I thought I'd hit rock bottom already—framed by dossiers, hunted by the Director, partner nearly devoured by nightmares. But the Bureau slapping "Nightmare Host" on my face? That made everything before feel like a playground day pass.
The notice came at 3 a.m. I was still in a cheap motel, counting ceiling cracks. Suddenly, floodlights blasted the window—like a game show spotlight. For a second, I thought I'd signed up for Who Wants to Be the Next Demon.
"Ethan Kane!" a loudspeaker thundered, rattling glass. "You are confirmed as a Nightmare Host. Surrender immediately for full purification!"
I sighed, rolling over. "They sound like salesmen. Next line's probably: scan the QR code to claim your free cleansing coupon."
My partner shoved a gun into my hand, pale as chalk. "You can still joke? You're officially a world-class fugitive now—quotation marks around nightmare host and everything!"
I shrugged. "Better branding than 'illegal street vendor.'"
The wall exploded. Armed agents stormed in—eyes glowing blue, Bureau badges gleaming, but nightmare tendrils trailing behind like octopus hybrids.
"Oh, stylish," I smirked. "Slap them in a nightclub, they'd sell tickets."
Gunfire shredded the motel like crackers. Dust and bullets whirled. We crouched behind the busted bedframe, trading fire and complaints.
"You're not really a host, right?" my partner yelled.
"Come on. I can't even keep a cat. You think I'd rent out my body to a nightmare?" I fired back.
Yet the louder they shouted "host," the less sure I felt. If some nightmare really had sublet my body, I sure as hell hadn't signed the lease.
The chaos escalated. The motel owner poked his head up from the basement, took one look, and disappeared again—probably wondering how much to charge for a "war-zone surcharge."
We slipped out a back window, but the streets were sealed. Drones circled overhead, casting cold spotlights that pinned me like an exhibit. Screens on skyscrapers flashed:
"Nightmare Host: Ethan Kane. Global Manhunt. Shoot on sight."
Seeing my name scroll across the skyline, I felt… oddly accomplished. Who knew fame had more than Nobel Prizes? There was also global extermination lists.
"You're screwed," my partner hissed. "They'll never stop."
"Great," I grinned. "At least my memoir can be titled: How an Ordinary Man Became Humanity's Enemy Overnight."
But jokes aside—we had to run. Behind us, hunters surged like a tide, gunfire mixed with nightmare growls in a grotesque symphony. And I couldn't shake the thought: was this hunt really about me, or about burying the truth?
Because if I was a host, then what they were hunting wasn't just me. It was every human touched by nightmares.
That made me laugh harder. Those agents chasing me—the ones with glowing blue eyes—who's to say they weren't the next hosts themselves?
"Hey!" I shouted between gasps, sprinting. "Want to bet? On whether they catch me first, or get eaten first?"
My partner nearly screamed. "Shut up!"
I didn't. I laughed louder. Because in this global manhunt, laughter was the only thing keeping me sane.