The streetlights were flickering again. Typically, that would have annoyed me, but tonight it just felt appropriate.
I had been walking for almost an hour because the bus decided to break down three blocks before my stop, and my wallet reminded me that I was too broke to complain. The city around me hummed with that quiet kind of misery you only get after midnight. Neon lights flickered over puddles that smelled like they had been here since the last apocalypse. Everything looked alive but felt dead, which, in my opinion, summed up the human condition nicely.
I decided to take a shortcut because I was tired, and honestly, I just wanted to get home before my feet gave up. However, fate has a habit of making shortcuts longer.
The first scream hit before I even turned the corner. People were running from the other end of the street, wide-eyed and wild, the kind of panic that doesn't come from a mugger with a knife. Someone fell into a trash can, kicked it over, scrambled up, and kept running like their life depended on it—which it probably did.
I could have joined them. I even thought about it for a second, but then the thought hit me: run where? Back to what? A one-room apartment that smelled like instant noodles and failure? A job that barely paid enough to keep the lights on? That was the problem with surviving—eventually, you realize you are not sure what you are surviving for.
So I stopped.
I pulled a cigarette from my pocket, lit it, and watched the flame catch. The first drag burned just right. As I exhaled, the smoke curled upward, and I thought, "If the world is ending, at least let me enjoy the view."
When the screams stopped, the silence that followed felt heavier than the air. I started walking toward the noise because curiosity is one of humanity's most suicidal traits. The street ahead was a mess of shattered glass, empty cars, and blood I pretended not to notice. A small convenience store still had its lights on, the door open like it was daring someone to step in. Naturally, I accepted.
I sat on the counter, took another drag, and waited.
When it arrived, it did not enter quietly. The sound was wet, uneven, and somehow wrong. It looked human at first glance—a tall man, pale, wearing what might have once been a shirt—but the two extra arms sprouting from his shoulders ruined the illusion. His eyes glowed red, not metaphorically, but literally. They looked like they were bleeding light.
He was injured. Blood—dark, almost black—oozed from a wound in his side. He looked at me and smiled, the way a starving man might smile at a buffet.
I sighed and said, "Took you long enough."
He hesitated. Maybe he was confused. Maybe he thought I would scream. People usually do.
I stood, dropped my cigarette, crushed it under my boot, and spread my arms. "Knock yourself out."
He stepped closer, his extra hands twitching. One grabbed my neck, almost gentle, and lifted me like I weighed nothing. His mouth opened, and I felt the pull begin.
It was strange, like my body was being unzipped from the inside. It wasn't pain exactly; it was more like existence itself was deciding I had overstayed my welcome. My vision blurred, and I remember thinking, So this is how it feels to have your soul sucked out. Figures.
He paused, his grip loosened. He looked down at his own wound and muttered something like, "Not enough time." Then he looked back at me, studying me the way a scientist looks at a failed experiment that might still explode.
And then everything stopped.
The pull, the air, even the sound. I felt the world tilt for a second, then everything went dark.
That was the funny thing about dying. It never feels as dramatic as the movies make it seem. It just feels like sleep you don't wake up from.
Or at least, that's what I thought.