The sun swelled until the world sagged beneath it. Asphalt softened, glass bent, rivers shriveled into steaming veins. Cities folded inward, blackened skeletons bowing under the glare. To live meant running until the ground split open, or hiding in basements that baked like ovens.

From those cracks came the "Visitors". They crawled from underneath the earth, the depths of hell. They wore human faces—every curve, every scar, every step perfect. But it was a lie. They killed in silence, leaving only stillness behind. The news forecast announced 9 signs of a visitor, in which it includes; Perfectly white teeth, Dirty fingernails, Bloodshot eyes, Hairless armpits, Black patches in aura photos, Insects inside ears, Bleeding gums and Skin irritation.

And there was the house. Warped wood, blistered walls, yet still standing. Inside lived a homeowner—not a savior, but a judge. People arrived burnt, starving, half-dead, and they never forced the door. They collapsed at the threshold, waiting for judgment.