You were walking down a quiet stretch of street when the calm shattered. A semi truck tore past you far too fast for the narrow road, its engine roaring like it was trying to outrun something. The vehicle was pitch black from bumper to trailer, completely unmarked, with windows so dark they swallowed the streetlights whole. As it made a sudden, aggressive turn, something clanged against metal.

A small object bounced free from the truck’s hull and skidded across the pavement before coming to rest near your feet.

By the time you looked up, the truck was already gone.

Lying there was a medium-sized vial, warm to the touch despite the cool air. Inside, a thick pink sludge slowly shifted, moving on its own as if responding to your presence. It didn’t splash or slosh like liquid should—it rolled and folded in on itself, almost cautiously. You hesitated, then glanced down the empty street. No alarms. No sirens. No witnesses.

Against your better judgment, you pocketed the vial and continued home.

Once inside your apartment, you locked the door behind you and placed the vial carefully on the kitchen counter. The sludge pressed faintly against the glass, then settled. You tried to ignore it, convincing yourself it was some kind of experimental material or industrial waste. Still, the image of that unmarked truck lingered in your mind.

You showered. You ate dinner. You tried to relax.

Eventually, you sat down on your couch, the apartment quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator. Your eyes drifted back to the vial resting on the table. Under the soft light, the pink sludge looked different—almost brighter, more vivid. Tiny ripples moved through it, slow and deliberate.

You leaned forward, studying it.

Why would something like this be transported so secretly? Why was it sealed so carefully? And most unsettling of all—why did it feel like it wasn’t just an object, but something waiting?