The alarm suddenly blared at full volume—so loud that Toria, who had been sleeping in one of the bunker quarters for a few hours, jolted awake instantly, her heart already racing. She sprang up frantically from the bed, slamming her mouth and right cheekbone against the hard concrete edge just above her.
"Fuck!" she screamed in pain, not even knowing what to cover first—her mouth, struck hard on the upper lip near the nasal septum, splitting it open in a deep cut that immediately began to bleed heavily.
"Why…?" Her voice came out muffled, smothered by the pressure of her hand against her mouth. Her eyes were tightly shut from the pain as she struggled to endure it, rocking slightly back and forth, her back pressed against the head of the bed.
Then she truly noticed the alarm—deep, metallic—blaring relentlessly, repeating that harsh, grating "Pwan" over and over. What made her fully aware of it, though, were the screams coming from outside her room, beyond the rusted iron door. Despite its thickness, it couldn't muffle the sheer volume of terrified cries, nor the frantic sound of shoes scraping and pounding against the concrete floor as people ran.
Toria stared at the door, confused and frightened, as she slowly got off the bed. At first, she fumbled for her slippers, struggling to put them on because she couldn't fully take her eyes off the door. Eventually, she glanced down, adjusting her feet until they slipped inside.
As she did, she pulled her hand away from her mouth. Her lip and cheekbone were smeared with bright red blood that still dripped, the same blood staining her hand. When she placed it on the bedcovers, it left behind a clear imprint of her palm, split unevenly by the folds of the blankets.
Toria stood up. Again, a sharp shiver ran down her spine, scratching deep into her, burning as if blades heated to extreme temperatures were carving into her flesh. She felt a cold heat spreading through her body, hiding within scorched folds of imagined, crackling, melted flesh.
This can't be happening… she thought, overwhelmed by yet another wave of fear and frustration. Not again…
She rushed toward the door. Despite her speed, the world seemed to slow down. It felt like she was moving too slowly, wasting precious time she could be using to escape. The door seemed farther and farther away, her vision stretching and warping like rubber, pulled so tight it felt as though it might snap back into her face.
The more time passed, the more the sound of her heartbeat drowned out the screams, growing louder and louder. The moment her hand touched the almost burning-hot handle, another shiver—stronger this time—shot through her body, like a warning. Like an electric shock freezing her in place, telling her to stay right there.
It didn't feel like a simple sensation.
Her muscles stiffened instantly, as if her bones had turned to stone. She stood there, her trembling hand gripping the handle, which rattled along with her, producing small, repeated metallic squeaks. Her gaze was locked onto the door, her fear painfully visible.
And yet, even though she wanted to move, part of her didn't.
I'd rather stay here, chained in place if I have to, than step outside and witness the hell raging out there…
She suddenly felt betrayed by herself when the handle—under her hand for what felt like minutes—tilted slightly downward, letting out a brief but sharp creak that echoed unnaturally through the room, as if the space had expanded around her. The sound reverberated so strongly it made her flinch, her eyes widening in terror, as if she had heard screams.
"W-why… why did it move?"
Toria didn't know what to do except stare at her own hand, growing heavier with each passing second, pressing harder and harder on the handle. Rusted and loosely fixed, it kept sinking lower, like a ship slowly descending into the abyss.
And Toria felt like its only passenger.
Trapped in the deepest, most hidden room, with no way out—watching through a porthole as water slowly rose higher and higher. Thin sprays began seeping in, flooding the room inch by inch. Soon she felt the freezing water at her knees. Then her chest. Then her throat. She did nothing to stop it as it reached her head, pouring into her open mouth, her nostrils—anywhere it could.
Toria let herself drown.
She let herself be tempted to open the door.
…But I don't want to be last in line.
She opened it.
The final motion was abrupt—a sharp click, simple and clean, followed by a long metallic scrape as the bottom edge dragged against the floor.
The moment the door opened, the panic returned.
The screams returned.
The terrified crowds returned.
Everyone was running toward the right side of the corridor. Almost no one—except for a few with bruises or cuts—seemed unharmed.
Even so, in their jerky movements, Toria could see pure terror on their faces.
"Kid, you need to run!" A woman approached her for only a moment. The stress in her was almost inhuman, fear injected deep into her eyes. She couldn't have been older than fifty. Her build was thin, and the green veins beneath her olive skin stood out starkly, pulsing visibly.
"Ma'am, what's happening?!" Toria asked, infected by the same fear. The woman grabbed her arms, gripping them almost violently, her nails digging into the young girl's flesh.
Despite the pain, Toria ignored it.
"We were never safe! These bunkers are slaughterhouses!"
The woman suddenly ran off, yanking her hands away and leaving deep red scratches behind, burning with sharp pain.
"Wait!" Toria called after her—but she was already several meters away.
Toria was terrified.
What the hell is going on…?
At first, she wanted to follow the crowd—to run, to save herself from whatever was happening. The urge was overwhelming. Even her first hesitant steps leaned in that direction.
But in her mind, only one name echoed.
Victor…
Everything changed.
She sprinted toward the medical wards, colliding with people who desperately tried to stop her, shouting that she'd never come back alive, throwing warnings and threats her way.
But one thing scared her more than anything else.
A soldier had said it.
He had no weapon. Only a frozen stare carved by fear.
Toria had simply asked why everyone was running. He seemed calmer than the others—she thought he might have answers.
"Humanity will pay dearly for sending us to fight…"
Then he walked away slowly.
Toria didn't even try to stop him.
This happened well before she reached the medical rooms—now destroyed and abandoned—as she desperately tried to find Victor. She moved quickly, trying to stay quiet.
It was useless.
Because even though she understood it deep down, she couldn't accept it in that moment:
monsters on Earth weren't avoided by staying silent.
They weren't the stupid ones.
Humanity was.
A man suddenly appeared in front of her—then collapsed to the ground, stumbling out of a room. Toria froze.
Not just because of the melting flesh, the broken bones continuing to snap with sickening, infernal sounds, the violent, guttural gasps spilling from a ruined, exploded mouth, or the scorching, toxic stench of the body.
It was the spasms.
Those violent, unnatural spasms that seemed to tear the body apart from within.
She stood there, watching as human life shattered—twisting into something bestial, something so horrifying it shouldn't be able to exist.
Slowly, she witnessed life itself die.
"Uom… uom…"
The creature rose to its feet.
Smoking, dark, wrinkled—horrific in form. Humanoid, tall and cadaverous, its body nearly consumed yet rigid with fear and sadistic pain. An orange glow pulsed through it intermittently, each surge accompanied by a deep thum that seemed to shake the air.
Its mere presence was enough to break her mind.
Toria stood there, powerless.
There were no real words to describe the fear she felt.
Only one thing was certain:
the creature was enjoying it.
More than anything, its grotesque, jagged bone growths—dark and twisted—covered much of its face, extending along its back and shoulders. They made her shudder as she remained frozen in place.
Then the Ijo roared.
And the world around it began to tremble.