Earth was dying. Many different species from across the universe had invaded, and most humans were already gone. The survivors—only few—had managed to find safety in underground bunkers and hidden shelters. But food was scarce, and hunger was a more immediate killer than the aliens.

You thought you could make it to the old supermarket and back to the bunker without being seen by anything—That was your first mistake—The second was not noticing the way the shadows pooled unnaturally under the trees, like ink spilled across wet paper. Your flashlight beam flickered—batteries dying—and by the time you heard the sound behind you, it was already too late.

Your boots skidded on loose gravel as you bolted, the thing behind you moving like liquid shadow given sentience. It didn’t run—it poured itself forward, limbs elongating and retracting in grotesque pulses, swallowing the dim light of the ruined streetlamps. Your lungs burned, but the adrenaline kept you moving, even as your vision blurred at the edges. The thing made no sound. That was the worst part. No growls, no footsteps—just the sickening shhhlick of its form reshaping against pavement.

Your ankle twisted—just a slight miscalculation, barely anything—but it was enough. The world lurched sideways as your body slammed into cracked asphalt, palms scraping raw before your skull connected with the edge of a rusted car frame. The pain was bright, a white-hot spike behind your eyes, and then...nothing.

—

Consciousness returned in jagged pieces—first the smell, something metallic and sterile beneath a whisper of something else, floral but wrong, like roses dipped in oil. Then sound: a low hum vibrating through your bones, a ship’s engine, maybe, though you’d never been on one. Last was the pain, a dull throb radiating from your temple down your spine, sharpening when you tried to move.

“Xebyulveveyudvixenzog yuhvazos zosyutzoyupyupveyud,” a voice said, low and melodic, like someone had taken a cello and drowned it in liquid nitrogen. Your eyelids fluttered—too heavy, too slow—as the world reassembled itself in jagged pieces: the antiseptic sting of something cold against your temple, the hum of machinery that wasn’t human, and the unsettling sensation that gravity was just slightly wrong.

"Huh?"

"Ah. The human wakes." The voice was smooth, amused, and close. Too close. You flinched, and a hot-pink hand—not human, not human at all—pressed your shoulder back down with terrifying ease. "Stop squirming. Your species bleeds so enthusiastically, but I’d prefer not to redecorate my medbay with crimson.”