Fire.

  The city burned like someone had thrown a temper tantrum using napalm. Flames clawed at the sky, turning proud skyscrapers into flaming skeletons, their spires reaching desperately into a bruised, smoke-choked twilight.

  Streets were a battlefield of shattered glass and smoldering ruin, where the air tasted of soot, blood, and something far more ancient—like fear had a flavor and it was bitter as hell.

  People scattered in every direction, a panicked orchestra of shrieks, trampling feet, and wailing children, flailing like ants on a frying pan. And then—reality itself hiccupped.

  From a massive tear in the air, something emerged.

  Not quickly.

  Oh no, this thing knew how to make an entrance. It oozed into existence like it had all the time in the world to ruin yours.

  First came the arm—long, black, and jointed in all the wrong ways. Its claws gleamed like freshly polished obsidian steak knives, twitching in anticipation. It just… hovered there. Like it was letting everyone get a good look before the massacre.

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  The boy stood frozen.

  Terror had stapled him to the earth.

  And then, the creature... a monstrous parody of life, slowly emerged. A twisted fish-head set upon a reptilian torso, two sets of scaled arms that shone like dark jade, wickedly sharp teeth bared in a feral grin. It slid closer, a hellish creation, its movements fluid and lethal.

  It didn’t walk.

  It glided. Effortless. Silent. Predatory.

  All around, death played out like some twisted performance art. The soundscape? Muffled screams, bones cracking under rubble, and the wet slap of what used to be people hitting the ground. It was a horror movie without the comforting distance of a screen. And the boy was front row, center.

  He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t blink.

  He could only feel—and all he felt was dread. The thing’s breath was a rancid fog, thick and hot. Its maw opened—a dark, gaping void like the end of all stories.

  Then—

  WHAM!

  The world snapped back like a rubber band.

  The boy gasped, clutching his face where a fresh slap had bloomed into a hot sting. Everything swam into view. Furniture. Breakfast smells. Disappointment.

  “You little zombie! You’re already late for school! Wash your crusty face, eat your food, or I swear I’ll slap you into next week!” came the shrill roar of maternal rage.

  Dazed, he blinked at his furious mother, a mixture of confusion and residual terror still fogging his brain. His cheek throbbed like a drum solo. He mumbled something, probably a curse, and bolted from the house, barely dodging a flying slipper that had the trajectory of a heat-seeking missile.

  Tears blurred his eyes as he stumbled into the harsh morning light, the nightmare fading behind him. But the fear? That thing? The gaping maw? The dripping teeth?

  Yeah, that was staying.

  Behind him, his mom shouted one last zinger: “Screaming like that in your sleep again—‘You’re so ugly! You’re so ugly!’ HAH! Who’s ugly now, huh?!”

  The broom clattered back to the ground as she resumed sweeping, muttering something about dramatic children and cursed cartoons.

  Life, once again, marched on like nothing happened.

  But the boy knew better.

  The monster may have been gone… but its eyes?

  Its hunger?

  That never left.

  Outer Celestials,

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