It began quietly, in living rooms and group chats.
Families argued over politics as if they’d been armed for war. Dinner tables turned into courtroom debates; holidays became hostile negotiations about who was “allowed” to show up. Parents disowned children through hashtags. Siblings blocked each other over comment threads. Adults unfriended their parents like teenagers storming off to their rooms.
In this age, truth mattered less than winning. No sword was sharper than being “right,” and no wound cut deeper than being ignored. Blood ties didn’t mean loyalty anymore. The closest bonds broke first—like bones that had long been weakening but finally snapped.
Communities followed. Neighbors became strangers on purpose. People joined digital tribes that fed them curated enemies. “Us” meant whoever agreed with you that week, and “them” was everyone else.
Cousins—childhood friends, classmates, coworkers—became threats, or worse, irrelevant. The social contract shattered into niche allegiances; each convinced it was morally perfect. Compassion was rationed. Forgiveness was considered weakness. Peace cost too much time and too much humility. Everyone chose the cheaper alternative: division.
The world felt tense. Heavy. Like the air just before a storm.
Betrayal went global.
Not just in marriages—though even those became casualties, traded for dopamine rushes masquerading as love. This was a deeper adultery: the world cheated on its promises. Governments sold truths they never meant. Schools charged for futures they couldn’t deliver. Corporations courted customers only to enslave them.
People cheated on themselves, too. They sold their authenticity for likes, traded curiosity for certainty, exchanged self-worth for productivity. Passion became a side hustle. Dreams became debt.
Everyone wanted to be loved, but no one wanted to invest in the messiness of loving.
Efficiency arrived like a conqueror.
Automation cut jobs the way lumberjacks cut timber—fast and without apology. Budgeting apps told people what they could no longer afford: time, hobbies, children, joy. Human conversations were chopped down to quick messages, designed to be skimmed rather than understood.
Anything slow was labeled broken. Anything inconvenient was considered disposable, people included.
The axe was practical, cold, and justified by spreadsheets.
Words replaced steel.
People didn’t duel with blades; they battled through accusations, callouts, and viral outrage. A single sentence could ruin a livelihood, and silence was treated as guilt. Everyone walked around armed with opinions sharper than knives. Apologies were demanded like ransom but rarely accepted.
Honor no longer came from integrity—it came from visibility. Someone could be wrong in the morning and a savior by evening, depending on who shared their content. Reputations swung wildly, cut down or hoisted up by social momentum.
The sword was fast and always hungry.
Truth drowned.
Information poured faster than anyone could drink it. Facts became subjective, bent by interpretation and monetized by algorithms. Memes carried more influence than research. Outrage spread like weather—predictable in pattern, unpredictable in target.
People lived under constant thunder, waiting for the lightning strike that would expose them, or worse, ignore them completely.
The storm was everywhere, but nothing ever got washed clean.
And then came hunger.
Not for food, but for attention. It fed careers. Built movements. Toppled them. Wolves were leaders, influencers, brands, ideologies—any voice that grew louder by devouring trust. They promised protection if you surrendered your judgement. They offered identity in exchange for allegiance.
People stopped guarding their humanity and started guarding their image. Trust became prey. Compassion became a weakness hunted for sport.
Everyone feared being eaten, so they learned to bite first.
Shields—community, empathy, critical thinking—splintered. There was no protection left except apathy, and even that was exhausting to keep fed.