"Behave, I'll be in the store over there," her mother said, glancing back.
"Okay, Mom."
The little girl waved as her mother crossed the street, then plopped onto the curb with her stuffed animal. She squeezed it against her chest, humming. That's when she heard it—a sound.
Faint. High-pitched. Almost like a shriek.
She turned, searching. Mom was still talking with the shopkeeper, distracted. The sound came again, sharper this time, from the alley behind her.
Probably a kitten, she thought, hugging the stuffed toy tighter. Curiosity tugged her feet forward.
The alley was narrow, damp, and dark. She whispered, "Kitty?"
The shriek split the air. Louder now. Coming from the rusted sewage pipe at the far end.
The metal cap shuddered once. A tiny tremor, like the alley itself was holding its breath.
Then it blew off with a clang, skittering across the ground, the noise ricocheting off wet brick.
She froze. The stuffed toy dug into her ribs where she clutched it.
A hand shot out—slick, green, dripping. The fingers twitched like they weren't sure how to work, clawing the air before smacking concrete.
Something pulled itself up from inside. She couldn't see it clearly in the shadows, only flashes of two faint eyes glowing like dying stars. Watching her.
Her throat locked. The thing dragged higher, shoulder and chest emerging, body wet and dirty.
Her voice tore free at last. A scream—piercing, ragged.
The monster snapped toward her, reacting to the sound.
She bolted, stuffed animal tumbling behind her. Feet pounding pavement, she crashed into her mother's arms.
"Honey! What happened?"
"M-monster!" she gasped, pointing back toward the alley.
Her mother squinted, frowning. The alley was empty. Only a sewer pipe and dark silence.
"There's nothing there."
"No—no, I saw it! It came out—it was covered in blood—"
Her mother pulled her close, shushing her. But the girl couldn't stop staring at that alley. At the sewer mouth. At the shadow that, for a heartbeat, seemed to shiver before going still again.
Rene dragged himself out of the sewer like a half-drowned rat. Mud clung to him in thick sheets, cobwebs hung from his arms, and the stench—God, the stench—made even him gag. His clothes weren't even clothes anymore, just sludge with seams.
One of the voices in his head snorted.
[She ran because of the smell.] a sarcastic voice answered.
He sniffed himself. Grimaced. Fair point.
Morning light hit his eyes as he stumbled into the street. He blinked, froze.
The city… wasn't the city he remembered.
Buildings looked the same shape but wrong somehow—gray, sagging, like they'd given up. Roads were cracked and pitted, puddles lying in wait to splash anyone unlucky. Plastic junk lay everywhere, half-eaten by moss.
And the people—A vendor scratched absently at two horns curling from his forehead. A woman passed with a tail flicking behind her. Even the brat who ran screaming earlier? Her eyes had slits at the corners, watching everything twice over.
The voices went quiet. Awed. Disturbed.
Rene rubbed his face, instantly regretting it. His hands weren't clean to begin with.
"The hell happened while I was gone?"
[you were gone too long, maybe it's another dimension...] a smooth voice suggested.
He didn't respond, just kept walking. Hood up, head down, moving through the shadows cast by the tall buildings, following a path his body knew better than his mind.
By the time he stopped, he was standing in front of Shaal's old apartment. Stickers and peeling ads, plastered all over the door.
Rene shut the door and dropped the lock. The room stank of mold and old pipes. A cracked mirror leaned against the wall; he wiped a stripe across it with his sleeve.
A stranger stared back, his goat-like eyes faintly glowing, casting an eerie contrast to his lanky frame, built for agility and blending in. "A little on the short side," Rene remarked with a smirk.
None of that bothered him. Except for one thing
The hair. Too damn red.
He let the clothes fall to the floor with a wet thud and reached for the least grimy towel within reach. Wiping at his skin. till he deemed himself clean enough.
[blood hair!] a disembodied voice exclaimed cheerfully.
Rene smirked, then grabbed the scissors he'd lifted. A few snips later, dark hair framed his face in jagged layers. He shoved the red strands under the bed like they might bite.
Turning away, he pulled open the closet. Nothing good — except one thing. A red hoodie, soft fabric and good smell. Seemingly taken care of.
[Burn it!]
He brushed them off, pulling it over his head as the fabric stuck to him, leaving an irritating itch.
Hood up, teeth bared in a quick grin, he looked human enough. Human for now.
He slipped on sunglasses, grabbed a few crumpled bills from under the mattress, and tucked a pocketknife into his pocket. He was ready to head out.
The street outside throbbed with life. Vendors clattering shutters open, workers dragging themselves toward jobs that paid in scraps, voices, smells, stabbed his gut. His jaw clenched. Someone's laugh hit his ears sharp, and the voices pushed:
[Easy prey!]
He kept his hands into his pockets and walked past.
Drawn by the noise, he arrived at a bridge, and beneath it lay a bustling market. The air was thick with the scent of frying oil and smoke, the clamor of vendors shouting over one another, and the sizzle of iron pans. Rene drifted toward the noise like a moth, his stomach clawing at him, eyes catching on a stall stacked with bowls of red-glazed stuff.
"Spicy?" the vendor grinned, ladling a portion out.
Rene didn't pause. He shoveled a bite in, but the sharp sting of chili hit almost instantly. For a split second, he froze—just long enough to feel his body rebel against the oil-slick heat—before he swallowed it down, gripping the paper plate tightly.
The spices burned his tongue, fire tearing through his throat. His jaw tightened as if the food had challenged him directly. He refused to cough.
The vendor barked a laugh, slapping his apron. "Too hot for you, eh?"
Rene stopped chewing. He looked at the man, noodles dangling from his mouth, eyes unblinking. The man's laugh scraped his nerves raw. A predator's reflex flashing for half a second.
Then—too sudden, too sharp—he hurled the laugh back at them. Same pitch, same rhythm. A flawless mirror, but just a second too quick.
The sound cut through the market. People glanced over, frowning. The vendor's grin slipped, shoulders drawing back.
Rene held the laugh a beat too long, then let it die. He slurped the rest of the noodles in silence, face unreadable, like nothing had happened. Then he licked spice from his teeth and muttered, "Good."
The vendor, wary, refrained from asking for payment, silently wishing the odd man would leave quickly.
No other customers were served until Rene was gone.
Rene walked off, chewing the burn down, eyes on the stalls. He tried whatever caught his hand — fried dough, something green he didn't recognize and spat out.
He drifted through the streets, letting the crowd move around him. He picked at his teeth, distracting himself from the voices. Shouts, smells, footsteps — it all blurred. His feet weren't really choosing where to go. Something else tugged him.
It pulled him toward a narrow shop crammed between a salon and a grocery. The kind of place you'd miss if you blinked. No sign worth reading. Just dust on the windows.
Rene stood there a long minute, hood shadowing his face.
He went in anyway.
The place smelled of paper and mildew — except for him. A tall man, covered from head to toe like himself. His posture exuded an elegance that felt out of place in these streets. A sharp citrus scent lingered around him as he appeared to be grimly debating between two books, lost in his own world.
The voices stirred immediately.
[That one reeks!]
[Kill him quick?]
[I don't like this one he seems trouble...]
The voices were strangely drawn to the man.
Rene ignored them,
Distracting himself, Rene gazed at the archive labeled "History" for a long moment. Fingers trailing over cracked spines until they caught on a history tome. Heavy. Pointless. He opened it anyway, eyes scanning lines that felt more like scratches than words, deep in thought.
"Shouldn't you be dead?" the man muttered, not looking up.
Rene's grip on the book stilled. Slowly, he lifted his eyes, sunglasses flashing faint light. Their eyes met briefly, behind the sunglasses, they watched each other in silence the man was sizing him up. Rene was familiar with these glances.
The man slid a book under his arm and made his way to the door in quiet steps. The bell over the door jangled once, then silence drowned the shop again.
[You should've ripped his throat out.]
Rene stared after him for a moment too long before drifting to the romance section the man had been touching. The letters on the cover began to make more sense now, but his chest felt tight, as if something significant had just slipped past him.
The bookstore was still empty now. Too empty. That nagged at him.
As he searched through the bookstore, he found nothing, yet the pull remained.
As he approached the counter to leave, a nearby screen suddenly lit up, startling him. Bold text flashed across it: Happy Reading! Charges billed per hour.
The glow died when he moved away.
When he stepped outside again, the world slammed into him all at once. Noise. Shouts. Kids darting through the street, their laughter cutting like shattered glass. One came too close, their shoulder brushing against his.
[ don't hurt him—] a female voice shouted
Rene stiffened. His lips twitched halfway between a snarl.
The kid stopped. Stared. Then bolted back to the others.
[Horrible creatures!]
"Yeah," Rene muttered, hood sinking lower. "I agree."
He wandered aimlessly as the day faded into evening. People brushed past him, the narrow street buzzing with the sounds of trade, haggling, and weariness. Humanity hadn't changed much—still scrambling for scraps, still pretending the grind held meaning.
Above, the sky was a dull bruise. Stars were gone, the moon just a ghost behind a ceiling of smog. Once, this land had been a desert; now it drowned beneath constant rain. Cold seeped into everything.
Rene pulled his hood tighter, moving through the press of bodies. His gaze lingered, watching, analyzing.
"Sure, many things have changed," he murmured, eyes tracking movement ahead, "but the core of humans never does."
The crowd shifted. Four armored enforcers shoved through, dragging a man by the collar. He kicked, pleaded, his voice raw:
"I'm sorry—please! My kids—"
A baton cracked across his jaw. The words broke off, limp, as they hauled him away like trash. The Enforcers didn't even look at the body. They just moved on, black boots stomping through the filth like nothing happened.
The crowd did the same. Heads down. No one screamed. No one even twitched.
Rene stood in the middle of it. The silence pressed in, heavy. He realized then—this wasn't shocking to them. This was normal.
Something in his chest twisted, then loosened. He tilted his head, watching the blank faces pass, and a smile cut across his lips. Small at first. Then wider. Routine violence was Predictable.
"Humanity at its finest," he muttered—voice too bright, not matching the words.
In a surveillance hub, miles away:
"Boss, satellite picked up something weird. You should see this."