Liam traced the condensation ring his lukewarm soda bottle left on the chipped Formica countertop. Outside the window of Aunt Carol's third-floor apartment, the late afternoon sun painted the usual city sprawl in muted gold and grey. Sirens wailed in the distance, a constant hum in this part of town, easily ignored. He had a history test tomorrow he hadn't studied for, rent was due, and his worn-out sneakers were developing a new, worrying squeak. Mundane. Predictably, reassuringly mundane. Seventeen years old, living a quiet life in the shadow of skyscrapers, defined by school bells, part-time shifts at the corner store, and the comforting, if slightly overbearing, presence of his aunt.
Aunt Carol bustled in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a floral apron. "Still staring out that window, sweetie? You should be hitting the books. History doesn't learn itself." Her smile was warm, her eyes tired but full of affection. She was his rock, the only family he had left after his parents… well, that was a story he tried not to think about. Just another Tuesday evening in their little corner of the world. Safe. Boring. Normal.
He mumbled a vague agreement, pushing the soda bottle away. The history book lay open on the table, dense paragraphs blurring into meaningless shapes. The city below hummed with life – traffic crawling, distant laughter, the rhythmic pulse of a thousand individual lives unfolding simultaneously. He felt a familiar, dull ache of being unremarkable, just one face in the anonymous crowd. He wanted… something more, something different. He just didn't know what.
Then, the hum stopped.
It wasn't a gradual fading. It was an abrupt, impossible silence that fell like a physical weight. The distant sirens choked off mid-wail. The traffic noise vanished. Even the ambient murmur of the city seemed to hold its breath. Liam looked up, a prickle of unease tracing its way up his spine.
Aunt Carol paused by the kitchen door, her smile gone. "What was that?"
Before either of them could process the unnerving silence, the sky began to scream.
It wasn't a sound Liam had ever heard. Not thunder, not an air raid siren, nothing remotely natural. It was a high-pitched, tearing shriek that seemed to rip the very fabric of the air, vibrating in his teeth and bones. He clapped his hands over his ears, eyes wide with uncomprehending terror.
The golden light outside curdled. The sky, just moments ago a gentle gradient of twilight hues, bled. Not subtly, but violently, like a wound opening across the heavens. Crimson spilled outwards from a point directly above the city, a sickening, pulsating red that devoured the blue, tinging the clouds with bruised purple and angry black.
Below, the abrupt silence shattered. Not with renewed city noise, but with screams. Primal, terrified screams. Car horns blared erratically, followed by the sickening crunch of metal. A distant explosion rocked the building, rattling the windowpane.
"Liam, get away from the window!" Aunt Carol's voice was sharp with panic.
He stumbled back, bumping into the table. The sky pulsed red, casting the room in an infernal glow. Then, shapes began to fall from the bleeding sky. Not rain, not debris. Shapes that were too large, too erratic in their descent. Dark, flapping things, things with too many limbs, things that twisted and writhed as they plummeted towards the unsuspecting city streets.
One hit the building across the street. The impact wasn't just sound; it was a sickening, organic splat, followed by a high-pitched, alien shriek. Dust and chunks of masonry erupted outwards.
Panic, cold and paralyzing, seized Liam. He backed further into the room, away from the infernal window. Aunt Carol grabbed his arm, her hand trembling violently. "W-we need to get to the basement. The building's… secure."
Secure. The word felt like a joke. Through the window, figures were running, stumbling, falling in the streets below. And among them, moving with unnatural gaits, were the things that had fallen. Grotesque, hunched shapes. Some moved like broken puppets, limbs jerking at impossible angles. Others scuttled like monstrous insects. And the screaming below intensified, becoming less human, more animalistic.
A heavy thud vibrated up from the floor below. Followed by another. And another. They weren't discrete sounds; they were the heavy, dragging impacts of something large and cumbersome moving *inside* the building. A guttural roar, not human, echoed up the stairwell.
"Oh God, oh God…" Aunt Carol whimpered, pulling him towards the apartment door.
They had to get out. But the hallway outside their apartment was already filled with a sickening, foul odor, like rotting meat and sulfur. And the scraping, dragging sounds were getting closer, louder.
Aunt Carol fumbled with the deadbolt, her fingers shaking uncontrollably. The lock clicked open. She yanked the door inward.
Standing directly outside was a thing that defied understanding. It was vaguely humanoid, but bloated and covered in greyish, necrotic flesh that sagged and dripped. It had too many joints in its arms, which ended in long, bony claws. Its head was small, sunken into hunched shoulders, with vacant, milky white eyes that stared blankly ahead. Its mouth was a split maw, revealing rows of uneven, yellowed teeth. It moved with a slow, lurching gait, one leg dragging uselessly, leaving a trail of viscous fluid on the floor.
A Shambler. Though Liam didn't know the word then. He just knew it was *wrong*. Horrifically, impossibly wrong.
Aunt Carol screamed. A high, piercing sound of pure terror. The Shambler reacted to the noise. Its head snapped towards them, the milky eyes focusing, and it let out a wet, gurgling moan that seemed to vibrate with malevolence.
It lurched forward, surprisingly fast despite its broken body.
Aunt Carol shoved Liam back into the apartment. "Go! Hide!" She slammed the door shut, the cheap wood groaning. She fumbled for the deadbolt again, eyes wide with panic fixed on the door.
Liam stumbled back, heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His aunt stood between him and the horror, trying to secure their flimsy barrier.
He watched, frozen by terror.
The door splintered inwards. Not with a bang, but with a wet, tearing sound. A long, bony claw ripped through the wood, inches from Aunt Carol's head.
She cried out, stumbling back. The Shambler pushed through the widening gap, its necrotic form squeezing into the doorway. The smell intensified, gagging Liam.
Aunt Carol didn't run. She didn't have time. She stood there, a small, frail woman facing down an impossible nightmare.
The Shambler lunged.
It was too fast. Liam saw the blur of grey flesh, the flash of claws.
Aunt Carol's scream was cut short.
Liam saw it. All of it. The claws tearing into her chest. The spray of crimson against the wall. The vacant eyes of the creature inches from her face.
Then, the Shambler's head snapped towards him.
The milky eyes, devoid of intelligence but filled with something ancient and hungry, fixed on Liam. It began to drag itself towards him, its gurgling moan rising in pitch.
Liam couldn't move. His legs felt like lead. The air felt thick and suffocating. The image of Aunt Carol, now a broken, bleeding mess crumpled on the floor by the door, seared itself into his mind. Grief and terror collided in a silent explosion.
The creature was closing in. He saw the uneven teeth in its maw, the viscous fluid dripping from its body. He could smell its decay.
He finally broke from his paralysis, stumbling backwards. He tripped over a rug, falling hard onto his back.
The Shambler was right there. Looming over him. The milky eyes stared down. A clawed hand reached for him.
He thrashed, trying to scramble away, but the world tilted, becoming a dizzying blur of grey and red.
A sharp pain erupted in his chest. Then another. And another.
He looked down, or tried to. His vision swam. He saw the claws embedded in his body. Felt the tearing, ripping agony. It wasn't just physical pain; it was a violation, a destruction of everything he was.
Blood filled his mouth, hot and coppery. His breath hitched, a ragged gasp that turned into a choked gurgle.
The Shambler leaned closer, its maw opening wider. The smell of its foul breath filled his nostrils.
The last thing he saw was the gaping, toothy void, the milky eyes staring blankly, and the crimson light from the sky reflecting in their vacant depths.
Then, the world went black. The pain ceased. There was nothing.
---
Oblivion was a lie.
Or perhaps it was just… brief.
Consciousness returned not as a gentle dawn, but as a violent eruption. One moment, nothingness. The next, sensation, raw and overwhelming.
He gasped, a ragged, burning inhale. But the air filling his lungs tasted of ash, copper, and that same sickening sulfurous odor. His body felt heavy, wrong. Stiff, yet capable of movement he hadn't possessed moments ago.
He opened his eyes.
The world was a blurry nightmare of reds and blacks. He was lying on something wet and sticky. The smell was unbearable now, thick with decay and the metallic tang of blood. His blood?
He pushed himself up. His limbs responded with an unsettling ease, a strange, coiled power he didn't recognize. He scrambled away from where he had been lying, a primal instinct screaming *danger*.
He was in his apartment. Or what was left of it. The door was a wreck, splintered and hanging precariously. And on the floor, near the door…
He gagged, bile rising in his throat. Aunt Carol. She was there, or what remained. The Shambler had savaged her. It was a scene of unspeakable gore. Organs spilled onto the floor, blood painted the walls in horrific patterns, and the body was… broken. Torn apart.
Tears welled in his eyes, hot and useless. *Aunt Carol.* Gone. Violently, brutally murdered.
He stumbled back, away from the sight, his bare feet landing in something warm and slick. He looked down.
He was covered in blood. His own? Someone else's? It was everywhere. His t-shirt was shredded, soaked crimson. Looking down at his chest, where the Shambler's claws had torn into him… there were wounds. Deep lacerations. But they weren't bleeding freely. They looked… different. Not like normal cuts. The edges weren't raw flesh; they were dark, almost bruised-looking, and seemed to be knitting together even as he watched, slowly, subtly.
*What the hell?* He should be dead. Torn apart. He remembered the claws, the pain, the blackness. But he was here. Alive. And injured, but… healing?
He looked at his hands. They were coated in dried blood. He flexed his fingers. They seemed longer, the nails harder, thicker than they should be. Not claws, not yet, but… different. He brought a hand up to his face. His skin felt… tougher. Not smooth like before, but with a subtle, almost imperceptible texture beneath the grime and blood. He ran his tongue over his teeth. They felt sharper. Unevenly sharp, like filed points.
Panic began to build again, cold and sharp. He backed further away from the door, bumping into the ruined sofa.
His eyes. Something felt wrong with his eyes. The light in the room, filtered through the bloody sky outside, was dim, but he could see with unnerving clarity. Not just shapes and colors, but textures, movements in the periphery, even in the deepest shadows. The dust motes dancing in the air were sharply defined. The faint, dark patterns on the ruined wallpaper stood out. His vision felt… enhanced. Different.
He looked around wildly, heart pounding with a new, terrifying rhythm – not just panic, but a strange, thrumming energy under his skin. The apartment was wrecked. Furniture overturned, glass shattered, blood everywhere. Aunt Carol's broken body lay near the door.
He was alone. Utterly, horrifyingly alone.
And he was *wrong*.
He raised his hands again, looking at them in the dim light. The cuts on his chest were less prominent now. Still there, but visibly closing. He flexed his muscles, and a jolt of raw power surged through him. He felt like he could rip the sofa apart with his bare hands.
This wasn't him. This wasn't Liam. The scared, ordinary teenager was dead. What was this?
As the horrifying realization solidified – he had died, and somehow, impossibly, he was back, changed into something *other* – a sudden, jarring overlay appeared in his vision.
It wasn't physical. It was like text projected directly onto his eyeballs, translucent and clinical, utterly alien against the backdrop of blood and ruin.
```
[Initializing Personal Interface...]
[Configuration complete. Welcome, Host.]
```
Host? What the hell was this?
He blinked, shaking his head, trying to make the text disappear. It didn't. It remained, shimmering faintly at the edge of his perception.
```
[Displaying Status:]
```
More text appeared, forming a block of data that floated before him, perfectly legible despite the chaos surrounding him.
```
Name: Liam (Potential: [Locked])
Level: 1
Experience: 0 / 100
Alignment: [Undetermined]
Affinities:
- Demonic Affinity: [Infant] (Minor)
- ???: [Locked]
Attributes:
- Strength: [Modified - Calculating...] (Significantly Increased)
- Agility: [Modified - Calculating...] (Increased)
- Constitution: [Modified - Calculating...] (Increased)
- Perception: [Modified - Calculating...] (Significantly Increased)
- Intelligence: [Standard]
- Willpower: [Standard]
Health: [Optimal]
Demonic Energy: 0 / 50
```
Liam stared at the floating text, his mind reeling. Name: Liam. Okay, that was him. But the rest… Level? Attributes? Demonic Affinity? What did any of this mean? It looked like something out of a video game, plastered over his horrific reality.
*Potential: [Locked]*? *Alignment: [Undetermined]*? *Demonic Affinity: [Infant]*? The words felt like a cold, clinical diagnosis of his nightmare. He wasn't just changed; he was classified. Categorized. By this… System?
He focused on the System interface, trying to understand. Was it talking to him? Was it *in* his head?
As if in response to his thoughts, another window popped up.
```
[Acquired Skills:]
- Enhanced Vision I: Grants superior low-light vision and detail perception.
- Basic Regeneration I: Minor wounds heal at an accelerated rate.
- Demonic Presence Suppression I: Instinctually dampens your demonic signature, reducing detection range by weaker entities. Passive.
- Basic Demonic Energy Manipulation I: Rudimentary ability to feel and potentially utilize Demonic Energy. Passive.
```
Skills. Like game abilities. Enhanced Vision – that explained his sight. Basic Regeneration – that explained the healing cuts. Demonic Presence Suppression… what was a demonic signature? Demonic Energy… It was all real. This wasn't a dream. He wasn't just changed; he was something *demonic*. The System confirmed it.
He felt a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with the smell. *Demonic.* The things that had just murdered Aunt Carol, the things that were tearing the city apart… he was one of them? Or related? The 'Demonic Affinity' and 'Demonic Energy' suggested it. The 'Son of the Devil' tags from the Novel Foundation document flashed through his mind, though he didn't know where that thought came from.
No. No, no, no. He couldn't be. He was Liam. Just Liam. He went to school, worked a crappy job, loved his aunt. He wasn't a monster.
But his hands, his eyes, the strange energy under his skin… they screamed otherwise.
The System interface shifted again, a new window appearing, larger and more prominent than the others.
```
[New Quest Issued!]
```
Quest? Was this thing giving him tasks?
```
Quest: Survive
Objective: Endure the next hour in your current location.
Time Remaining: 59:58
Reward: 100 XP, Basic Survival Kit, Potential Skill Unlock.
Failure: [FATAL]
```
Survive. Endure the next hour. In this apartment, filled with the corpse of his aunt and the smell of the thing that killed her. Failure: [FATAL]. As if he needed a System to tell him that death was a consequence.
The timer started ticking down, a small, clinical countdown in the corner of his vision. 59:57… 59:56…
Fifty-nine minutes. That's all he had to do? Just live for an hour? It felt both impossibly long and terrifyingly short.
He had to get out of here. Staying in this apartment, the scene of his aunt's murder and his own gruesome 'rebirth', was unbearable. But where would he go? The city was a death trap. The building was compromised.
The scraping sound returned.
It wasn't coming from outside anymore. It was from the hallway. The door was open enough for something to potentially push through.
Another Shambler. Or perhaps the one that had been in here, returning.
Terror spiked again, sharp and cold. He couldn't stay. He couldn't fight. What could he do? Run. He had to run.
He edged away from the living room, towards the kitchen, looking for any potential escape route. The apartment was a dead end. The only way out was the door, or the window, three stories up.
The scraping grew louder, closer. A wet, gurgling moan echoed from the hallway.
He had to move. Now.
Driven by pure, animalistic fear and the cold imperative of the System's quest timer (58:45… 58:44…), he scrambled towards the back of the apartment, towards the small service door that led to the fire escape.
He reached the door, fumbling with the deadbolt, his hands shaking. The System interface flickered at the edge of his vision, the timer a stark reminder of his immediate goal.
The scraping stopped just outside the main door. Silence. An unnerving, heavy silence.
Then, a heavy thud against the main door. The splintered wood groaned again.
He got the fire escape door open, pushing it outwards. Cool, polluted city air hit his face.
But he couldn't just leave. The thought of leaving Aunt Carol's body there, alone in the dark with that… *thing*… was unbearable. A wave of desperate, futile rage washed over him. He was stronger now. Different. Maybe he could…
No. He wasn't a fighter. He was terrified. He was a scared kid in a monster's body. He had to survive. That was the quest. That was the only thing the System cared about.
He hesitated for a second too long.
A massive, greyish hand, dripping with foul fluid, curled around the edge of the frame of the main apartment door. Followed by a hunched shoulder, a vacant face.
Another Shambler was forcing its way in.
This one looked slightly different from the first. Its left arm was grotesquely swollen, ending in a blunt club of bone and flesh. Its head twitched erratically on its neck.
It saw him. The milky eyes locked onto him across the room. It let out that sickening gurgle and began to drag itself inside, its swollen arm thudding against the floor.
He couldn't run down the fire escape. It was too exposed. He was trapped between the ruined door and a three-story drop.
Panic clawed at his throat. He had nothing. No weapon. Just his bare hands, which felt stronger, but were useless against that… *thing*.
The Shambler shuffled forward, surprisingly fast. Its attention was solely on him now. The smell was overpowering.
Instinct took over. Not thought, not strategy. Just a desperate, raw impulse driven by the System's ticking clock and the primal need to not die again.
He didn't run away. He ran *towards* it.
He didn't know why. It was madness. But his body moved on its own, fueled by that strange, thrumming energy under his skin.
The Shambler raised its swollen club-arm, preparing to swing.
He dodged clumsily, a jerky, unnatural movement that was faster than his human body could have managed. The heavy limb whistled past his head, smashing into the wall behind him with a sickening crunch of plaster and wood.
He was close now. Too close. The Shambler smelled like death. Its vacant eyes stared, its maw gaped, revealing those uneven teeth.
He acted. Without thinking. He grabbed the Shambler's swollen arm with both hands. The flesh felt cold, spongy, and repulsive.
He pulled.
And the arm ripped off.
The sound was horrific. A wet, tearing screech of decaying tissue and grinding bone. Foul-smelling fluid sprayed over him. The Shambler didn't scream, not like a human. It let out a high-pitched, gurgling shriek of agony and surprise.
Its club-arm, still clutched in Liam's hands, was a disgusting, weighty thing.
Liam staggered back, repulsion warring with a surge of something else – a savage, terrifying exhilaration. He had ripped off its arm. With his bare hands. The new strength was real. Horrifically real.
The Shambler recoiled, blood substitute (a thick, black ichor) gushing from the torn socket where its arm had been. It thrashed wildly, disoriented, its single remaining arm flailing.
It turned on him again, driven by mindless aggression.
He swung the arm. The Shambler's own severed limb, a grotesque weapon, felt heavy and unbalanced in his grasp.
He brought it down on the Shambler's head.
The impact was sickening. Wet, pulpy. The club-arm smashed into the creature's skull, collapsing the bone and tearing through decaying flesh.
The Shambler stumbled, its gurgle cut short. It fell to the floor with a heavy, final thud, twitching erratically for a moment before lying still. The milky eyes stared up at the blood-soaked ceiling, vacant even in death.
Silence fell, broken only by Liam's own ragged breaths and the faint, rhythmic *tick* of the System timer: 57:10… 57:09…
He stood there, shaking uncontrollably. In his hands, he still held the Shambler's severed arm, dripping that black ichor onto the blood-soaked floor. He looked down at the creature's ruined corpse. Its head was a collapsed mess, its chest cavity oozing.
He had done this. He had killed it. With its own arm. Using a strength that wasn't his.
His stomach churned violently. He dropped the arm, stumbling away, leaning against the wall and retching until his throat burned. Nothing came up but bitter bile and the taste of ash.
He looked at his hands, still slick with ichor and blood. These weren't the hands of the kid who stocked shelves at the corner store. These were the hands that had just ripped apart a monster.
*This is what I am now.* The thought hammered against his skull. He was a monster. A thing that could kill with such brutal, visceral efficiency. He was tainted. Changed. He was one of *them*.
The horror of his transformation, confirmed by the System, was now embodied in the gruesome scene before him. He had survived, yes. The System's timer kept counting down, a cold, indifferent witness. But what had he survived *as*?
He looked from the Shambler's corpse to the ruined form of Aunt Carol. Tears streamed down his face, silent and hot. He hadn't been able to save her. But he had become something capable of avenging her, in the most brutal, horrifying way imaginable.
The grief for his aunt, the terror of the apocalypse, and the profound horror of his own nature crashed over him in waves. He sank to the floor, knees hitting the sticky mess, wrapping his arms around himself as if to hold his fragile remaining humanity together.
The System timer blinked in his vision: 56:40… 56:39…
One hour. He had to survive one hour. He had killed one of them. But there were others. Outside. In the hallways. Everywhere.
He was trapped in this hellscape, no longer human, stained by the blood of the things that had destroyed his world. The silence of the apartment, broken only by the distant sounds of chaos from outside and the persistent tick of the timer, felt heavy with the weight of his new, terrifying reality. He was a stranger in his own body, a monster born from the ashes of his own death, with nothing but a clinical System telling him to just *endure*.
And the hour was far from over. Dread settled deep in his bones, cold and absolute. He was alone, changed, and the nightmarish world had just begun.