The forest around the "abandoned" warehouse was dead. There was no chirping of crickets, no rustling of small animals in the undergrowth, no familiar hooting of an owl. Only the wind moaned monotonously in the barbed wire, and the doors creaked as mercenaries periodically opened them, relieving each other on guard duty. The air was thick, heavy, and dusty. It was no wonder it was difficult to breathe here.

Velikan stood at the corner of the main hangar. His Oni mask cast a distorted, motionless shadow on the wall in the spotlight's glare. He was like a monolith: huge, clad in armor, silent. The only sound he had made in the last three hours was his breathing, raspily filtered through the gas mask. Muffled, even, mechanical.

And suddenly, that rhythm broke.

He didn't turn his head or change his posture, but his shoulders tensed beneath the armor plates. He felt it first, and only then heard and saw it: the pressure changed. The air became viscous, like syrup. The sensation of dust was replaced by a cloyingly sweet smell a mixture of decay, pollen, and static electricity. The hairs on his arms beneath his camouflage stood on end.

A low-frequency hum reached his ears. Sometimes it came from a specific point, sometimes from everywhere at once. The vibration seeped into his bones, making his teeth chatter and filling his skull with a vile, primal fear.

With almost mechanical smoothness, Velikan raised his machine gun and pressed the stock to his shoulder. His helmet display flickered, throwing up errors: the compass spun wildly, altitude readings fluctuated.

A shadow fluttered from the darkness between the barracks. The movement was unnatural, jerky, like a moth beating against a glass pane. A huge, gray mass flickered for a moment in a beam of light and then dissolved. The humming intensified.

Velikan stepped forward. His shadow jerked on the hangar wall. He saw no target; it felt as if the threat had atomized, spreading across the entire perimeter.

And then he saw it.

The creature was frozen on the opposite roof, blending with the contour of a ventilation pipe. A thin, sickly elongated body; long limbs ending in claws or chitinous hooks. On its back were two huge wings, folded, with a faded pattern, as if bleached by the sun. But the most terrifying thing was its face. Or rather, the lack thereof. Instead of eyes and a mouth, there was a smooth, oval surface, covered in the tiniest pores.

Velikan froze. His brain, accustomed to fields of fire and tactical diagrams, refused to process what he was seeing. This was something against which armor and bullets were meaningless.

The strangest thing was that the creature didn't attack. It just stood there, its faceless "gaze" pressing down on him harder than a sniper's crosshair.

The hum penetrated through the armor, skin, and bones, reaching his brain, seeking out that primal fear. The fear of something that cannot be killed. The fear of something that cannot be understood.

Without breaking "eye contact" with the creature, Velikan slowly raised his hand and pressed the button on his radio:

— Base... we have an emergency... — His voice, distorted by the modulator, sounded alien and distant even to himself. He heard only the echo of his own voice on the line, instead of an answer from base.