.

  .

  .

  The colossal blue window blinked out of existence.

  Not faded. Not dissolved. Just gone, like a cosmic CRT monitor switching off. Kevin blinked, the afterimage searing onto his retinas. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, reflecting dully off the beige partition of his cubicle. The scent of slightly burnt coffee and industrial carpet cleaner filled the air – aggressively, depressingly normal.

  Except.

  Except for the faint, persistent overlay now hovering in the bottom left corner of his vision. It looked like something ripped straight from a badly designed MMO UI, all sharp angles and glowing blue text.

  Kevin squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. Still there. He swatted at the air in front of his face, feeling ridiculous. Nothing. It wasn't there, it was... in here. Behind his eyes. Projected onto his brain by... by what? The Galactic Consortium's Preservation Directorate? Observer Unit 7? Brainrot Apocalypse System?? He felt a surge of bile rise in his throat. Brainrot. They'd actually called it that.

  "Did... did anyone else see that?" Brenda from Accounting squeaked from the next cubicle over. Her voice was thin, reedy with panic.

  "See what? The psychotic blue warning screen threatening planetary recycling?" Dave from Marketing deadpanned, though his voice trembled slightly. "Yeah, Brenda. Pretty sure that was a company-wide memo from the new alien overlords."

  Kevin risked peering over the partition. Dave was pale, gripping his ergonomic mouse like a lifeline. Brenda looked seconds away from hyperventilating into her discarded lunch salad. Across the bullpen, Gary from IT was methodically unplugging his monitor, plugging it back in, then staring at his own hands with profound confusion. Chaos hadn't fully erupted yet. It was the pregnant pause after the bomb drops but before the shrapnel hits.

  This is insane, Kevin thought, rubbing his temples. This is some kind of mass hallucination. A hack. A prank. A…

  Kevin froze. The system message scrolled beneath his UI. It could read his thoughts? Okay. Don't panic. Just... assess. He mentally focused, trying to recall and expand the details he'd glimpsed. The interface shimmered, displaying his full stats, skills, and inventory.

  Wonderful. His entire professional skillset, obsolete. His charisma and rizz? quantified as repellent. What the hell was the difference anyways? His only resources were a stale pastry and zero magical energy derived from internet nonsense. The sheer, galling stupidity of it all made his teeth ache. This wasn't just an apocalypse; it was a humiliating apocalypse.

  "This is just... peak cringe," he muttered under his breath, the words slipping out involuntarily, laced with genuine disgust.

  Kevin stared at the text, horrified. It wasn't just reading his thoughts; it was coaching him on how to weaponize embarrassment. And the tip? He could gain mana by watching his colleagues fail? The System was actively encouraging schadenfreude.

  Suddenly, a bloodcurdling scream ripped through the office air, cutting through the confused murmurs. It came from the direction of the breakroom.

  Then came a sound that didn't belong in any office: a wet, guttural bellow, followed by a crash of shattering ceramic and spraying liquid. It sounded suspiciously like the high-end espresso machine meeting a violent end.

  Reality, it seemed, was done buffering. The Brainrot Apocalypse was logging in.

  A new, smaller box pulsed insistently in his vision, text blinking urgently:

  Before he could even process the choice, the screaming intensified, punctuated by a new, horrifying sound: rapid, skittering footsteps, like oversized claws scrabbling on linoleum, getting closer.

  The skittering sound was impossibly fast, unnervingly wet. Like something drenched and furious was scrambling towards them on far too many legs. Kevin’s blood ran cold. Every instinct screamed RUN.

  But run where? Out the emergency exit into… what? More of this? And the pulsing [ Y / N ] box demanded attention, a stark choice overlaid on the rising panic. Mandatory Tutorial Quest. Mandatory. Did that mean refusing wasn’t really an option? Or just a stupider option?

  Oh, for fu—

  Brenda screamed again, a high-pitched shriek that cut off abruptly. Dave yelped, "What the hell is that thing?!"

  Kevin risked another look over the partition. His stomach plummeted.

  Scrabbling into the bullpen from the breakroom hallway was something that defied sanity. It was roughly dog-sized, but low-slung and segmented like an insect, dripping dark, steaming liquid – probably espresso – from countless twitching antennae. Its multiple legs, ending in wickedly sharp ceramic shards (likely fragments of the unfortunate coffee machine), clicked and scraped on the linoleum floor, leaving viscous brown trails. Its head was a grotesque fusion of metal components – grinder burrs, steam wands, maybe even the frothing pitcher – fused into a monstrous maw that clicked rapidly. Two glowing red lights, like malevolent LEDs, served as eyes.

  The creature’s designation flickered into existence above its head as Kevin looked at it, the System helpfully providing details he absolutely did not want. The final, sarcastic note on weaknesses nearly made him laugh hysterically.

  The Espresso Roach locked its red eyes onto Gary from IT, who was still fumbling with his monitor cable, completely oblivious. It lowered its head and let out a high-pitched hiss, like steam escaping a cracked valve.

  Screw it. Mandatory meant mandatory. Kevin mentally jabbed yes.

  Great rewards, Kevin thought bitterly. Especially the bragging rights.

  The Espresso Roach lunged. Gary finally looked up, his eyes widening in terror as the steaming, skittering nightmare launched itself at him. It moved with unnatural speed, a brown, ceramic-legged blur.

  People scrambled back, chairs toppled, screams echoed through the suddenly too-small office space. Dave vaulted over his desk with surprising agility. Brenda was sobbing somewhere behind a filing cabinet.

  The Roach slammed into Gary, knocking him backward. Ceramic legs slashed, leaving shallow, steaming cuts on his arms. Gary yelled, trying to kick it away, but the creature clung on, its metallic maw attempting to clamp onto his leg.

  Kevin watched, frozen for a second, horror warring with the absurd tip the System had given him.

  Witnessing acts of extreme failure or social awkwardness may passively generate small amounts of CLOUT...

  He glanced at his UI. Clout: 1/10. Gary’s terrified, flailing struggle against a coffee-machine bug had literally generated mana for him. The realization was so profoundly messed up, so utterly wrong, that a surge of anger cut through Kevin's fear.

  He had one point of Clout. He had a head full of useless internet garbage. And he had a screaming colleague about to be maimed by sentient breakfast beverage hardware.

  He needed to do something. But what? What brainrot phrase could possibly help? "Yeet"? "Sus"? He didn't even know what they did.

  The Roach reared back, preparing another slash. Gary whimpered.

  "Get off him, you... you BRUH!" Kevin yelled, the word bursting out without conscious thought, fueled by sheer panic and a desperate hope that something would happen. He pointed, focusing all his pathetic Rizz-negative energy on the creature.

  For a split second, nothing. Then, the Espresso Roach paused. It tilted its grotesque head, its red eyes flickering as if momentarily confused or mildly offended. The effect lasted barely a second, but it was enough.

  Gary seized the opportunity, kicking wildly and scrambling backward away from the momentarily befuddled creature. The Espresso Roach shook its head, steam hissing, and turned its attention, its glowing red eyes fixing directly onto Kevin.

  Oh, Sigma, Kevin thought. I think I just aggroed the coffee bug.