In New York, this international metropolis that blends every ethnicity under the sun, the city itself may not be steeped in ancient history, yet the people of every skin color who have arrived from every corner of the world often carry deep cultural roots within them. It is their presence that lends the city its historical flavor, and the mingling of so many cultures inevitably sparks fierce collisions, drawing the shadows that hide beneath the current into one place.
Against this strange urban backdrop, a new urban legend about the "Pseudo-human" quietly surfaced one day. No one knew exactly where the tale originated; perhaps it was merely a patchwork of countless ghost stories, invented to feed people's hunger for the grotesque.
The source of the Pseudo-human is uncertain. Some say they are aliens, others claim they are bizarre beings from a higher dimension. All agree on one thing: they possess a terrifying power of imitation, able to perfectly copy any human they have seen. While imitating a person, they also adopt that individual's speech, mannerisms, and appearance; an unwary passer-by can rarely tell the difference.
Once they successfully mimic someone, they toy with their victim the way a cat plays with a mouse. If no one ever notices the deception, the Pseudo-human slowly usurps that person's place in society. It drives the original to madness, provokes them into trying to kill it—yet in every case the outcome is reversed: the Pseudo-human replaces the human completely.
Using the stolen identity, it seeks its next target, using the familiar face to lure the victim's relatives and friends, tormenting them to death, then choosing one of their faces to adopt in turn. Thus the cruel cycle of game and slaughter repeats endlessly.
Why the Pseudo-humans act this way is unknown, but some call it a predator's perverse habit: they toy with their food and leave the remains scattered everywhere.
All of the above information about Pseudo-humans comes from the interlocking ghost stories Howard and James heard as children from the old folks.
The tale stuck with them because it felt different from the moral fables the elderly usually told to frighten children. It carried no lesson, no edifying message; the old people themselves spoke of it only reluctantly. Had the restless, thrill-seeking children not begged for something eerie, they would have preferred never to utter the creature's name.
Richard nodded silently, then asked with curiosity, "Does the Pseudo-human have a weakness?"
"There's a set of rules for dealing with them, something like this," Howard said, trying to remember. "One: inform a knower. Two: go into hiding. Three: confirm the Pseudo-human's state level. Four: kill it—or kill yourself."
"Who is a knower?" Richard asked.
James answered, "Legend speaks of a secret organization that opposes Pseudo-humans, or of humans who have fought them before."
Richard asked again, "What do you mean by its state level?"
Howard thought for a moment. "When the Pseudo-human looks exactly like the person it copied, that's level one. When it begins to feel aggressive, parts of its body distort—head swells, limbs grow longer or larger—that's level two. When it casts off all shape and shows its original ghost-like form, that's the highest level, level three."
Richard nodded, understanding, yet the rules struck him as riddled with contradiction—especially the second and fourth. Hide or fight? And the fourth was the worst: kill it, or kill yourself.
Rather than a guide to resistance, it sounded like a guide to resignation; none of the rules seemed to offer any real escape from a Pseudo-human's attack.
Yet from a colder, more conspiratorial viewpoint, the logic was simple.
To whoever wrote these rules, encountering a Pseudo-human meant you were already doomed—only the timing and the pain remained in doubt. Given the creature's abilities and dangers, it made no difference whether the victim managed to kill it; after any Pseudo-human incident, whatever walked out of that place—human or monster—had to be erased.
That is why the first rule demands informing a knower: only someone aware of the threat will press the button for total annihilation without hesitation.
"So that's the situation. For now, let's assume the thing outside that wants us dead is a Pseudo-human," Richard nodded, speaking to the two older men. "We have no choice. It's snowing hard, and the roads will be impassable until it stops. No one's coming to help, and we can't be sure how people will react once they know there's a Pseudo-human here. We both know American cops would rather gun down innocent bystanders than risk a scratch themselves.
Howard and James exchanged glances, then nodded.
No police—for now.
"Chade! Open up, it's me, Steve!" Suddenly the knocking turned more human, and Steve's voice came from outside. "A monster's chasing me—please, just let me in!"
Howard couldn't help himself; he felt certain his son was out there.
Richard blocked him. Knowing it might be a trick, he answered coolly, "Let you in? Sure—if you let me sleep with Nancy first."
"Of course, of course… I agree, just open the door!" the "Steve" outside urged.
Richard sneered. "The real Steve's a coward, but he'd never trade the people he cares about. You're a fake."
"Steve" fell silent, then slammed against the door in a frenzy. "Open it! Open it now!"
"If you're so tough, come on in, gzz." Richard taunted, letting the creature hammer away until the whole room shook and the wardrobe barring the door rattled.
"Aaaargh!" The thing howled, then its voice receded, as though it had left.
No one relaxed; seconds later Steve's voice returned, followed by the whistle of something sharp cutting the air.
Bang!
The door split open a few inches. A warped Steve-face pressed through the gap, grinning at the three men. "Heh-heh-heh… found you!"
Howard and James clutched their folding chair and plush toy, fear doubling.
"Come get me," Richard beckoned, unafraid of the twisted thing.
"You should fear me!" the Pseudo-human Steve snarled, its deformed thick arm swinging an axe, hacking the door to pieces.
After a flurry of blows the upper half of the door was shredded. The creature slipped a hand through the gap, turned the handle, and—together with another Pseudo-human—burst in, shoving the barricade aside.
In the swirling dust, Pseudo-Steve and Pseudo-Mrs. Howard giggled as their bodies melted into black, fluid humanoids sprouting whip-like tendrils.
"So this is a grade-three Pseudo-human," Richard muttered, whirling his staff at one of their heads.
Bang!
The head burst like a water balloon, then re-formed at once, lashing out with vine-like arms.
[Weak Point Exploitation]
Richard's eyes sharpened. Dodging, he triggered the extension skill, hunting for a weakness.
If it was alive, it had to have a flaw.
His dark irises glowed faint blue. In his vision the two rampaging Pseudo-humans remained pitch-black, but tiny bright dots appeared in different spots on their shadows.
"I see—your weak points are in your shadows!" he shouted to the two men.
The Pseudo-humans froze; their prey stared at the odd bright flecks in the creatures' shadows.
"How could you know!?" they shrieked.
Richard grinned and slammed his staff down. The two monsters leapt back to shield their shadows, clearly terrified.
Enraged, one hurled a swarm of tendrils at the humans. Richard, outnumbered, was snared and hoisted upside-down. Tendrils whipped toward Howard and James; they shut their eyes in despair.
Yet no pain came. Instead, their hands moved on their own: the folding chair gaped like a monster's maw, clamping two tendrils tight, while the cute plush toy's stubby arms seized two more.
At the same time, a fiendish roar burst from these supposedly "blessed" objects, jolting everyone awake in the dead of night.