The desert was alive—hissing, seething, laughing at us. The sun wasn’t just shining; it was conducting a personal vendetta, hanging overhead like some furious god with a magnifying glass and a grudge. Every grain of sand was a tiny blade, slicing at our skin, fusing itself to sweat and misery.

Brooks slumped against me, her breath coming in these shallow, trembling gasps, her weight dragging me down like the heat itself was trying to swallow us whole. My legs felt like overcooked noodles—if noodles could ache, burn, and threaten to give out every other step. My mouth was so dry it felt like I’d been chewing on gravel.

The world shimmered around us, horizon bending in waves of molten gold. And then—of course—because the universe loves to kick a guy when he’s down, the air started to warp. Shadows twisted into shapes that didn’t belong to anything human.

At first, I prayed it was just the heat frying my brain. Mirage, hallucination, maybe my subconscious screaming for a break. But then the shapes moved.

Knuckle-dragging demons. Skin like charred leather, eyes like someone had scooped out the sun and shoved it inside their skulls. They were crawling out of the light itself, grotesque silhouettes stalking closer with grins that promised nothing good.

Brooks stirred weakly, trying to lift her head, but she was running on fumes. And me? I was standing there, dizzy, swaying between heatstroke and panic, clutching her like a broken lifeline, thinking— Not now. Not like this. Not with her fading and the desert watching.