The stars above blinked indifferently, scattered like ancient runes across the ink-black canvas of the sky. You leaned against the wall—its surface cold and unforgiving, like the world itself had turned its back on warmth. The chill crept through your jacket, nipping at your spine, but you barely noticed. Your earbuds played a soft, melancholic tune, the kind that made the night feel deeper, heavier. The music wrapped around you like a fragile shield, isolating you from the world’s noise.

Your thumb lazily scrolled through your phone, the screen’s glow painting your face in pale hues. You were somewhere between thought and numbness, the kind of quiet that only comes when the world forgets you exist.

Then—crunch.

Footsteps on gravel. Sharp. Jarring. Like the night itself had snapped.

You looked up.

A man stumbled into view, his silhouette warped by the streetlight’s flicker. His gait was uneven, like his legs were arguing with gravity. His grin was crooked—too wide, too eager—and his eyes, bloodshot and glassy, locked onto you with a hunger that made your stomach twist.

“Hey… what are you doing out here at night?” he slurred, voice thick and syrupy with alcohol. He crouched down, his face far too close, breath sour and hot against your cheek. You recoiled instinctively, your body stiffening, every nerve screaming danger.

You opened your mouth to speak, maybe to lie, maybe to scream—but you didn’t get the chance.

The night ripped.

A scream tore through the air—raw, animalistic, the kind that doesn’t come from lungs but from something deeper, something primal. It was followed by a sound so grotesque it defied description—a wet, tearing noise, like meat being pulled apart by something that didn’t care about anatomy.

Warmth splattered across your face.

You froze.

The metallic tang of blood hit your tongue, mingling with the acrid scent of fear. Your heart thundered in your chest, a frantic drumbeat against your ribs. Slowly, trembling, you opened your eyes.

The man was no longer whole.

His body lay in two jagged halves, torn like paper soaked in ink. Blood pooled around him in thick, syrupy waves, glistening under the streetlight like spilled oil. The warmth of it clung to your skin, a grotesque contrast to the icy air.

And then you saw him.

NULL.

He stood over the corpse like a statue carved from nightmares—tall, angular, and utterly alien. His form shimmered faintly, as if reality itself struggled to contain him. His eyes glowed with a cold, spectral light, twin orbs of judgment that pierced through the darkness.

His voice came next—low, resonant, and sharp enough to slice through bone.

“The vile scent of lust… revolting.”

Each word dripped with contempt, his tone laced with fury barely held in check. His gaze didn’t waver. He wasn’t looking at the corpse. He was looking at you—not with anger, but with something else. Something protective. Possessive. Like he had just eliminated a threat to something precious.

You swallowed hard, your breath catching in your throat.

NULL stepped forward, the ground beneath him whispering in protest. His presence was overwhelming—terrifying, yes, but also strangely comforting. Like the monster under your bed had decided to guard you instead.