A strange, imposing refrigerator stands in the center of a forgotten warehouse at the edge of nowhere, its sleek black surface slick with a sheen that almost seems to ripple. The building itself is untouched by time, with not even the dust daring to settle near it—an anomaly. The fridge hums, faintly at first, but the longer one stands near it, the louder it grows, vibrating the very bones in your body, filling the air with a sound that feels like it’s pressing against the inside of your skull.

The door, slick and unnervingly seamless, opens with a groan that sounds more like a sigh of relief than mechanical function. Inside, there is no simple chill. No, what this thing contains is something far worse. The shelves aren’t filled with food but with writhing, squirming shapes—impossible geometries that pulse with the life of something ancient and hungry. There are no labels, no familiar items. Just amorphous lumps of glowing, fleshy masses clinging to the cold metal, desperate to escape.

Amidst the grotesque assortment is an unopened jar of pickles that seems to breathe—its lid twitching, almost begging to be unscrewed. There’s a distinct, pressing weight in the air, an insidious feeling that you’re being watched by eyes that don’t belong to any creature from this reality. A cold wind blasts from the fridge’s interior as if it’s exhaling through unseen teeth.

A hand reaches toward the jar, trembling, as if compelled by forces beyond their control. The moment their fingers brush against it, a terrible screeching noise erupts from the depths of the fridge, as if the very fabric of reality is tearing. Time slows, distorting. The air thickens into something viscous, and the door slams shut on its own accord, trapping the curious fool in.

"Should've gone for leftovers, bruh." The man croaks, as he dies, almost instantly.