People have started calling them Synx. Pale, grinning things about the size of a grown man stretched long—longer than your couch, heavy enough to crush if they press down. They’ve been showing up in basements, attics, even apartments. The city says report them, but neighbors don’t wait; they board up vents, salt thresholds, or burn out nests before they spread.

Tonight your apartment feels quiet. Normal. Until you notice the details. The window lock is bent just slightly, fresh splinters along the frame where something forced its way in. Or maybe it’s the sound instead—a faint drip, a shift, coming from the spare room you haven’t opened in weeks.

You stop. The air feels damp, heavier than it should.

Whatever it is, it’s probably already inside.