Don ran because stopping meant remembering.
The city around him was already dead—collapsed towers frozen in ash, streets split open like old scars carved into the planet's surface—but something was still hunting him through the ruins.
Not beasts.
Not mutants. Something smarter.
Something patient. Something that did not rush, because it knew time itself was on its side.
He had never expected it would come to this.
Him—broken, bleeding, and hunted—stranded on a planet so far away from home that the word home had lost all meaning.
The sky above was an unfamiliar shade of bruised violet, streaked with static clouds that hummed faintly, as though the atmosphere itself were alive and whispering secrets he no longer cared to hear.
His breath burned in his chest. Each inhale felt like drawing fire into his lungs. His left leg dragged uselessly behind him, numb from the knee down, refusing to obey.
The power inside him pulsed weakly, erratic, like a dying second heart struggling to beat its last.
Once, that power would have erased this pain.
Now, it mocked him.
He could barely keep himself upright, talkless of sprint with the condition his body was in, but what choice did he have?
Stopping meant capture. Capture meant consequences far worse than death.
"I shouldn't have stolen it."
The thought came uninvited, heavy with bitterness and regret. It lodged itself in his mind and refused to leave, echoing with every uneven step.
Once, that power had made him untouchable.
Once, it had bent bodies, minds—desire itself—to his will. It had whispered promises of control, of dominance, of never being small again. Now it barely kept him upright, barely kept him alive.
Don stumbled into the shadow of a collapsed transit tunnel and pressed a trembling hand to his side. His fingers came away slick.
A liquid red and gold in color at the same time slimered on his skin.
Blood.
Not human blood.
At least not entirely.
It shimmered faintly under the dim light, reacting to his presence, reacting to what he had become.
"I should've stayed human," he whispered, his voice hoarse and hollow, as though it belonged to someone else.
High above him, something shifted.
Metal scraping against metal. Slow. Deliberate.
They were closing in.
Soon, he would be discovered. Soon, this vain of a life he had lived—ambitions he had chased out of pride, hunger, and wounded ego—would finally catch up to him.
Everything he had done in the name of power, survival, and desire would come due.
Dawn shut his eyes.
And the world rewound against his will.
Back to the smell of cheap alcohol.
Back to sticky floors that never seemed clean, no matter how many times they were scrubbed.
Back to empty tips and forced smiles.
Back to a man no one looked at twice.
(Rewind)
"My God!!! Don, this tables over here need serving!"
The bar owner's voice cut through the noise like a whip. Sharp. Irritated. Familiar. The pitch and manner were ones Don had long since grown used to—equal parts impatience and contempt.
Don cursed under his breath. This was never the life he had expected to live. Not when he was younger. Not when he still believed effort meant something.
He hurried toward the table, balancing as many cups of beer as his small, scratched tray could contain.
The bar was crowded, thick with smoke, laughter, and the sour stench of spilled liquor. The air buzzed with voices layered over one another, all of them louder than necessary.
As he set the tray down and began lifting the cups, it happened.
One slip.
One mistake.
One of the cups tipped.
Before he could react, the spilled liquid sloshed forward and dripped directly onto a mobile phone resting carelessly on the table. The screen flickered once… then went dark.
Silence followed—brief, but heavy.
"What the fuck his wrong with you, asshole?"
The shout was immediate and violent, cutting through the bar's noise and drawing every eye in the room.
The owner of the phone stood up abruptly, chair scraping against the floor.
He had a stern face and a quite muscular body, the kind that spoke of discipline and aggression. Ex-military, Don guessed. The posture alone gave it away.
"I—I'm so sorry," Don stammered. "Let me help you fix this up."
He picked up the phone and began wiping it frantically with the hem of his old, ragged apron, his hands shaking.
The fabric was stained and thin, but he used it anyway, desperate to undo the damage.
The man wasn't having it.
With a sharp movement, he snatched the phone from Don's hand and let it fall.
The device hit the floor with a dull crack, splitting apart into lifeless pieces.
The sound echoed louder than it should have.
Don froze, staring down at the ruined phone, then slowly looked up at the man's face, his mouth hanging open in disbelief.
"Pick it up, scumbag," the man said, pointing his index finger at the broken remains.
Disgust crawled up Don's spine. Shock followed, then anger—hot and unfamiliar.
Emotions he had learned to swallow down long ago.
"I don't think I can do that, sir," Don said.
The word sir came out automatically, a reflex born of habit rather than respect.
The bar went quiet.
Every eye turned toward him. Even the annoyed bar owner paused, his irritation momentarily replaced by surprise.
"What the fuck did you just say to me?" the stranger asked, stepping closer.
"I mean, you… you were the one who—"
Don's awkward stuttering was cut short as the man grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the nearest wall. The impact knocked the air from his lungs.
"Chris, chill out," someone from the table muttered. Don couldn't make out the face, only the voice.
Chris didn't listen.
He rolled his right fist slowly, deliberately, savoring the moment. Don saw it all in painful clarity—the clenched jaw, the flexed muscle, the intent.
Don flinched. Closed his eyes. Tensed his body.
He waited for the worst.
Suddenly—
CRASH!!!!
The sound was deafening.
A car parked just outside the bar erupted into flames, as though struck by a missile from nowhere. The explosion rattled the windows, sending glass cascading inward.
Chris staggered back in shock.
Don didn't think.
He wrenched himself free and ran.
As he burst through the bar door, heat washed over him. His attention snapped upward.
The sky was falling.
Not rain.
Not hail.
Something else entirely.
Streaks of glowing debris tore through the atmosphere, falling at immense speeds, hammering into buildings, streets, vehicles—everything. The air screamed.
Before he could fully process what he was seeing, the bar behind him exploded.
The blast sent him flying across the street, his body slamming hard into the burning wreckage of the car from earlier. Pain flared white-hot as he rolled across the pavement.
Don scrambled to his feet and ripped his now-burning apron from his body, tossing it aside. His skin burned. His ears rang. But adrenaline drowned everything else.
He had no time to dwell on himself.
His gaze snapped back to the bar.
It was gone.
Where laughter and music had been moments ago, there was only fire—unnatural fire.
The flames burned in colors he had never seen before, twisting and writhing as though alive.
"What the hell is going on?" he whispered.
The end of the world.
That was the only reasonable explanation.
That was the only conclusion that made sense.
Little did he know, he had only begun to see the worse.
The bar's doorway suddenly imploded outward, metal and wood bending violently.
What emerged next was something Don had never expected to see.
Not in a thousand years.
Not in real life.
Staggering through the wreckage were creatures of all kinds and sizes—twisted forms, warped limbs, glowing eyes, bodies that defied anatomy and reason. Some crawled. Some limped. Some screamed.
At that moment, Don knew.
This wasn't the end of the world.
This was hell on earth.