The world woke up behind the clock. Somewhere between midnight and dawn, nuclear calm shattered—not with a blast, but with a few words online. No confirmation, no official stamp—just a stark claim, heavy with implication. Within minutes, it spread across screens worldwide, translated, reposted, dissected. By sunrise, humanity was holding its breath.
Phones buzzed nonstop. Newsrooms abandoned routines. Government spokespeople vanished from public view. On trading floors from Tokyo to London, markets convulsed, paused, then froze as humans replaced algorithms incapable of responding to rumor-laden threats. Allies demanded answers. Rivals issued warnings laced with real teeth. Every sentence, every pause, could tip the balance.
By midmorning, panic hardened into something sharper: recognition. Not proof, but plausibility. In a world armed with thousands of nuclear weapons, the line between rumor and reality can vanish faster than verification.
Inside intelligence agencies, analysts worked quietly but urgently. Satellites were scanned, infrared imagery cross-checked, seismic monitors consulted for underground anomalies. Data was incomplete, conflicting, frustrating. Declare it a bluff too soon, and risk appearing reckless. Confirm it too early, and unleash chaos no statement could contain.
Global leaders convened in secure rooms, speechwriters at the ready, crafting words that could soothe populations without showing weakness. Language became strategy. Adjectives debated, verbs weighed—phrasing could escalate or buy time.