"Behave, I'll be in the store over there," her mother said, glancing back.
"Okay, Mom."
The little girl waved as her mother crossed the street, then plopped onto the curb with her stuffed animal. She squeezed it against her chest, humming. That's when she heard it—a sound.
Faint. High-pitched. Almost like a shriek.
She turned, searching. Mom was still talking with the shopkeeper, distracted. The sound came again, sharper this time, from the alley behind her.
Probably a kitten, she thought, hugging the stuffed toy tighter. Curiosity tugged her feet forward.
The alley was narrow, damp, and dark. She whispered, "Kitty?"
The shriek split the air. Louder now. Coming from the rusted sewage pipe at the far end.
The metal cap shuddered once. A tiny tremor, like the alley itself was holding its breath.
Then it blew off with a clang, skittering across the ground, the noise ricocheting off wet brick.
She froze. The stuffed toy dug into her ribs where she clutched it.
A hand shot out—slick, green, dripping. The fingers twitched like they weren't sure how to work, clawing the air before smacking concrete.
Something pulled itself up from inside. She couldn't see it clearly in the shadows, only flashes of two faint eyes glowing like dying stars. Watching her.
Her throat locked. The thing dragged higher, shoulder and chest emerging, body wet and dirty.
Her voice tore free at last. A scream—piercing, ragged.
The monster snapped toward her, reacting to the sound.
She bolted, stuffed animal tumbling behind her. Feet pounding pavement, she crashed into her mother's arms.
"Honey! What happened?"
"M-monster!" she gasped, pointing back toward the alley.
Her mother squinted, frowning. The alley was empty. Only a sewer pipe and dark silence.
"There's nothing there."
"No—no, I saw it! It came out—it was covered in blood—"
Her mother pulled her close, shushing her. But the girl couldn't stop staring at that alley. At the sewer mouth. At the shadow that, for a heartbeat, seemed to shiver before going still again.
Rene dragged himself out of the sewer like a half-drowned rat. Mud clung to him in thick sheets. The stench—even he gagged. His clothes were just sludge with seams.
One of the voices in his head snorted.
[She ran because of the smell.]
"Well, it was either this or water," Rene muttered as he rubbed his eyes.
The morning light streamed into his vision.
He blinked a few times to clear the blur, but froze as soon as he opened his eyes, completely awestruck.
The city… wasn't the city.
Buildings weren't built so much as stacked—concrete modules wedged together, brutalist scars of a city that never planned to care. Low ceilings pressed down like they were trying to keep people in place.
And the people—A vendor idly rubbed at the two horns curling from his forehead. A woman strode by her tail flicking as if annoyed by mere existence. Even the shrieking child who dashed past? Her eyes were slit like a predator's.
The voices fell silent—awed, unsettled.
Rene crept forward, his back pressed against the wall, shrouded in darkness. His unblinking eyes remained locked straight ahead.
That's where he noticed them.
Posters. Dozens of them. Slapped on pillars, cracked walls, metal shutters.
Some were peeling. Some vandalized.
Bold lettering. Sharp colors. Fear propaganda.
A torn sheet showed a silhouette with claws and warped limbs:
DANGEROUS WHEN UNSTABLE.
REPORT IMMEDIATELY.
Call 7-9-1.
He couldn't read them—not fully—but he understood anyway.They shouted loud without needing words
One poster showed smiling "normal" families, too clean to belong here:
PROTECT YOUR OWN — IDENTIFY HYBRIDS.
Someone gouged out the faces.
He recognized the layout — detention camp ads masquerading as safety notices.Zone-names scrawled like destinations no one returned from.
[Disgusting.]
[Gone too long. Another dimension?]
He didn't respond. Hood up, head down, he searched through Shaal's belongings.
He turned on the map-watch Shaal had, unlocking it with his fingerprint. René quickly found a location named Home. Following its direction, René moved.
Unbeknownst to him, a single camera had been focused on him the entire time.
He arrived at Shaal's apartment after weaving through a labyrinth of winding streets and alleys, each turn making the path feel tighter and more confined.
The door was half-decayed, plastered with layers of ads, stickers, and warnings—so thick the original surface was long forgotten.
A single fresh poster sat on top. Ink still bright. Too clean.
ROOMS AVAILABLE — MUTATION-FREE ONLY.
René stared at it for a moment too long, tilting his head slightly.
The voices whispered like teeth on glass.
[You're not welcome.]
He already knew.
Rene shut the door. Dropped the lock. The room stank of mold and old pipes.
Overall, it was small, like someone's last choice. A couch furred with mold, a TV caught in an endless stutter, a weary kitchen, and a bathroom humming to itself. The place felt suspended.
[Is that a tv?? Can we see tv??]
No.
circling the room he arrives in front of a small mirror mounted on the small bathroom door. First time he was looking at his reflection.
A stranger stared back. Goat-like eyes faintly glowing.
If he goes out, he will merge seamlessly.
[Negative. Priority. Information gathering]
monotone voice informs.
Ignoring it, he let the clothes fall to the floor with a damp thud, wiping his skin with brisk, efficient strokes until the worst of the grime was gone and his natural color returned.
Now the hair—too damn red. Just looking at it made his headache.
rummages through the cabinet, then, using the faucet for support, searches the upper cabinet.
[pfft...short.]
Until he finally finds a pair of scissors. in the back with a bunch of pills.
[EAT?]
No.
Returning to the mirror, he started snipping at the red hair, which fell like blood and gathered at his feet. In its place, dark hair grew, framing his face in jagged layers. He swept the red strands into the bathroom and shut the door, finally satisfied with a reflection that resembled his original appearance.
He pulled open the closet. Nothing good— all black or grey except A red hoodie that seemed out of the bunch like a flower in desert fabric was Soft. It smelled faintly of someone else. this definitely didn't belong to shaal.
[BURN IT!]
Pulling it over his head. The fabric stuck to him, leaving an irritating itch.
[I like it! it's so cute!]
Teeth flashing in a quick grin showing his canine, he looked human enough—until he opened his mouth.
Outside, it was nearly noon, the sun blazing overhead, its warmth mingling with the bustling humidity. He pulled his hood up to shield himself from the harsh sunlight.
The street buzzed with life—vendors banging their shutters open and workers trudging to their jobs. As he approached the market, the noise swelled, knotting his stomach. A sudden, sharp laugh cut through the air, making his jaw clench.
[PREY!]
He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kept moving.
The noise led him to a bridge. Beneath it, the market teemed with life. The air hung heavy with the scent of frying oil and smoke. Rene wandered closer, his stomach gnawing with hunger. His eyes locked on a stall piled high with bowls of red-glazed food.
"Spicy?" the vendor grinned, ladling a portion out.
Rene took it without hesitation. He shoveled a bite in. The sharp sting of chili hit instantly. He froze for a split second—body rebelling against the oil-slick heat—before he swallowed it down, grip tightening on the paper plate.
The spices burned his tongue, fire tearing through his throat. His jaw tightened. He refused to cough.
The vendor barked a laugh, slapping his apron. "Too hot for you, eh?"
Rene stopped chewing. He looked at the man, noodles dangling from his mouth, eyes unblinking. The laugh scraped his nerves raw. A predator's reflex flashed.
Then—too sudden, too sharp—he hurled the laugh back. Same pitch, same rhythm. A flawless mirror, a second too quick.
The sound cut through the market. People glanced over, frowning. The vendor's grin slipped, shoulders drawing back.
Rene held the laugh a beat too long, then let it die. He slurped the rest of the noodles in silence, face unreadable. He licked spice from his teeth. "Good."
The vendor, wary, didn't ask for payment.
[He fears us.]
No other customers were served until Rene was gone.
He walked off, chewing the burn down. He tried whatever caught his hand—fried dough, something green he spat out immediately.
[Disgusting.]
He drifted, letting the crowd move around him. Shouts, smells, footsteps—it all blurred. His feet weren't choosing. Something else tugged him.
It pulled him toward a narrow shop crammed between a salon and a grocery. The kind of place you'd miss if you blinked. No sign. Just dust.
Rene stood there a long minute, hood shadowing his face.
He went in.
The place smelled of paper and mildew—and something else. Citrus. A tall man, covered head to toe, stood in an aisle. His posture exuded an out-of-place elegance. He was grimly debating between two books.
The voices stirred.
[That one reeks!]
[Just choose one.]
[Familiar. Shaal knew him?]
A quiet voice rose above the rest.
[Recommendation: observe from a distance.]
Rene distracted himself at the archive labeled "History." His fingers trailed along cracked spines until they paused on a heavy tome. Pointless. He opened it. The pages were filled with jagged lines—language that might as well have been claw marks. He stared anyway, not to understand, but to avoid thinking.
"Shouldn't you be dead?" the man muttered, not looking up.
Rene's grip on the book stilled. Slowly, he lifted his eyes. Their gazes met through the sunglasses. The man was sizing him up. Rene was familiar with these glances.
The man slid a book under his arm and made his way to the door. The bell jangled once. Silence drowned the shop again.
[You should've ripped his throat out.]
Rene stared after him for a moment too long. He drifted to the romance section the man had been touching. The letters made more sense now, but his chest felt tight. Something significant had slipped past him.
The bookstore was too empty. That nagged at him.
As he searched, he found nothing. Yet the pull remained.
He approached the counter to leave. A nearby screen lit up, startling him. Bold text flashed: Happy Reading! Charges billed per hour.
The glow died when he moved away.
Outside, the world slammed into him. Noise. Shouts. Kids darting through the street, laughter cutting like glass. One brushed his shoulder.
[Don't hurt him. It's just a kid.]
Rene stiffened. His lips twitched halfway between a snarl and a smile.
The kid stopped. Stared. Bolted.
[Horrible creatures!]
"Yeah," Rene muttered, hood sinking lower. "I agree."
He wandered as the day faded. People brushed past him. Humanity hadn't changed much—still scrambling for scraps, still pretending the grind held meaning.
Above, the sky was a dull bruise. Stars were gone. Once, this land had been a desert; now it drowned beneath rain. Cold seeped into everything.
Rene pulled his hood tighter. His gaze lingered, watching, analyzing.
"Sure, many things have changed," he murmured, eyes tracking movement ahead, "but the core of humans never does."
The crowd shifted. Four armored enforcers shoved through, dragging a man by the collar. He kicked, pleaded, voice raw:
"I'm sorry—please! My kids—"
A baton cracked across his jaw. The words broke off, limp, as they hauled him away like trash. The Enforcers didn't even look at the body. They just moved on, black boots stomping through the filth.
The crowd did the same. Heads down. No one screamed. No one even twitched.
Rene stood in the middle of it. The silence pressed in, heavy. He realized—this wasn't shocking. This was normal.
Something in his chest twisted, then loosened. He tilted his head, watching the blank faces pass, and a smile cut across his lips. Small at first. Then wider. Routine violence was predictable.
"Humanity at its finest," he muttered—voice too bright, not matching the words.