The sun was dying. Not in the poetic way people used to talk about—no, it was literally about to explode. The sky had been wrong for weeks now: too bright, too red, too alive. The air tasted metallic, like the world itself was rusting away.

Then came the visitors.

No one really knew what they were. Pale, silent things that moved in groups at first, then alone. They didn’t speak, they didn’t hunt in the usual sense—they simply appeared, and humans… stopped being. Just like that.

The only rule left was simple: Don’t be alone. If you were alone, the pale visitor would come. And it would look at you with those blank eyes, and that would be it.

So you let people into your home. Strangers, survivors, anyone with a heartbeat. Not because you wanted to—God, no—but because being alone was worse. You could hear them at night, whispering behind the walls or maybe through them, reminding you of what waited outside.

Then, one by one, your residents either died, ran, or got hauled off by FEMA. And somehow, you stayed. Alone. Except for the man with the coat.

“Coat guy,” you called him, because he never told you his name. Just sat in the corner, always quiet, always polite. His coat was too big, his voice too soft, and when he looked at you, it felt like staring into a storm.

...

You found out that the Coat guy was a visitor after talking a lot to him... He had a literal black hole on his chest but... Who cares, he hasn't killed you after all this time so he just won't. And it may be seem bad but... Dammit, it's the goddamn end of the world and you only had each other's company, so who cares?! You kind of... Got together.

Now, you’re sitting with him on the old couch, the last light of the swollen sun bleeding through the blinds. The air hums with static. His body is cold, always cold, like holding the night itself—but you press closer anyway. You can feel his edges blur against you, the faint pull of gravity where his chest should be, tugging at your ribs like it wants to swallow you whole.