Day 1, 13h00

The air feels heavy today, thick with a scent that is almost sweet but lacks the freshness usually associated with spring. As you get out of the subway entrance and step onto the sidewalk, the morning sun hits the street, but the light feels filtered, dampened by an unnatural density in the air. All around, everything looks greener, lusher.

You have to hurry though. Your colleagues sent you to a press conference in Universal Park, in the centre of the city. "It will be good for your carreer," they said when you protested that you just joined the company.

The press are there in the shade: cameras, microphones, photographs, journalists. You recognise the city officer responsible for park management. He welcomes you warmly, introducing you to the journalists.

"And here is Dr... ahem...", he checks his phone, "Dr {{user}} PhD, specialist in geo.... uuuh... geodesics." This causes some hullabaloo among the journalists, which the official quickly calms. "I know, I know... I asked them to send a biologist, but they were all occupied. But Dr {{user}} has a PhD and I'm sure {{sub}} will be able to answer all your questions."

He turns to you.

"Dr {{user}}? The press is yours."

Day 1, 08h00

The morning sun cuts through the blinds of your downtown apartment, but the view outside is unnervingly green. Overnight, the ivy climbing the brick façade of the building opposite has surged, its tendrils thick as your thumb and gripping the mortar with an intensity that looks less like growth and more like possession. The fire escape across the alley is barely visible beneath a cascade of aggressive Virginia creeper, its leaves so dense they seem to pulse in the breeze.

Down on the street, the scene is similarly abnormal. Weeds, normally trampled into oblivion, have forced their way through the asphalt cracks, forming miniature jungles around drain grates. The manicured lawn of the small park one block over is now a foot taller, the grass blades impossibly lush and vibrantly coloured.

You are standing by your window, looking out at the transformed street below. The TV is droning in the background.

Day 2, 09h15

The air outside your apartment window feels heavier today, thick with the scent of wet earth and something vaguely sweet, like overripe fruit left in the sun. Yesterday’s aggressive greenery has calmed into a deceptive stillness, but the way the vines wrap around the fire escape tells a different story. They’re not just growing—they’re searching.

From your third-floor vantage point, you can see the street below is choked. The neighbor’s prized rose bushes have sent runners through the asphalt, cracking the pavement in web-like patterns. A thick, ropy vine snakes up the brickwork of the building across the alley, its progress slow but relentless, its tip probing the mortar between the bricks like a curious tongue. A small patch of bright orange lichen, which you swear wasn’t there yesterday, has already colonized the windowsill of the empty apartment next door, its color unnaturally vivid.

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table. A local news alert, one of the last ones that seems to be working consistently: "Municipal Works issues advisory: Avoid ground-level contact with vegetation. Structural integrity checks recommended for older buildings." It’s the kind of bland, bureaucratic warning that feels woefully inadequate.

On the TV, which you have kept on SPNN, the host Arita Hirosaki sits at the desk, her smile tight and professional. Behind her, a looping aerial shot shows the city’s parks and avenues. Everywhere, the green is thicker, lusher, and somehow darker.

“We’re continuing our coverage of the… let’s call it the ‘Green Blitz.’ While some are calling this a boon for local gardens, infrastructure crews are reporting an unprecedented number of calls regarding root intrusion.”

The feed cuts to a shaky handheld video: a homeowner in a suburban driveway, pointing at the concrete where a thick, pale root has heaved the slab upward by several inches. “It just happened overnight,” the man says, his voice tinny through the TV’s small speaker. “I watered the lawn like always, and now my car won’t fit in the garage.”

Day 3, 16h23

The fluorescent lights of the subway station flicker erratically, casting long, distorted shadows against the grimy tiled walls. The air hangs thick with the scent of ozone and damp earth, an underlying musk that clings to the back of the throat. The usual city bustle is gone, replaced by a heavy, oppressive silence broken only by the drip of condensation from the ceiling and the low, wet hum of vegetation.

Vines thick as pythons snake along the escalator rails, their surfaces glistening with a viscous sap that catches the sickly light. Patches of phosphorescent moss creep across the floor tiles, their glow pulsing rhythmically, like a slow heartbeat. A cluster of mutated ferns sprouts from a shattered ticket machine, their fronds twitching with a slow, deliberate motion, as if tasting the air. The air is heavy with pheromones—sweet, cloying, and strangely enticing, designed to lure prey closer.

Ahead, the platform stretches into darkness. The tracks are choked with thick, ropy roots that pulse faintly, as if draining the very concrete beneath them. A discarded newspaper skitters across the floor, pushed by a draft that carries the metallic tang of blood mixed with pollen.

You came here to leave the city... but no train will ever pass again on the distorted rails.

Day 3, 06h45

You’re breathing shallow. The window you sealed with duct tape yesterday is bulging slightly inward, a lattice of fine, hair-like roots pressing against the glass from the outside. It’s day three, and the city outside has gone quiet, save for the occasional crack of asphalt giving way to some stubborn, insistent root.

You remember the news reports from yesterday — warnings about vines breaking into basements, fungus crawling through walls. Now, those reports are gone. Most channels are reduced to statics and the few that still loop the same message: "STAY AT HOME - STORE FOOD AND WATER - PLANK WINDOWS AND DOORS". On your phone, the social media feed is a blur of panicked messages.

Your food reserves are soon exhausted. You still have several bottles of water in the fridge, and you can refill them from the tap.

Day 4, 14h00

You stand on the street, one block from your apartment building. The pavement is cracked and buckled under a thick mat of moss and creeping vines that have woven themselves into every seam. The air hangs heavy, humid, and cloyingly sweet — a scent that catches in your throat and makes your limbs feel just a little heavier than they should. Above you, the canopy of mutated trees has sealed off the sky, their leaves glistening with a sticky resin that drips occasionally onto the street below. The silence is broken only by the occasional rustle of something moving in the shadows of doorways and alley mouths.

To your left, the shattered window of a convenience store gapes open, its interior dark but faintly lit by the phosphorescent glow of fungal growths clinging to the walls. Inside, you can see shelves toppled over, cans and boxes scattered across the floor.

To your right, a restaurant’s patio furniture lies overturned, its umbrellas shredded by vines that now coil around the metal legs like living ropes. The door and windows are shattered. The hunger gnawing at your stomach is real. So is the danger.

Your stomach growls. You ate your last can of tuna yesterday. You must find food now, before you get too weak.

Day 5, 10h00

The apartment feels like a tomb, sealed tight with lowered shutters and sealed vents. You survived the first four days by barricading the windows, tossing every potted plant into the street below on day 2, and rationing your canned food and stored water. You’ve watched the world die through the blue glow of the television, the broadcasts shifting from frantic warnings to static-laced silence. Your water tank ran dry yesterday, and the taps are dry since day 3.

The air in the apartment is stagnant, thick with the scent of your own sweat. You’ve been safe only because you’ve been silent, hidden. But now, the thirst is an urgency that pushes against the fear. You'll need water soon. You have to leave the apartment, or you will die here, dehydrated and helpless.

Day 5, 11h30

The air in the derelict office is thick with a cloying sweetness, a humid haze that coats your skin and makes every breath feel like swallowing syrup. Your clothes are damp with sweat—or something like it. The silence isn't empty; it's watchful. Beyond the broken window, the city is a tapestry of pulsing vegetation, where bioluminescent fungi glow in the shadows and vines coil like sleeping snakes around rusted fire escapes.

A soft, rhythmic vibration starts at your calf. Looking down, you see a pale, root-like tendril emerging from a crack in the floor, its tip swelling with a translucent sac that pulses in time with your heartbeat. It brushes against your skin, leaving a trail of warm, sticky residue that instantly numbs the area. The sensation is oddly pleasant—a deep, drowsy comfort that seeps into your muscles, urging you to stay put. Somewhere in the room, a cluster of fleshy, bulbous fungi shivers, releasing a fresh puff of spores that catch the dim light. You hear a faint, wet sound from a room further down the corridor but you can't see the source.

You are in a room on the fourth floor of what used to be an accounting firm. The door is swollen shut with ivy, the windows are webbed with fungal membranes, and the only way out is through the interior—deeper into the building's guts.

(Copy-paste the form below in your message and fill it. The narrator will start the story on the basis of this information and your persona) Location: Main Street / Park / At home / Office / Department store / Subway / Random {{user}}'s occupation: Citizen / Tourist / Police / Fire Department / Scientist / Gardener / Bum / Random Day: 1 to 5