In a colossal underground bunker shielded by twenty feet of steel and god knows how much paranoia, the leaders of the remaining nuclear-armed nations sit around a stone round table. It is called The Last Chamber — a relic of the old peace treaties, and yet here it is, housing the very people who are about to break it.
The air is cold, recycled, and oddly still. There are no windows, just fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. The only thing moving is the constant twitching of egos in human form.
At the twelve seats, twelve world leaders sit — all dressed in their own cultural authority: robes, uniforms, suits, and cloaks. And their translators, their assistants, and their silent personal guards stand between them, lining the walls like statues with nerves of wire.
In the center of the table, projected from the ceiling, floats a holographic Earth — spinning slowly and glowing in faint blue, but it is covered in heat maps with red, orange, yellow, glowing with unrest.
The first to speak is President Silva of the Eastern Alliance, a woman with steel-grey hair and sharper eyes. "We have water riots in twenty-seven provinces and now three more just remain today. My citizens are drinking mercury to stay hydrated, and meanwhile, the Western Compact continues to redirect glacial flow into artificial reservoirs for private luxury farming. Is this what we call cooperation?" She doesn't raise her voice, but the edge in it is a scalpel.
Across the table, Chancellor Vorin of the Western Compact, a man built like a concrete pillar, leans forward. "You dare blame us for droughts caused by your own deforestation? Your factories burnt half the world's clouds. Now you want to steal the rain we preserved?" His voice echoes in the room like a gavel strike.
Prime Minister Hiroto of the Pacific Union taps the table twice. "Enough, this isn't a courtroom. This is the last attempt at sanity. And now we don't have enough time to decide who's guilty of the last century." He looks exhausted because the weight of diplomacy is too much and too little change can crush his shoulders.
General Mahmoud, the leader of the Unified South Territories, raises a finger — just one. "With respect, sanity is dead. It died when your countries launched hypersonic missiles near our fishing zones and you called it 'testing.' My people don't eat sonar tests. We eat fish. Or I say we used to."
"You fired first," Minister Rain of the Neo-American States shoots back, brushing her sleek black bob behind her ear. "You sent unmarked drones over our skies. Because of that, my three hundred civilians died when you tested those godforsaken kinetic rods. Or have we forgotten already?"
Mahmoud's hand clenches. "That is collateral damage. We were testing our defense. But you called it aggression because you only recognize violence when it doesn't belong to you."
A laughter, dark and clipped, echoes from the north side.
Tsar Alexei, the Sovereign of the Glacial Federation, swirls a glass of cold vodka and smiles without humor. "This is adorable. You children bicker like spoiled siblings while the real monster chews our borders. Famine is walking on feet of fire. And the sun is cracking our soils, but you want to talk missiles? I want to talk about bread."
Silence spreads in the whole room. Then, President Ziya of the African Ecological Pact stands up slowly. "Bread? Our people boil roots to pretend they're soup. Our children dig the dirt, not to plant, but to hide from raids. And yet, every month, one of you comes with offers — not food, but weapons. Not for help, but for alliances, like hyenas dressed as doctors."
Hiroto lowers his eyes. "Because we all know," he says, "that alliances are what this table is really for."
They all know that they don't come here to save the world. They come here to see who'd still be standing after it burns. The conversation twists and tightens. Soon all voices overlap.
"You lied about satellite intel—"
"—you breached the treaty first—"
"Your nukes are mobile, admit it—" "Don't you lecture me, war criminal—" "Sit down, clown!"
"Don't call me—"
"YOU CAUSED THE ICE SHELF COLLAPSE!"
The translators try to keep up, then give up. The guards shift uneasily, now their hands near their weapons. Everyone's eyes flick between their faces.
President Silva slams her palm on the table. The sound is like a thunderclap in a chapel. "ENOUGH."
Silence spreads again.
"Do you smell that?" she whispers.
Everyone looks confused.
"It's desperation. It's on all our breaths. It's in our sweat. And none of us come to talk. We come to decide… if we die tonight or make others die first."
Nobody disagrees. Then Chancellor Vorin leans forward again. "I have twenty-four ICBMs in orbit right now. They can hit targets before your bunkers finish closing. Do you want to know where they're pointed?"
Mahmoud smiles darkly. "Tell us, so I know where not to aim."
Ziya shakes her head. "You people never wanted peace. You are just better terms for war."
And then the phrase comes — just a single whisper from Tsar Alexei.
"Let's end it. Before the sky does it for us."
The room pauses. Earth is still spinning in the center of the table.
One by one — not like in movies, not with dramatic music — each leader reaches under their side of the table.
There are switches, locks, keys, authentication sequences, and fingerprint pads.
No one stops them. They all turn to their guards.
"Kill them," President Silva says, pointing to the other leaders.
"Now," says Hiroto.
"All of them," says Ziya.
"Don't miss," whispers Rain.
And then bullets start flowing. The first shot comes from Alexei's guard — a platinum-armored giant of a man. He fires across the table. Silva's translator drops before finishing her gasp.
Rain dives sideways, and her bodyguard pulls her down as glass shatters behind her.
Hiroto's guards flip the table — not metaphorically, literally — and use it as cover. Two of them return fire from behind it like it is a battlefield trench.
Juno's bullets ricochet, sending sparks flying, and screams fill the air as coats are torn apart.
Alexei ducks under the table, and his chair explodes behind him.
Vorin is oddly calm, stands amidst it all, and shouts: "This is the future you all bought!" Then his guard takes a bullet to the throat and bleeds silently onto the stone floor.
Mahmoud is fast — his guard uses a flash round, blinding half the room. When the white fades, Mahmoud is already behind a pillar. Then he draws a pistol, but his hands don't shake.
Ziya kneels beside her dying assistant. Her eyes are dead calm. She doesn't blink even when bullets whizz past her ear.
Then all the guards fall. There are only screams and gunshots. This is not a war. This is a purge.
Within five minutes, the Last Chamber is burning. All electronics are fried. Blood is all over the table. Leaders breathe hard — some are wounded, and some are missing.
Those who survive each reach for their final button — the Master Key attached to their wrists, coded to their nation's launch systems. And they press it. One by one, twelve commands, twelve nations, twelve lights blink on. And high above the Earth, inside silent hangars buried in rock, water, and code — the silos open.
The sky screams with white trails of death carved across the blue canvas. Nuclear warheads, ICBMs, orbital rods, autonomous bombers, hypersonic drones. They launch all of them. Each one goes toward someone else's countries. Each is a message, as if a dying world is writing to itself.
In the Last Chamber, only a few are still breathing. Rain whispers a prayer in a language no one has spoken in decades. Silva's eyes are wide, as if still unsure she has done it. Mahmoud is laughing.
"Finally," he says. "No more waiting." Then he coughs blood and leans back.
Far above, satellites turn red. Nations blink out of protocol. Cities glow on radar like soon-to-be ghosts. And Earth begins its countdown.
To be continued…