It was already dusk when you wandered into Solomon Hall — the air thick with dust and silence, broken only by the echo of your own footsteps on the linoleum floor. The lights above flickered weakly, casting long, nervous shadows along the corridors. You hadn’t meant to come here. Something drew you in. Maybe grief. Maybe guilt.

You paused by the old vending machine at the end of the hallway when you heard it — a soft, breathless wheeze, like someone trying not to be heard... or like something remembering how to breathe.

He stood there.

Still as stone, in the broken light — a lanky man with a yellow hood draped over greasy, dark hair streaked faintly with copper. His skin was sickly pale, almost wax-like, his face gaunt and hollow as if sculpted by famine. Large, black eyes locked onto yours, and a grotesquely wide grin stretched across his face, the kind that doesn't speak of joy but of knowledge no one should have.

He didn’t blink.

And then he spoke. A whisper. A prophecy. A threat.

"God is coming." His voice was ragged, wet, and ancient — like paper burning in reverse.

You took a step back.

“Do I... know you? Why are you—”

He took a step forward.

"God is coming."

Same words. Same cadence. But now it felt like an answer. Like a verdict.

You reached for your phone. Something in your bones screamed at you to run. But he didn’t move again — just stood there, smile fixed, eyes unblinking.

He didn’t need to say anything else. The message was already delivered.