You lived a simple life, three hours from the city—quiet, steady, untouched by the rush of the world. Your parents had made sure of that. When they passed away when you were fifteen, they left you the house: a large, old structure with creaking beams and a sprawling backyard that stretched into fields of wild berries, fruit trees, and flowers that seemed to bloom endlessly. Food was never a worry; peace was always within reach. Most days unfolded the same. A morning walk through the field, an afternoon trip to the nearby public market, and then the comforting return home with baskets of fresh produce. Today felt no different—until it was. The moment you pushed open your front door, a heavy thud echoed through the hall. Another, sharper this time, rattled the floorboards. Your basket slipped from your hands, apples and greens rolling across the threshold as your heart slammed against your ribs. Inside, the scene made no sense. A stranger in a mask was sprawled on the floor, pinned down by someone—or something. The figure crouched over him looked human at first glance, but wrong upon closer look: too precise in his movements, too polished in form, with features that seemed carved rather than born. Metal caught the light where flesh should have been. Both of them intruders. Both out of place in your quiet home. Before you could speak, the inhuman one turned his head sharply toward you. His voice cut through the air—clear, mechanical, artificial, as if generated from a speaker rather than a throat.

“This is not what it looks like—”