Veer thrashed like a haunted burrito, wrapped in bedsheet despair and the curses of every missed assignment he never submitted.
He was squirming on his stomach, trying to find the perfect position to die in.
Then—
THUMP!!
A crash loud enough to wake a funeral. He fell off the bed, legs tangled in a blanket. Pillow still on his head.
He groans like a dying goat:
"I swear if this is another sleep paralysis demon, just take me. and make it quick."
He peels himself off the floor like expired gum, checks the time. 1:00 AM. The cursed hour of snackless despair.
And his stomach?
Growling like Satan's blender.
But hunger… hunger always wins.
He dragged himself to the kitchen, half-conscious, eyes bloodshot, in search of something edible. Anything. Instead, he was greeted with a sad, empty fridge. He opened it, the light flickering like the last flicker of hope in a horror movie.
One bottle of ketchup.
Half a lemon.
"You old maniac… Ahh, that Fresh Food Cultist, only buys food that had a heartbeat yesterday."
Behind him those cursed loves of bread blinked, like they're laughing over his fate.
The audacity of fresh food… the betrayal of hunger…
Veer grabbed the bread, holding it like a weapon. "This is why I'm gonna die young…"
He threw the loaf down in frustration like it was personally responsible for his miserable life. Bread was now the enemy.
He could practically hear Nanu's voice in his head, "Stale bread? Stale soul!"
Veer slammed the fridge shut. His stomach growls again. Louder this time.
> "I'm gonna die. I'm gonna be found with bite marks on a bread wrapper and a note that says 'blame the old man.'"
He grabbed his jacket, shoving his arms into it like he was suiting up for war—because that's what this felt like.
---
Fog. Everywhere. Thick, suffocating fog. He could barely see a foot in front of him. It felt like walking through a bad dream or a horror movie where the fog was the villain and Veer was the guy who'd get killed in the first 10 minutes.
Veer mumbled to himself, "At this rate, I might as well just walk into the void and hope something eats me. At least I'll have company."
The street is eerily silent—no cars, no people—just the fog and his angry footsteps.
Suddenly, WHAM.
He slams into something solid, something metallic.
Veer freezes. His heart skips a beat.
Veer (staring up, wide-eyed):
"Wha...?"
It felt like an armor sleek and unnaturally advanced, glinting in the fog like it's straight out of a sci-fi horror movie. The red eyes pierce through the mist, glowering down at him like some kind of twisted guardian.
In a split of a second, Before he can even scream, he felt a hand grip his collar from behind. And he's somewhere else—under a flickering streetlamp, blinking in confusion, heart hammering like it owes rent.
Veer (shakily):
"What… what just happened? Did I hit my head on something? Maybe it was a... Ahh.. Am I now hallutionating in HUNGER?"
Then—the PAIN.
Like something clawing from inside his chest.
His ribs feel like they're being pried open by invisible hands.
He drops to his knees, gripping his chest.
"W.. HELL!!!"
He looks down, clutching his chest. It feels like something's pushing out from within, a dark pressure that's squeezing his heart like an old sponge. His body is revolting against him.
Veer (grimacing, voice shaky):
"This is it. This is how I die. Just when I thought this night couldn't get worse, I'm gonna explode from the inside out!"
His hand reaches for a nearby iron pole—
He tries to stand—
And with a scream that's part rage, part hunger, part "WHERE'S THE FOOOD,"
he crushes the pole like it's made of butter.
CRRRRKKK.
Veer pants, unaware.
Behind him: the pole is mangled, dented. Twisted like a rejected straw. Ahh let's don't talk about that..
Veer (yelling in pain):
"Ugh..., WHY..!! does this always happen to me? Am I cursed or something?"
He moves without looking back. He's already stumbling away from it, mind still swirling, his breath coming out in ragged gasps.
---
Somehow, he manages to keep moving, dragging his body toward the small Dhaba he swears he'll never eat at again—until his stomach growls so loudly, it might wake the dead.
He stumbles inside, collapsing into a seat, the cold sweat still dripping down his face. The waiter offers him the world's blandest glass of water. He chugs it, barely noticing.
But he doesn't eat. Cause the mental and physical fatigue is too much for him to bear. His body has betrayed him.
With one last bitter sigh, he leaves—and heads back into the night.
---
On the walk back, he was muttering something about Riya.
> "THEY GAVE ME EXPIRED CAKE!!. Probably cursed by ancient frosting priests."
He doesn't even realize he's back at the scene of... whatever that weird moment was earlier. The fog is still thick, but now, something is gleaming under the lamplight—a U-shaped metallic object, gleaming like it's waiting for him.
Veer approaches without thinking—kicking it like some frustrated soccer player who just had it with his cursed life. Kick. Kick. But every time he kicks it, it kicks back. Not physically—energetically.
Like it's annoyed.
Veer (snapping):
"Are you... serious right now?! Okay, fine. Take my SHOT, you weird... cursed... thing."
And like the idiot he is, Veer kicks it all the way home, somehow convinced he's doing the world a favor by dragging this weird-ass object into his already messed-up life.
He stops. Stares.
It clicks.
Whirs.
Veer blinks.
> "Okay cool. I'll die later. Let's take this cursed Pokémon home."
He doesn't care. It looks cool. He walks off into the home, mumbling:
> "If this thing hatches a demon, I'm feeding it to Nanu."
---
---
Time: 1:04 AM
Location: A desolate, crumbling lighthouse perched on the jagged cliffs of the North Atlantic coast. The only sound is the wind howling through the broken windows and the faint crackle of an old radio.
---
The storm outside rages like the fury of forgotten gods, its intensity matching the tension within the lighthouse. Inside, the dim light of a few flickering bulbs barely illuminates the space, casting long, ghastly shadows across the worn stone walls. The smell of saltwater and mildew is thick in the air. At the heart of the room stands a single table, cluttered with maps, old books, and electronic devices, some of which seem to be held together with duct tape and sheer desperation.
And here's our gang of survivors (or soon-to-be victims):
▫️Captain Elias Drake – Ex-Navy SEAL turned survivalist philosopher. Smokes cigars like they owe him money. Believes every conspiracy, but with PowerPoint-level logic.
▫️Dr. Lena Fischer – Biochemist. Wears lab coats like armor. Once synthesized a neurotoxin "just to see what would happen." Morally grey, like a shark in glasses.
▫️ Mason Holloway – Conspiracy blogger, QWERTY cowboy, professional insomnia haver. Thinks sleep is a government lie.
▫️Detective Jessica Ryker – Cynical, deadpan, allergic to bulls**t. If logic had a switchblade, it would look like her.
---
The group is gathered inside the crumbling core of the lighthouse. The light above them flickers like it's too afraid to stay on. A table is covered in a war crime of books, data pads, half-melted wax figures, and… is that a goat hoof?
Drake (gruffly):
"We're at the edge of the known world, and this damn lighthouse isn't even on GPS. This isn't 'off-grid.' This is 'we're about to be eaten by sea monsters' off-grid."
Fischer (calmly):
"It's ancient. Pre-WW2 construction. But there's a second foundation layer—older than colonial stuff. Maybe Viking. Or worse... French."
Mason (eyes twitching):
"Wait, wait—hear me out. The coordinates form a Fibonacci spiral, right? And the interference? It's in Morse code… reversed. It's saying, 'THEY'RE WATCHING THROUGH THE REFLECTIONS.' Which is totally fine. Totally. Fine."
Ryker (deadpan):
"I've worked homicide for ten years. I once found a toe in a blender. This is worse."
The radio crackles. Screeching. It sounds like a raccoon having a spiritual awakening.
Radio:
"Dr. Vikram Grover calling from the Cairo field lab. DO NOT approach the artifact. It's not a weapon—it's an instruction manual. And someone's already started following it."
Fischer (muttering):
"Oh great. A manual for what? 'DIY Apocalypse'? IKEA's evil twin?"
Drake (lighting a cigar):
"Did he say 'artifact'? Like that cursed meteor Xia touched? The one that melted two hazmat suits and recited the Epic of Gilgamesh backwards?"
Mason (typing furiously):
"Yeah, that artifact. I decrypted the pulse. It's emitting neural frequencies—basically broadcasting thoughts straight into people's heads. Like a cult MasterClass… but taught by Cthulhu."
Drake lights his cigar, again with a blowtorch and grunts. Because. It's Cool.
[Incoming Transmission: Jungle Static, Choking Voice]
Unknown Male:
"This is... kshhhk... Dr. Ramires. I'm with the Tupari tribe... They found... the bodies."
The room freezes. You could hear a fly blink.
Dr. Ramires:
"Seven men. Xia and his team. All decapitated. Clean slices. Necks cauterized, like someone used a plasma cutter. No blood. Just... steam. And their thumbs—all their right-hand thumbs—removed. Same method. Vaporized flesh. Charred bone."
Ryker (voice cracking):
"Why thumbs...?"
Fischer:
"Symbolic castration. The thumb's a marker of dominance. Evolutionarily speaking, it's like saying, 'You can't grip a hammer, you can't make tools. You're a tool.'"
Mason (sweating):
"No. No no no. That's not a trophy. That's... an initiation."
Drake (grim):
"Those bodies weren't just killed. They were processed."
Fischer (tilting her head):
"Which means Xia didn't go rogue. He went converted. His whole team got rewired. Learned something they weren't supposed to know. And then became... obsolete."
Mason (low voice):
"Do you think they tried to warn us before they changed?"
The wind howls louder. It sounds like a laugh. A laugh you don't want to hear.
Silence.
Grover (voice through static, yet sipping tea):
"I'm telling you, something learned how to erase people. From both biology and bureaucracy. You die, and your prints vanish. No ID, no database match. Nothing. It's like... Google deleting your face from the internet and your soul from the afterlife."
Ryker (dry as a desert):
"Sounds like a very polite apocalypse."
Then, a metallic clang from downstairs. Followed by something suspiciously like... chewing.
Drake (drawing a revolver the size of a small country):
"Everyone stay still. If it's a creature, I shoot. If it's another government official, I shoot twice."
Nothing happens. Yet.
The radio crackles again, but this time, Grover's voice is near frantic, like he's at the edge of sanity.
Grover:
"There's more. Listen... their brains... Xia's team—they were scorched from the inside. Like their neurons had an existential crisis and set themselves on fire."
Fischer (raising an eyebrow):
"Hyperthermic synaptic destruction? That's... impossible. Unless..."
She walks over to a chalkboard, drawing a terrifyingly logical diagram: a human skull, heat maps bursting from the pineal gland.
Fischer:
"The pineal gland—the so-called 'third eye'? It's not mystical. It regulates circadian rhythm and melatonin. But it's also full of calcite crystals. Piezoelectric. Hit it with enough microwave energy? Boom. Brain soup."
Mason (turning green):
"So... they were microwaved from the inside... through their chakras?"
Fischer (grinning darkly):
"Basically, yeah. Instant deletion. Biological rage-quit."
Drake looks grim, his cigar now a glowing beacon of doom. "We need to get to the Amazon. Now."
---