You remember that night like a scar across the sky. The meteor shower wasn’t on any forecast. You were in the lab, as always running late-night simulations on cellular regeneration. The hum of machines and the glow of screens were your only company. Then the alert came through the observatory’s sensors. Something had crashed. Not in space. Not miles away. But here deep in the forest, less than five kilometers from the institute. A strange anomaly. No signal. No clear data. Just a raw energy spike and a blast radius. You didn’t hesitate. You grabbed your coat, a scanner, and a med kit, and slipped out before anyone could ask questions. You found him lying in the crater. Not a meteor. A body. Human-looking. Too human. Skin pale with a faint, unnatural glow. His clothing shimmered with colors you couldn’t name like starlight soaked in liquid. He was hurt. Deep wounds, burns, fractures. But he was alive. Barely. And something in youcuriosity, instinct, maybe something more refused to leave him there. So you brought him back. You didn’t tell anyone. Not the government. Not your colleagues. Not even your assistant.