Time, like sound, had become a thick, unstable substance. Minutes could stretch into hours of motionless tension, and hours could compress into a single instant of pure terror. After the man in the suit vanished, swallowed by the first swift shadow, an unnatural calm settled in once more. It was the quiet of a battlefield after the first shot is fired, when both sides hide, reassessing the enemy's lethal face.
Artur remained in his alley, an observer in the shadows. He knew the threat hadn't disappeared. It was merely hunting. Or worse—it was watching.
Denial, however, is a survival instinct as stubborn as fear. On the other side of the street, a new group formed from the scattered survivors. There were four of them, led by a man in a denim jacket who radiated forced confidence—the kind of person who takes charge in a disaster because inaction is more terrifying than danger.
"We can't just stand here," he said, his voice a little too loud in the oppressive silence. "We have to find the edge. Every place has an edge."
A young woman with blue-dyed hair, visibly trembling, pointed toward the end of the street.
"But… that thing?"
"It doesn't matter. There's only one of it. There are four of us. If we stick together, we've got a chance," the improvised leader replied. It was faulty logic, born of panic—but it was a plan. And a plan, however stupid, was better than the void.
They began to walk together, moving down the middle of the street as if exposure itself were a show of strength. Artur watched them with the patience of stone. He didn't join them. He felt the flaw in that plan in his bones. This place didn't follow the rules of logic or strength in numbers.
As the small group moved away, Artur noticed the sickness in the world's geometry. The street, which he knew to be no more than two hundred meters long, seemed to stretch ahead of them. After thirty seconds of walking, they barely appeared to have advanced. The distant buildings, instead of drawing closer, subtly retreated, their architectural lines flickering at the edges like a heat mirage. Perspective was lying.
The group's leader glanced back, and Artur could see the confusion on his face—the growing realization that walking straight wasn't working. They quickened their pace, almost running, but the distance elongated in the same proportion. They were on a cosmic treadmill, running in place while the scenery mocked their effort.
It's a labyrinth, Artur confirmed to himself. A labyrinth without walls, where the barriers were space itself folding inward. Running was useless.
He needed a new vantage point. The dead-end alley was a tomb waiting to be sealed. He peeked out onto the street. It was empty. He moved, slipping out of the shadows with a predator's fluidity, the axe hanging at his side. He crossed the street, feet light on the silent asphalt, and took shelter in the entrance of an apartment building.
Inside, in the lobby's dim light, he found another pocket of humanity. An elderly couple and a woman in a delivery uniform sat on the floor in silence, until Artur's arrival made them flinch.
"Who are you?" the delivery woman asked, her voice tight, eyes fixed on the axe.
Artur didn't answer right away. He simply stepped aside so he could see both the street and the interior of the lobby at once.
"Someone trying not to die," he said at last, his voice rough from disuse.
The elderly couple shrank back, but the woman—her badge read Carla—relaxed slightly. Fear of Artur gave way to the shared fear of the situation.
"You saw…?" she began.
"I saw," Artur cut her off, his gaze still on the street.
"We should stay here," the old man said, his voice trembling. "Lock the doors. Wait. That's safest."
Carla shook her head, nervous energy keeping her from staying still.
"Wait for what? For those things to break the door down? You saw what happened to the car out there. That thing tore through metal! We have to try to get out. That other group—they had the right idea."
"They're not going anywhere," Artur said, without turning.
Carla looked at him.
"How do you know?"
"Look at the street. At the buildings. They don't stay put. Space is sick."
The sentence hung in the air. It was such a strange observation, so fundamentally wrong, that for a moment they forgot their fear of monsters and felt the deeper terror of madness.
"That doesn't make sense," the elderly woman said weakly.
"Nothing here does," Artur replied. He turned to face them, and the purple light spilling through the glass doors carved deep shadows into his face. "I saw a tree die in less than a minute. Not lose its leaves. Die. The wood rotted. This place… it's poisoning things. Standing still just means dying more slowly."
The information struck the group like a physical blow. The abstract fear of "monsters" was one thing. The concrete idea of an actively toxic environment—of air that kills—was another. The old man looked down at his own hands, as if expecting them to start rotting.
"Then what do we do?" Carla asked, desperation beginning to eat through her determined façade.
Artur shrugged, a gesture that was brutally honest.
"I don't know what we do. I know what I am going to do. Find high ground. Understand the terrain."
He turned to leave.
"Wait!" Carla said. "It's safer if we stick together!"
Artur stopped in the doorway and looked back at her over his shoulder.
"No, it isn't. Together you make noise. Together you panic. Panic has a smell—and the creatures here can smell it."
He stepped out into the street's silence, leaving them behind with their argument and their new, terrible truth. He was a man of the forest. He understood the dynamics of hunter and prey. A solitary animal has a better chance of survival than a frightened herd.
He looked toward the group of would-be explorers, now distant, frustrated figures, practically running in place. They were bait. And while the hunters' attention stayed on the noisy bait, the silent predator could move unseen. The calm was false. It was only the lull before the massacre.