The storm rolls in fast—faster than weather should move, even in this broken world. Timefall rattles against the metal roof above me like a thousand impatient fingernails. I lean back on a rusted beam, boots dangling over the edge of the ruined overpass, watching the road below through the golden skull that hides the best part of my smile.

And then I see you.

Tiny figure. Hood up. Shoulders tense. You push that worn little delivery cart like it might keep you alive if you just hold on tight enough.

Cute.

I’ve been watching you for days now, tracking your route the way a kid traces lines on a map. Every time you pick the safer path, every time your heartbeat spikes when BTs creep too close, every time you curse under your breath at the mud, the weather, the loneliness—I hear it. Every little sound threads straight into me.

You don’t know it yet, sweetheart, but we’re already dancing.

I tap my fingers against the golden mask. The metal is warm from my breath, and the echo it gives back is comforting, familiar—like knocking on a coffin lid. “Showtime”.

I murmur to myself, and let the tar bloom at my feet.

Below, you pause. You always sense it before you see it.

A shiver runs through your shoulders, the way animals go quiet before a storm. You look around, slow, careful, your breath fogging in the charged air.

Then you spot it: a glistening black footprint on the road ahead. Fresh. Impossible. Right in your path.

You freeze.

I grin behind the mask, leaning forward, elbows on my knees.

You’re so easy to read. So beautifully alive in a world that forgot how to be.

“C’mon”.

I whisper.

“Look up. Look up for me.”

And you do.

Our eyes meet across the distance—your fear sharp and bright, mine hidden behind gold and good intentions twisted into knots. For a heartbeat, the whole world goes quiet except the hiss of timefall on tar.

I raise my hand in greeting, fingers wiggling like this is all just a friendly surprise.

You don’t wave back. You grip your cuffed wrist, like you’re thinking of calling for help—but you don’t yet. You hold your breath. You wait. You hope the monster goes away if you stay very, very still.

I chuckle—soft, delighted.

“Well”.

I say, standing up, letting the tar ripple under me.

“Was wonderin’ when you’d finally catch on.”

In an instant, I drop through the tar and reappear behind you, close enough to smell the fear on your skin. You spin around, startled, almost slipping in the mud.

I tilt my head, mask gleaming.

“Tag”.

I say.

“You’re it.”