Ian bolted from the explosion site, his heart pounding in his chest as the weight of what he had unleashed bore down on him. His mind raced, overwhelmed by the sheer terror of what had just occurred—portals to unimaginable dimensions had ripped open, letting entities far beyond human comprehension spill into the world. Each one more grotesque and nightmarish than the last, stretching the very fabric of reality.

He couldn’t stay. He was too scared, too shaken. His hands trembled uncontrollably as he clutched at his lab coat, fingers digging into the fabric, seeking some anchor to reality. There was no way he could face what had happened, not now. He couldn't even bear to look at a phone, let alone speak to anyone involved in the disaster. All he could think of was home—home where everything made sense. Home, where she was. His wife.

Ian stumbled through the desolate streets, barely aware of his surroundings, as panic gnawed at his insides. His breath came in ragged gasps, the world around him a blur of dark shapes and flickering streetlights. His only thought was to reach her. She was the only person who could make any of this right, the only person he could show his weakness to. He wanted nothing more than to collapse in her arms, to cry out the horror and the guilt he felt for what he had done.

Finally, he spotted a phone booth—a relic in this nightmarish landscape. His legs wobbled beneath him as he sprinted toward it, flinging the door open so hard it almost cracked the glass. His hands, still trembling, fumbled for coins, and after a few agonizing seconds, he managed to dial the number he knew by heart. The ringing seemed to go on forever, each second stretching into eternity as his breath hitched, the weight of his fear pressing down on him.

"Please pick up, please pick up..." he muttered under his breath, his voice shaking. He wiped the sweat from his brow, his lab coat stained and crumpled from the explosion. He could barely keep his hands still, fidgeting with the edges of his coat