Pluto had noticed the world was strange long before he realized how strange it could be. At first, it was little things: the way streetlights flickered for no reason, the hum of electricity in the city seeming sharper, more insistent, as if it had an awareness he didn't yet understand. The usual patterns of life—the subtle rhythm of traffic, the predictable chatter of neighbors—had begun to feel… off.
At night, he would lie in bed and listen to the silence. Not the usual quiet between sounds, but a silence that pressed in on him, like the air itself had weight. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Sometimes, he swore the shadows around his room twitched when he wasn't looking.
At first, he told himself it was stress, imagination, maybe too many late nights scrolling newsfeeds that reported on disappearing people across the globe. But even then, something inside him whispered that what was happening wasn't just news or coincidence.
He sat at his desk, fingertips brushing the edge of a mug of cold coffee, watching the screen glow dimly. The article headline read: "Thousands Disappear Worldwide; Authorities Baffled." Images flickered—empty streets, abandoned cars, footage from cities in Asia, Europe, Africa. And yet, no panic on the streets around him. In the city where he lived, life had gone on as usual. That was part of what made it so unnerving.
The air shifted.
He felt it first in his chest, a subtle tightening, like static electricity crawling under his skin. He rubbed his arm absentmindedly, brushing against bare flesh. Nothing. He flexed his fingers. Still nothing. Yet the sensation lingered, a heat creeping slowly up his right arm, the kind that made him aware of his pulse in a way that wasn't normal.
Outside the window, the city moved in half-light. Streetlights hummed softly, almost in tune with some imperceptible rhythm. The cars were quiet, engines idling without movement. For a moment, Pluto swore he saw the hum in the power lines bend, shiver, like threads of light bending to some unseen conductor. He blinked. Nothing
But the unease remained.
The next day, he woke to the faint tang of ozone in the air, subtle at first, like the smell after a distant storm. It made the back of his throat itch. The sunlight streaming through his window was sharper, somehow more penetrating, cutting across the room in angled shafts that seemed to pause mid-air before dispersing.
He sat up in bed and noticed a flicker at the corner of his vision. A shadow that didn't belong to any furniture. It moved, slowly, subtly, curling and uncurling as if inspecting him. Pluto held his breath. Nothing moved when he focused on it. Yet the feeling of being watched didn't fade.
Over the next few days, the sensation of the world thickening, humming, vibrating with an unseen energy grew.
He described it to no one—what could he say? His friends were far away, glued to the same news reports of disappearances, none of them feeling the electric pulse in the air. But to him, it was undeniable. He felt it in the small hairs on his arms, in the prickling at the back of his neck, in the subtle vibration under his feet when he walked across his apartment floor.
And then, almost imperceptibly, it began to envelop him entirely.
It didn't happen all at once. It wasn't like a door opening or a switch flipping. The air thickened, clinging to his skin, and the electricity he felt under his flesh wasn't just a physical sensation anymore—it was aware, purposeful. It brushed over his senses, tugging gently at his thoughts, whispering without words. Colors seemed sharper, sound sharper, even taste sharper. The morning coffee burned a little more fiercely down his throat, and the cold mug left a lingering chill in his fingers.
It was mesmerizing and unnerving in equal measure.
By the seventh day, the apartment itself seemed different. Shadows clung longer in corners, the walls vibrating ever so slightly as though holding a breath. Pluto felt the temperature of the room shift constantly, sometimes warm, sometimes chilling him inexplicably. He wasn't cold or hot, but the air carried a pressure that weighed on him, almost like the world itself was breathing alongside him.
He noticed it then: the small pulse of heat along his arm. He looked down again. Nothing. But he knew the sensation had grown stronger over the week, coiling under his skin, brushing against his nerves with a gentle insistence.
For hours, he sat there, staring at his bare forearm, waiting for something impossible. And then the world changed.
It wasn't a sudden moment of violence or a flash of light. He didn't walk into it. He didn't step across some threshold. It entered him, slowly, like water creeping into sand. The city outside faded first, edges blurring as if the buildings had been sketched and the sketch smudged. The light bent around him, warped in impossible angles, shadows thickening unnaturally.
And then the mist arrived.
Not from the streets. Not from the trees. But from the air itself, curling in from nowhere, pressing against him, filling the room with a green-tinged haze. It was alive—or at least, it felt alive. It moved in rhythm with the subtle electric pulse that had been building all week. It whispered faintly against his senses, tugging him forward, bending perception until the room—and everything familiar—slipped away.
Pluto staggered slightly, gripping his desk. He could feel the pulse intensifying, radiating now from the very air, threading through the mist that now enveloped him completely. A weight pressed into his chest, and he breathed shallowly, acutely aware of every twitch of muscle, every tiny shift in the temperature of the room, every scent that shouldn't be there.
It was then he noticed a line on his arm, subtle at first, darker than the surrounding skin. A small mark, almost like ink—but moving, shifting imperceptibly. He froze.
The line grew, curling along his forearm. Scales formed along the line, faint but glinting. Slowly, a snake-like pattern, coiling, stretching, twisting around his arm. Pluto's heart hammered in his chest, but he could not tear his eyes away. The warmth along his nerves intensified, and the snake, if it could be called that, seemed almost aware of him, reacting to his pulse, to the subtle heat of his skin, to the world around him.
He wanted to reach out and touch it—but hesitated. He could feel life in it. Not alive like a bird or a dog, but aware, intelligent, present. His pulse raced.
Time stretched. Minutes passed like hours. The city outside, the hum of electricity, the soft breeze through the window—they all seemed distant now. Only the mist, the pulse in the air, and the line on his arm existed.
Pluto drew a slow breath. He felt a connection he couldn't name. The snake traced itself along his wrist, curling like it was guiding him, protective yet patient. It didn't strike. It didn't hiss aggressively. It simply was, moving with him, reacting to him, aware of him in ways he could not yet comprehend.
Outside, in distant countries, similar pulses threaded the air. Random individuals disappeared, some swallowed by fog, some simply gone. He did not know this yet. He did not know the world was selecting, choosing, awakening. He did not know the Presence's invisible hand had been shaping reality all week, molding the world in preparation for him, for them all.
And he did not know that someone else, somewhere nearby, had begun to awaken too.
But for now, Pluto sat in the thickening mist of his apartment, the pulse coiling in his chest, the snake fully awake along his arm, and the world electric, alive, impossible around him.
He exhaled slowly, a single thought forming in his mind, faint and hesitant:
"Whatever this is… it's only beginning."