielding calls and putting out fires, she's clearly been enjoying a leisurely morning. Probably getting her nails done or lunching with the other society wives.

"Lauren, darling. You look... tired."

I force a polite smile. "Marian. Marissa. What a surprise."

"We thought we'd treat William to lunch," Marian purrs. "All this doomsday nonsense must be so stressful for him."

Before I can respond, my father's door opens. His face lights up at the sight of his wife and stepdaughter. "There are my girls!"

The warmth in his voice, so alien when directed at me, makes my chest ache. I look down, pretending to shuffle papers.

"Lauren."

I glance up. Dad's gaze is dismissive. "Why don't you take your lunch break? We'll be out for a while."

It's not a suggestion. I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Of course. Enjoy your lunch."

As they sweep past, Marissa's shoulder bumps mine. "Oops," she giggles, not bothering to look back.

The elevator doors close, leaving me alone in the sudden silence. I slump in my chair, allowing myself a moment of weakness.

It shouldn't hurt. Not after all these years. But the casual dismissal, the easy affection he shows them... it cuts deep.

Ugh. This isn't the time for hurt feelings. There's work to be done, a company to run.

My gaze falls on the framed photo on my desk. It's an old picture, taken years ago at a company picnic. William stands proud, his hand on my shoulder. I remember how excited I was that day, how important I felt.

The memory strengthens me. I may not have his love, but I have something far more valuable: his trust. The ability to run his company, to carry on his legacy.

That's something Marian and her children will never have.

As I dive back into work, I allow myself a small, satisfied smile. Let them have their fancy lunch. I'll be here, keeping the wheels turning. Just like always.

The afternoon stretches on, a blur of phone calls and crisis management. I lose track of time, focused solely on keeping the business afloat amidst the growing panic.

When Dad returns, his mood has improved considerably. He even manages a nod in my direction as he passes.

"Good work with that attendance policy," he says gruffly. "Seems to have stemmed the tide of call-outs."

The praise, small as it is, buoys me. "Thank you, sir. I've also drafted a press release addressing customer concerns about our supply chain."

He grunts approvingly. "Send it to me for review."

As he disappears into his office, I allow myself a moment of pride. This is why I'm here, why I endure the long hours and family drama. I'm good at this. Essential.

Dad doesn't show me affection, but he trusts me.

[World's End: 02:15:42:57]