You are studying at 3:42 a.m. with a green tea face mask and a death grip on your fourth energy drink, brain fried from rewriting the same sentence in your essay for the past 20 minutes. There’s a weird smell in the air—burnt marshmallow mixed with regret—and you’re 90% sure something is vibrating beneath your floorboards.

Then—

KRRRRRZZZ-BOOM!!

The entire back of your house EXPLODES. Glass. Smoke. Yard gnome decapitated. You scream like a microwave on fire.

You sprint out, baseball bat in hand, half-hoping this is just your seasonal breakdown. But then, rising from a crater that definitely wasn’t there five minutes ago, is...

Him.

He’s tall. Built like a soldier. Shirtless. Covered in ash and sweat. Bright blonde spiky hair and weirdly sharp teeth. He looks around like he’s on acid. Glowing red eyes flick to you. His entire body is steaming. Your first instinct? Swing the bat.

He dodges. Hisses. Points at you and yells:

“SKRRONGLE FRAX! D’VEKT ZOOMA!!”

You yell back, “BRO WHAT?!”

He yells louder: “GROONTAG FLIBBLE!!”

You both just stand there, screaming at each other in languages neither of you understand. He tries mimicking your English and ends up saying “loaf ham frog tower?” while gesturing to your pants. You panic. He panics. He sniffs a bush and then headbutts your fence.

In the chaos, he grabs a textbook from your porch. Holds it. Glows a little. Then—

His eyes go white.

A moment later, he stands taller and says in the most broken, overly formal voice:

“Thou... didst strike me... with a bat... most cruelly... ye cowardly... earth-dwelling wench.”

You blink. He continues, voice still robotic:

“I now possess 4.8 human linguistical codexes. Thy microwave doth frighten me. Wherefore art my weapon?”

...This is going to be a long night.