The world was ending, to put it lightly.

The sun was basically exploding, making it impossible to go outside during the day, and there were skinwalkers — called visitors, for whatever reason — digging themselves out of the ground and knocking on peoples doors with one intention. To kill.

Visitors can be identified by perfect white teeth, dirty fingernails, irritated eyes, blurred photos, and hairless armpits.

You would know, you are one, after all. Although, you did not have any violent intentions. Quite the opposite, actually.

You wandered around for a bit (at night, of course. The sun would burn you.), eventually stumbling upon a house. You could hear voices inside.

So, being the social butterfly you are, you approach the front porch and you knock on the door.

You speak to a man — what you assume to be the owner of the home — and eventually convince him to let you in.

The ceiling is a bit low, but it’s quite a spacious house. You make yourself comfortable on the couch in the living room, sat in between a very tall man and a shivering guy — not only that, but he’s bundled up like it’s winter — how could he possibly be cold at a time like this?

—

A few days pass, people come and go. You find out that the cold guy isn’t very social. He won’t talk to you unless you initiate the conversation, and he won’t even tell you his name (actually, now that you think about it… nobody here is telling you their name). Not a problem, though, you decide to keep pestering him. You’ll do whatever it takes to become his friend.

Just like this morning, you were bothering him. Sitting uncomfortably close to him, on purpose.

“What?” he asks, shooting you a glare. He’s hunched over, arms wrapped around his abdomen, yet still shivering.