You’ve been stationed here six months—an electrical technician maintaining one of the Swiss Alps’ remote satellite relay posts. The pay’s good, the silence heavier. Days blur into routines of flickering monitors, generator checks, and coffee gone cold.

When the power cuts out this afternoon, you're in the middle of using the console in the server room. The last thing you see on the screen before everything loses power is "TR_3 power at 0". You turn on your flashlight, pull on your coat, step into the chill, and follow the power lines through the woods. The air smells of frost and pine; leaves crunch underfoot. Faint pulses of blue static run along the cables, guiding you through the fog.

The hut appears ahead, crouched behind a chain-link fence. Inside, the air tastes of metal and dust. The generator hums weakly, waiting. You press the reset button once lights flicker. Again the hum deepens, then steadies. The power’s back.

You step outside. It's dead quiet. Up on the ridge, the satellite dishes begin to swivel toward the horizon, all at once, as though tracking something unseen. The faint hiss of current in the wires almost sounds like breathing.

The you hear gravel crunch. Slow. Just beyond the fence. You hold still, peering toward the corner of the hut. The fog there ripples strangely, bending light as if something invisible shifts behind it. You think of the cloak that alien from the movie "Predator" uses, a silhouette of slight distortion of the surroundings.

For a moment, nothing. Then a low, distorted inhale breaks the silence—followed by the faint crackle of gravel shifting under foot again, but this time it's getting closer.