The squad leader's radio crackled to life with Private David's frantic voice.
"I've spotted a Watcher—taking aim—shots fired!"
Gunfire echoed through the static.
"David! Report! What's your status?" the squad leader barked, urgency rising in his voice.
No reply.
He didn't wait.
"Move out! We're heading to his last known location—go, go, go!"
The unit sprinted through the ghostly streets, boots pounding against cracked pavement, hearts racing. Their weapons were raised, fingers trembling on triggers.
Then they saw it.
The Watcher loomed over Private David's limp body, pale fingers wrapped tightly around his skull. His mouth hung open. His eyes stared in frozen terror. A glowing wisp—his soul—was being siphoned from his chest into the creature's gaping, nightmarish maw.
Then David crumpled—withered and empty.
"Engage the target!" the squad leader shouted. "Keep your distance! Do not let it touch you! Aim for the eyes or joints—any weak point!"
The team opened fire, bullets tearing through the air, but the Watcher didn't flinch. It let David's corpse fall and charged with a burst of horrifying speed.
"Take cover and spread out!" the squad leader ordered. "Suppress and flank!"
Corporal Thomas's voice cut in over the radio.
"I'll draw its attention. Light it up while I run!"
Without hesitation, he broke from cover, firing his rifle and yelling,
"Come on, you ugly fucker! I'm the fastest runner in this goddamn unit!"
The Watcher turned, fixating on him like a predator sensing its prey.
The others laid down heavy fire, trying to slow it. But their bullets were useless—every wound sealed shut in seconds.
Thomas took a sharp corner into a narrow alley—
And ran straight into another Watcher.
He cursed under his breath and raised his weapon—
But it was too late.
The second creature seized him with skeletal, bone-white arms.
Realizing his fate, Thomas whispered into his mic,
"Lieutenant… tell my mom I love her."
Then the Watcher consumed his soul, leaving behind nothing but a lifeless husk.
"No! Thomas!" the squad leader screamed.
Then more Watchers appeared.
From buildings. Rooftops. Shadows.
A terrified private shouted,
"Lieutenant! We're surrounded—we have to fall back!"
"Retreat!" the lieutenant roared. "Get to the vehicles! Move, now!"
The squad broke formation and ran, boots echoing against silent streets. One by one, the Watchers caught up.
Screams echoed through the night as soul after soul was taken.
"Keep running!" the lieutenant yelled into his radio. "Don't look back—we're almost there!"
But there were no replies.
She was the last one left.
Gasping, she dove into a military truck, slammed the door, and turned the key with shaking hands. The engine roared to life. She didn't stop until the base came into view, lights shining like a distant promise.
Guards ran out, weapons drawn.
When they flung open the truck door, they found her—Lieutenant Marcelle Hale—shaking violently, soaked in sweat, her eyes wide and unfocused.
"Call the colonel!" a sergeant barked. "Get her to medical!"
They rushed her to the infirmary. Minutes later, Colonel Vance strode in, boots striking the tile floor like gunshots.
He looked down at the broken woman.
"What the hell happened out there?" he asked, voice sharp.
Hale didn't answer right away. She sat on the edge of the bed, hands trembling.
Finally, he looked up—haunted.
"They didn't just kill us," she whispered. "They fed on us… on our souls. We couldn't stop them. We were slaughtered."
Colonel Vance's expression darkened. The color drained from his face.
He stared out the window for a long, grim moment.
"My god…" he murmured.
"What in the hell is happening to this world?"