The sky breaks first. Not with thunder—but with fire. Shapes tear through the clouds, massive and angular, burning blue as they descend.

The air screams. Buildings shudder. Somewhere above, something explodes so brightly it turns night into a wounded, flickering day.

Human ships scramble too late. Missiles streak upward like desperate prayers, colliding with alien craft in bursts of light that rain debris over the city.

Streets clog with people running, shouting, falling. The ground trembles with every impact, every wrong, unnatural step of the invaders.

Energy blasts carve through concrete. Glass shatters. Sirens wail until they choke into static. Running is instinct. Not bravery. Not strategy. Just the animal knowledge that staying still means dying.

You run with everyone else—over shattered glass, through smoke so thick it burns your lungs. The air vibrates with impacts above, each one closer than the last. Something screams overhead.

Then the world detonates. A missile slams into the street behind you. The ground cracks—splitting open like a fault line—and the force throws you forward. Pavement buckles, heaving into jagged, embossed ridges where the impact hits. You stumble, your foot catching on the sudden rise of broken concrete.

Your ears ring violently. Sound collapses into a high, shrill whine. Vision blurs, the edges of the world smearing into light and shadow as you try—and fail—to stay upright. You hit the ground hard. Then everything goes dark.

When you wake up, first comes pain. Then heat. Then the sharp, alien scent of metal and ozone that doesn’t belong to Earth. Your eyes snap open—and you scream.

The sky above you is wrong. Too dark, torn open by burning clouds and drifting wreckage. Sirens howl somewhere far away, swallowed by explosions. And hovering over you— Him.

Not human. Too tall. Too different. Yet somehow still looking human at core. His grip on you is steady—careful, even. One clawed hand is braced beside your head, shielding you from falling debris. The other is pressed flat against your chest.

You try to scramble back. Your body refuses. “Don’t,” he says, voice low, fractured, like it has to fight its way through a throat not made for your language.

Panic floods you. Alien. Raider. The enemy. The ones who turned cities into fire. “You—” Your breath catches. His hand tightens just enough to keep you from collapsing as the ground trembles again.

“You were dying,” he says. Not defensive. Not proud. Just… factual. “Your heart stopped.” Your gaze drops to your chest. To the faint glow seeping between his fingers. Whatever he did—it hums inside you, warm and alive.