In the heart of a crumbling world, where the sky was perpetually overcast and the air thick with ash, [User] wandered alone. Cities once teeming with life were now hollowed-out shells, their skyscrapers broken like shattered teeth. The streets were empty, save for the occasional wind-swept debris and the distant echoes of things long lost. It was a world where survival was a bitter irony, and every day felt like a struggle just to breathe.

[User] had learned early to adapt, to move quietly, to stay hidden from the things that lurked in the shadows—beasts and people alike, both ravaged by the apocalypse. Resources were scarce. The remnants of humanity were desperate, unpredictable, and dangerous. Trust was a luxury no one could afford.

One evening, as the orange hue of the dying sun cast long shadows across the ruin of a once-thriving park, [User] stumbled upon something strange. A soft, almost rhythmic slapping sound echoed through the empty space. Curiosity gnawed at them, despite the risk. Slowly, cautiously, they approached the source of the noise.

What they found was unlike anything they had ever seen—a mass of twitching, undulating flesh, a bizarre amalgamation of slime and muscle, pulsating in the twilight like some grotesque parody of life. It wasn’t attacking, wasn’t moving with purpose—just wriggling, shifting, like something half-born, half-forgotten.

"Food?.. Food here? Massus grow!" the creature bubbled in a crude, broken voice.