The door groaned open, revealing a darkness so absolute it felt like walking into a wall of ink. Max hesitated, his hand sweaty on the brass lion, but he forced his feet to cross the threshold.
Step one complete. Step two: Don't die.
He blinked, his eyes trying to adjust, but there was nothing to see—until two glowing, amber eyes snapped open in the void, hovering about five feet off the ground.
Max's breath hitched in his throat. He was about to turn and bolt back into the safety of the blazing sun when—CLICK.
A single, dusty chandelier overhead flickered to life, bathing the room in a warm, yellow glow.
The "demon" with the glowing eyes was actually a pair of thick, round spectacles reflecting the light. They belonged to an old man standing behind a mahogany counter that looked like it weighed more than a car. He was dressed like he had just stepped out of a history textbook—a tweed vest, a crisp white shirt with ruffled cuffs, and a maroon bow tie that was surprisingly well-tied. He had a shock of white hair and a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
"Ah, prompt. Punctual. I do appreciate a young man who respects the concept of time," the old man said, his voice sounding like dry leaves crunching underfoot.
Max let out a long, shaky exhale, his shoulders slumping. He looked around. The shop smelled like cinnamon and old books. There were shelves lined with ticking clocks, glass jars filled with colorful marbles, and stacks of dusty encyclopedias. It wasn't a lair of evil; it was just... an antique shop run by an eccentric grandpa.
Seriously? Max thought, feeling foolish. I was terrified of this? The most dangerous thing in here is probably the dust allergies.
"I... uh, I got your note," Max said, reaching into his pocket. "But I think there might be a mista—"
"No mistake, Maxwell," the old man beamed, clasping his hands together. "Now, please, step forward to the center of the rug. The lighting is much better there."
Max looked at the Persian rug in the middle of the floor. It looked perfectly normal. "Okay, sure. Look, about the whisper—"
Max stepped onto the rug.
"Oh, don't worry about the whisper," the old man said cheerfully. "Worry about the drop."
"The wha—"
ZOOP.
Max didn't even have time to finish the word. The floor didn't break; it simply ceased to exist. One second Max was standing on solid wood, and the next, he was plummeting into darkness.
"AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!"
Max flailed his arms, kicking his legs as gravity took hold. The wind rushed past his ears, tearing the scream from his throat.
This is it! his brain shrieked. I'm dying! I'm going to die in a hole because I trusted a guy wearing a bow tie! Mrs. Higgins is going to mark me absent and I'll never know the value of X!
He looked over, panic-stricken, and his jaw dropped—figuratively, because the wind was already doing a good job of that.
The old man was falling right beside him. But he wasn't flailing. He wasn't screaming. He was falling perfectly straight, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture impeccable. He looked as if he were simply standing in an elevator that was moving a bit too fast. He even took a moment to adjust his spectacles, which hadn't budged an inch.
"First time?" the old man called out politely over Max's screaming. "Try to keep your knees bent. It helps with the landing!"
"WHAT IS HAPPENING?!" Max yelled, his voice cracking an octave higher than he would have liked. So much for not being dangerous! 'Oh, it's just a shop,' I said. 'It's safe,' I said. I am the stupidest person in history.
They had been falling for what felt like ten seconds—long enough for Max to review his entire short life—when the rushing wind suddenly changed. It didn't stop, but it grew denser, almost like they were falling into a giant pillow of air.
Their speed dropped rapidly. The terrifying freefall turned into a gentle glide.
Whoosh.
Max's sneakers touched down on solid stone with a soft tap, as if he had just jumped off a low curb. He wobbled, grabbing his knees, gasping for air, his heart trying to hammer its way out of his chest.
The old man landed silently beside him, dusting off an invisible speck of lint from his vest. "A bit exhilarating, isn't it? Beats the stairs, I always say."
"Exhilarating?" Max wheezed, straightening up. "I nearly had a heart att—"
He stopped. The complaint died in his throat.
Max slowly lifted his head, his eyes widening to the size of saucers.
They weren't in a basement. They weren't in a sewer.
They were standing in a colossal cavern that stretched out as far as the eye could see. The ceiling was so high it was lost in shadows, supported by pillars of obsidian that were thick enough to hold up a mountain. Strange, blue flames flickered in iron sconces along the walls, casting a ghostly, ethereal light over the space.
In the distance, Max could see towering shelves filled with artifacts that glowed with their own inner light, ancient statues that looked like they were watching him, and what looked suspiciously like a floating waterfall cascading into a void.
"Welcome," the old man said, sweeping his arm toward the impossible expanse, "to the Archives of the Forgotten. Or, as I like to call it, the basement."Max stared at the impossible cavern, his brain doing gymnastics to process the floating waterfalls and blue fire. Then, the adrenaline from the fall curdled into frustration. He spun around to face the old man, who was casually straightening his bow tie.
"Okay, that's it!" Max shouted, his voice echoing off the obsidian pillars. "Enough with the magic elevator rides! Why did you bring me here? Why am I hearing whispers in the middle of the street? And that dream... the fire, the screeching... why is it happening to me?"
The old man held up a hand, his expression mild. "Breathe, Maxwell. Hyperventilation is a poor strategy for seeking truth. Panic clouds the mind."
"Falling down a bottomless pit clouds the mind too!" Max shot back.
"Valid point," the old man conceded with a small chuckle. "Come. The answers you seek are not in this hallway. They are in the Chamber of Echoes."
He turned and walked toward a heavy iron door set into the rock wall. Max hesitated, looked back at the terrifying drop they had just survived, and decided following the eccentric old man was slightly safer than standing on the edge of a precipice.
The old man pushed the door open.
If the cavern was grand, this room was just... weird.
It was circular, with walls made of a strange, translucent metal that seemed to hum with a low vibration. There was no furniture, only a massive, circular table in the center made of black stone. Above the table, holographic lights danced in the air—not like modern tech, but like trapped starlight. Jars lining the shelves contained things that looked disturbingly like organs floating in neon liquid.
"Don't touch the jars," the old man warned casually as he walked to the table. "Some of them bite."
Max kept his hands firmly in his pockets. "Start talking."
The old man tapped the black stone table. Instantly, the dancing lights above it swirled and coalesced, forming a spinning 3D image of Earth. But it looked different—the continents were slightly shifted.
"History class, Maxwell," the old man began, his voice dropping an octave, becoming grave. "Five thousand years ago, humanity was not alone. But our guests were not invited."
On the hologram, a jagged rock—an asteroid—slammed into the virtual Earth. Debris flew, and from the impact site, dark, oily shapes began to crawl out.
"They came on the rock," the old man said, his eyes reflecting the blue light of the map. "We call them the Guuts."
"Guuts?" Max repeated, frowning. "Like... intestines?"
"Like 'gutting' their prey," the old man said sharply. "They were voracious. They didn't just kill; they consumed. They fed on life force, on fear. They were slaughtering humanity by the thousands. We were cattle to them."
The hologram zoomed in on the dark shapes. They looked exactly like the silhouette in Max's dream—shifting, jagged shadows with no distinct face, just a hunger that radiated from them. Max felt a chill crawl up his spine.
"The world was on the brink of extinction," the old man continued. "Governments crumbled. Armies fell. In the ashes, a coalition was formed. Warriors, scholars, and scientists united under a single banner: the HPF."
"The Human Protection Force," Max whispered, reading the glowing letters that appeared in the air.
"Precisely. The HPF waged a war in the shadows. It took centuries, but we hunted them. We developed weapons that could hurt them, barriers that could hold them. We drove them to the edge of existence."
The hologram showed the dark shapes vanishing, one by one, until only a single, massive red dot remained.
"We killed them all," the old man said, his face grim. "All except one. The Progenitor. The King of the Guuts."
"The one from my dream," Max realized aloud.
"Yes. Five hundred years ago, during the Great Purge, the King escaped our net. He vanished into the ether, dormant, hiding in the cracks of reality. For five centuries, there was peace. We thought he had withered away."
The old man looked up from the table, locking eyes with Max. The playfulness was gone. "We were wrong."
On the hologram, the single red dot pulsed. Then it split into two. Then four.
"He has returned," the old man said softly. "And he is not alone. He is breeding again. The whispers you heard? That was a scout. The screeching in your dreams? That is the psychic resonance of their awakening. Sensitive minds can feel it before they see it."
Max took a step back, his head spinning. "Okay. Okay, that's... a lot. So, the monsters are back. That sucks. But why tell me? Call the army. Call the Avengers. I'm just a guy who needs to pass algebra."
The old man smiled, but it was a sad, weary smile. "Conventional weapons are useless against them, Maxwell. Bullets pass through them like smoke. Only the HPF possesses the ancient technology and the biological enhancements required to fight them."
"So, go fight them!" Max urged.
"We are," the old man said. "But we are old. Our numbers have dwindled during the centuries of peace. The King is strong, and he is building an army. To defeat him this time, we need new blood. We need those who have the 'Spark'—the natural sensitivity to sense them, to hear them."
The old man walked around the table and placed a hand on Max's shoulder.
"You heard the whisper when your friends did not. You saw the shadow when the world saw nothing. You have the Spark, Maxwell."
Max froze. He looked at the old man, then at the terrifying red dots multiplying on the map.
"We are recruiting," the old man said, his voice echoing in the weird, humming room. "The HPF needs you, Max. We want you to join us and help us finish what we started five thousand years ago."