Caan turned slowly, pressed back against the icy concrete, every muscle locked in terror. The creature advanced, its silhouette framed in the sickly fluorescent glow. It stood easily seven feet tall, humanoid but grotesquely distorted—shoulders too broad, limbs too long, each joint bending in ways that screamed not human.
Its skin was nearly translucent, stretched taut over corded muscle, patterned with thin, branching blue veins that glowed faintly beneath the surface. The armor it wore was unlike anything Caan had ever seen—curved plates of black metal, inscribed with symbols that seemed to squirm and shift when stared at too long. Its face was the worst of all: eyes sunken and impossibly pale, ringed with bruised shadows, and a mouth set too wide, revealing rows of jagged, glass-like teeth.
The creature's hair was stringy and colorless, matted to its skull as if slicked down by rain or blood. From its scalp and chest, faint wisps of that same glowing thread rose and writhed, barely visible except to Caan, who couldn't look away.
The spear in its hands was almost beautiful—a shaft of blackened, living metal, crowned with a blade that shimmered as if made from liquid moonlight. The creature spun it once, grinning.
"Time to die, lesser one," it rasped.
That voice. It sounded like broken glass and ice water.
And then, that hideous, musical giggle—a high, trembling sound that vibrated in Caan's bones.
Caan's thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm.
This isn't real. I'm dreaming. Or maybe I'm dead already, and this is what waits for me—monsters. I can't move. My legs won't work. I've never seen anything so wrong, so impossible, so… hungry.
He felt the fear pressing down, heavier than gravity. His lungs burned as he tried to breathe.
Move. Run. Do something!
But his body wouldn't listen.
All he could do was stare into the creature's pale, glimmering eyes—eyes that seemed to see every secret he'd ever buried.
He was nothing to this thing. Less than prey. Just another shadow to erase.
The spear lifted. Time began to stutter. The world slowed to a crawl, everything frozen but his own racing thoughts.
Is this it? Is this what my life leads to? Alone, betrayed, and dying on a school floor, staring at something that shouldn't exist?
His hands tingled.
No—burned. A strange, sweet fire climbed up his arms, chasing the numbness away. The buzzing in his veins grew louder, almost a song.
Am I… fighting back?
Some hidden part of him reached out—not for help, but for power, for survival. Unconsciously, Caan let go.
A wave of blue-white electricity exploded from his palms, racing up the spear with blinding speed. It struck the creature's face, surging through the threads that only Caan could see.
The moment shattered.
The spear's tip grazed Caan's leg, tearing a brutal line across his skin. He screamed—half in pain, half in shock at what he'd done.
The creature convulsed, its elongated limbs twitching, the sickly light above its head flaring out and vanishing. With a final, pitiful croak, it crumpled to the floor. Twitching. Silent.
Caan slumped against the wall, chest heaving, heart pounding out of control.
What's happening to me? How did I… do that? Did I do that? I should be dead. I was supposed to die. That's how my story was supposed to end, wasn't it?
But he wasn't dead.
His hands crackled, pain mingled with power, and for a single heartbeat he felt alive—horribly, wonderfully alive.
He staggered away, limping and wounded, blood trickling down his calf, every nerve on fire with adrenaline and disbelief.
He barely registered the footsteps echoing behind him.
He only knew he had to run. Had to escape.
He pushed through the doors and into the night—under a sky torn with impossible purple rifts, the world he knew gone forever.
And for the first time, he wondered:
If I'm not meant to die, what am I meant to become?