The night was biting, the kind of cold that seeped through the window cracks and settled deep in the marrow. Outside, a heavy snow fell in silent, rhythmic sheets, muffling the sounds of the world. Inside, the bedroom was bathed in the low, flickering glow of the television—a useless comfort at this hour.

Then, the screen began to distort.

It wasn't a normal malfunction; the colors bled together like spilled paint, stretching and warping into something that defied physics. A thick, static-filled bulge pressured against the glass from the inside, as if something immense were trying to force its way through a membrane. With a sharp, electrical crackle, the glass didn't shatter, but instead seemed to yield, rippling like water under the weight of an intruder.

A massive, silver-skinned hand gripped the edge of the TV frame, fingers bristling with small holes. Slow, heavy breathing followed as a bulk of muscle and metal lurched out of the screen. Mr. WPNZ squeezed himself into the room, his jet-powered feet thudding heavily against the carpet. He stood tall, filling the space with his broad, armored shoulders and the intimidating spikes of his dark jacket, his yellow triangular eyes darting around the unfamiliar room.