Ryan Greed finished wiping down the last bench a few minutes past seven in the evening, though the exact time hardly mattered. His body had been counting hours long before he checked the clock. His shoulders carried a deep, settled soreness, the kind that lived inside the joints rather than the muscles, and his forearms felt thick and unresponsive, as if circulation had forgotten them. Sweat clung to his skin beneath the thin gym shirt despite the air conditioning humming above.
The gym was nearly empty. Two treadmills still ran on the far side of the floor, their belts whispering in slow, endless loops. A half-finished protein shaker sat beside a dumbbell rack, its lid crusted with dried residue. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a pale, colorless sheen over mirrors, metal frames, and rubber mats that had been scrubbed too many times.
Juno still hadn't come in.
A full week had passed since his coworker called out sick. No replacement had appeared. No temporary hire. Management had stopped pretending a solution existed. Ryan opened the gym, closed the gym, trained clients, corrected form, cleaned equipment, and handled every complaint that surfaced. Overtime padded his paycheck, but it also stripped away whatever energy remained after rent, utilities, and groceries claimed their share. Complaining wouldn't change any of that.
He tossed the rag into a bin, grabbed his bag, and shut down the remaining machines. The hum faded. The gym sank into a deeper quiet. When he pulled the metal shutter down over the entrance, the rattle echoed down the sidewalk outside, sharp and metallic in the still air.
Night had already settled in.
Low clouds smothered the sky, reflecting the dull glow of streetlights and turning everything a washed-out gray. The air smelled faintly of exhaust, wet concrete, and something metallic that never quite disappeared in this part of the city. Ryan stepped outside and inhaled slowly. The coolness slid across his overheated skin, doing little more than reminding him he was no longer inside.
The walk to the station passed without incident. A few cars drifted by. Somewhere, a television murmured behind closed windows. The neighborhood felt subdued, as if most people had already retreated indoors.
The 7:15 local arrived as Ryan reached the platform.
He boarded, found an empty seat near the window, and let his weight drop into it. The glass pressed cool against his temple. His eyelids sagged as the train lurched forward, the steady clatter of wheels against rails forming a hollow rhythm that tugged at the edge of sleep.
Static crackled through the overhead speakers.
"Good evening. Another tremor was recorded near the southern district earlier today. This marks the fifth minor earthquake in the region within the last three days. Seismologists report no detected tectonic activity beneath the area."
Ryan opened his eyes.
Earthquakes were rare here. Not impossible, but rare enough that people usually talked about them. Five in three days should have caused more concern than it had. Yet the city seemed to absorb the news with a strange, muted calm.
The announcement continued.
"In other news, police have confirmed the discovery of bloodstains near the Westbridge underpass late last night. Authorities believe the scene may be connected to the recent string of disappearances in nearby neighborhoods. This marks the fourteenth suspected case within just over a month. No bodies have been recovered. No witnesses have come forward. Investigators have not identified a suspect."
A man across the aisle shook his head.
"What the hell are those bastards in the police department doing?"
Ryan didn't look at him, but he gave a small nod.
Fourteen people didn't vanish by accident.
Every few days, another name appeared. Another person who had simply failed to come home. Always the same pattern. Blood. No bodies. No answers.
Ryan didn't feel panic. What settled in his chest was heavier than fear, a quiet pressure that refused to go away. The sense that something fundamental was wrong, and that knowing it offered no protection at all.
The train slowed.
His stop.
Ryan stepped off the platform and headed toward the exit. Outside the station, a battered vending machine flickered between dim and bright. He bought an energy drink and a small bag of chips, cracked the can open, and swallowed a mouthful of overly sweet liquid that barely cut through the dryness in his throat.
Dinner.
He started walking toward his apartment.
Old apartment blocks loomed on either side of the street, their windows scattered with uneven light. Closed storefronts formed dark gaps between buildings, their signs faded and half-peeled. Streetlights stood far enough apart to leave long stretches of pavement submerged in shadow.
Ryan had walked this route hundreds of times.
About halfway home, he heard something behind him.
*scrape*.
He paused.
Turned.
Nothing.
Probably a cat. Or a rat. This city had more of them than people.
He kept walking.
*Scrape... scrape...*
He stopped again. This time, the sound was heavier. Not the light patter of paws. Something dragging. Something deliberate.
He turned sharply.
Still nothing.
But the air had changed. It was thicker now, like walking through syrup. The hairs on his arms stood up. His heartbeat quickened, thudding against his ribs like a warning drum.
He walked faster.
*Scrape. Scrape. SCRAPE.*
Then he saw it.
A shadow, massive and malformed, slithered from the alley behind him. It didn't walk. It crawled, limbs too long, body too low, like it was folding itself in half just to fit between buildings. Its eyes if they were eyes glowed faintly, like dying embers.
Ryan froze.
"What the hell is that?" he whispered, but his voice cracked mid-sentence.
The thing surged forward.
He turned and ran.
He didn't get far.
A weight like a wrecking ball slammed into his back, sending him flying. He hit the pavement with a sickening crunch, the world spinning, his limbs refusing to obey. Pain exploded through his spine, white-hot and blinding. He tried to scream, but only a strangled gasp escaped.
His vision blurred. Blood trickled into his eyes.
He couldn't move.
He couldn't breathe.
Then came the tearing.
A sound like wet fabric being ripped apart. His back was splitting open. He felt every tendon snap, every bone grind against the asphalt. His body convulsed, nerves firing like live wires.
"AAAHHHHHHH!"
The scream tore from his throat, raw and primal. It echoed down the empty street, bounced off buildings, and vanished into the night.
He had never imagined death would feel like this.
He had imagined it might be quick. A bullet. A car crash. A heart attack in his sleep.
Not this. Notthis.
The pain was beyond comprehension. It wasn't just physical—it was existential. Like his very soul was being peeled away.
'I want to die,' he thought. 'Please. Just let me die.'
But death didn't come.
Instead, the thing, whatever it was, grabbed his leg.
And ripped.
Another scream. Louder. Hoarser. His throat tore with it.
He didn't want to look. But he did.
His leg was gone.
Not broken. Not mangled.
Gone.
Blood sprayed in rhythmic pulses, painting the pavement in arcs of red. His vision dimmed. His body trembled. He couldn't scream anymore. Couldn't think. Couldn't be.
The last thing he saw was the creature's face or what passed for one looming over him. Its mouth opened, impossibly wide, and inside was not teeth, but darkness. A void. A hunger.
Darkness filled his vision.
Somewhere nearby, a voice cut through the haze.
"Target located. Requesting immediate support."
Ryan didn't know who said it. He didn't know what it meant.
His awareness slipped, the street fading into shadow as everything went black.