The Foreseen

Michael woke up already knowing it was going to be a bad day.

Not because of the pounding in his skull. That part was expected. Earned, even. The empty bottles scattered across the floor around him were a pretty reliable indicator of how the night had gone. No, the headache was just background noise.

It was the glow. Faint at first. A flicker behind his eyelids, like distant lightning trying to claw its way into his skull. He didn’t even bother opening his eyes. He just lay there on the floor, one arm draped over his face, and muttered hoarsely. “Give me five minutes.” The glow didn’t care. It surged.

His eyes snapped open as the world shattered. A bright yellow Corvette. Too clean. Too loud. The kind of car that screamed for attention even when it was standing still. An older man sat behind the wheel, gray hair slicked back, a cigar clenched between his teeth like it owed him money. His phone was pressed to his ear, voice sharp, irritated, dismissive. He wasn’t looking at the road. Probably at his phone instead. The car drifted. Just a little at first. A lazy sway across the lane divider like it didn’t belong to him. The man didn’t notice. He was too busy yelling about something that didn’t matter. Something that never mattered.

The screech of tires came too late. Metal screamed. The Corvette slammed into a light pole hard enough to snap it clean at the base. The impact sent a violent shudder through the ground as the pole tilted, hesitated.. and fell. Power lines tore loose with it. Sparks erupted in a shower of white-hot chaos, crackling like the sky itself had split open. One live wire whipped through the air, dancing with lethal intent and struck a passing school bus. Fire. Instant. Hungry. Relentless. It swallowed the bus in seconds.

The windows fogged with heat. Small hands slammed against the glass from the inside, frantic, desperate. The muffled screams of children filled the air, high-pitched and panicked and too many. There were too many. The doors wouldn’t open. The flames climbed higher. The screams didn’t stop. They lingered. Longer than they should have. Long enough to make sure he heard every single one.

Michael gasped and the world snapped back into place. He was on the floor again. Same cheap apartment. Same cracked ceiling. Same smell of stale alcohol and regret. His chest heaved like he’d just run a mile. Sweat clung to his skin, cold and immediate.

“Yeah,” he whispered, staring up at nothing. “Great. Fantastic. Love that for me.” His hands trembled as he pushed himself upright. The room tilted slightly, reminding him that he was still very much hungover and very much not equipped for… any of this. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and let out a slow, bitter breath. Kids. It always hit harder when it was kids.

“Why is it never,” he muttered, voice thick with exhaustion, “like… a yacht full of tax evaders? Or a bus full of people who clap when the plane lands?” No answer. There was never an answer. Just the clock. Ticking. Somewhere out there, that bus was still intact. Still full of laughing, loud, completely unaware children. The driver was probably humming along to the radio. The man in the Corvette was probably still yelling at someone who didn’t deserve it. None of it had happened. Not yet anyway. But it would. It always did.

Michael forced himself to his feet, ignoring the way his body protested the decision. His head pounded in rhythm with his heartbeat, each step feeling like it came with consequences. “Alright,” he said to no one. “Let’s go save a bus.”