The apartment door groaned as it opened, like it too was tired of being here.
Yuri stepped inside, his shadow trailing behind him like a ghost too weary to keep up. Nineteen years old, though the world had wrung the youth out of him early. His black hair hung in loose strands, not too short, not quite long—just like the life he lived: somewhere in between.
From the outside, no one would guess his age. There was a weight behind his eyes, a heaviness in his shoulders—he looked like a man in his early twenties, worn down not by time, but by circumstance.
The apartment welcomed him with silence. A one-bedroom box with paint peeling at the corners and a bathroom too cramped to stretch in. A place that barely held the weight of one man's life.
Yuri dropped onto the couch like a bag of bones.
Nine hours on his feet, pushing carts, wiping tables, getting barked at for things he never did—all for a minimum wage of ten dollars an hour. The exhaustion wasn't just physical—it was spiritual.
He exhaled a shaky sigh, letting his eyes drift to the stained ceiling.
"I need a better job…"
His stomach growled, an empty protest from an empty gut. The only thing he'd eaten all day were two dry slices of bread and some spaghetti a customer had left behind, cold and untouched.
Still, he endured. Because he had no choice. His fridge was as hollow as his wallet, and both echoed the same truth—he had nothing.
He turned on his side, curling into the old couch like a child into a dying parent's arms.
"Is this… going to be my life forever?"
The question lingered like smoke.
"I don't know what I was thinking… dropping out of college…"
His voice faded, but his thoughts didn't.
"…but at least… she's happy…"
Who "she" was, only he knew. And maybe that's all that mattered.
His eyes closed. The world faded.
...
Morning came—but not with light.
The air was still, too still. The power was out. No hum of electricity, no blinking lights on the microwave, no buzz from the fridge. Just silence, thick and choking.
Yuri didn't mind it at first. He went through the motions: brushed his teeth, took a cold shower. Ate?
No. Still nothing.
He stepped into the hallway, adjusting the collar of his thin jacket. Something gnawed at the edge of his awareness. Not just the blackout—the quiet. It wasn't normal.
The building was too still, like it was holding its breath.
Before heading out, he paused by the apartment next door.
Mrs. Fins.
She was kind. Old. Gentle. A widow who baked too much and gave too much, even when she had little. She had once offered Yuri stew when he had nothing. In some ways, she'd become the only mother he still had.
He raised his hand to knock… but hesitated.
"She's probably asleep… no need to bother her."
He turned—
CRASH!
The sound of glass shattering behind the door.
His heart slammed into his ribs.
Yuri:
"Mrs. Fins?! Mrs. Fins—it's me! Are you okay?!"
No answer.
He tried the handle. Locked.
Panic clawed at him like thorns. He threw his weight against the door—once, twice—nothing.
He ran back to his apartment, tearing it apart in desperation. Pots. Hangers. A broom. Nothing useful—
Until, in the darkest corner behind his shelf, he found it: an old, rusted axe. The blade was chipped. The handle was worn. But it was something.
He grabbed it with trembling hands and ran.
Back at her door, he raised the axe. The wood groaned. The blade screamed. And with one final blow—
BOOM.
The door caved in.
The smell hit him first. Sour. Burnt. Wrong.
The apartment was a ruin. Shards of porcelain on the ground. Walls blackened by fire. And a green substance—oozing, rotting—slithered down the hallway like a living thing.
Yuri stepped in, breath shallow, hands shaking.
Something squished beneath his foot.
He froze.
It was soft. Warm. A heat that crawled through the sole of his shoe. He knelt down, slowly, unsure.
He touched it.
Fur. Wet. Sticky.
He recoiled, then reached again. This time, his fingers sank into something thick—like syrup, but metallic.
Blood.
He staggered back.
Then—
drip.
A single drop landed on his head.
Then another.
And another.
His heart stopped. His breath hitched.
Slowly, agonizingly, he tilted his head up—
And saw her.
Mrs. Fins.
Or… what was left of her.
She was clinging to the ceiling like a twisted spider. Her skin dry and cracked like ancient stone. Her mouth hung open, overflowing with saliva that dripped through her grey hair in thick strings. Her body was blistered, half-covered in burns, the rest infested with open sores that pulsed like breathing wounds.
In her jaws—
The upper half of her cat.
Yuri looked down. What he had stepped on... was the lower half.
Yuri (whispers):
"W-What... are you…?"
His voice died in his throat.
She dropped.
A blur of limbs and teeth and horror. She landed in front of him, and with an inhuman shriek, lunged.
He was thrown to the floor, the breath punched from his lungs. Her claws tore into his chest, digging, ripping, snarling like a dog possessed.
He screamed. Cried. Begged.
"Is this a dream?! Please, God—let me wake up!"
Blood spilled from him like ink from a cracked bottle. The pain was too real. Too much.
His vision blurred.
Then—he saw it.
The axe. Just out of reach.
One hand moved. Then the other.
His fingers gripped the handle.
With every last shred of strength, he brought it up—
CRACK!
The blade sank into her skull.
She collapsed, twitching once… then still.
Silence.
He dropped the axe. His hands fell to his sides.
And Yuri, covered in blood and shaking, began to cry.
He cried for the woman who had once fed him when no one else did.
He cried because even though it wasn't her anymore…
…it was.
...
Yuri crawled out of the building, dragging his bloodied body across the pavement.
And then—he saw it.
The world had changed.
The sky was black, not with night, but with emptiness. The air was cold, but he was sweating. There was no sun, but everything was lit in a strange, colorless glow. No wind. No sound. No birds. No people.
Just silence.
Like the Earth itself had stopped breathing.
He stumbled forward.
Collapsed.
Blood pooled beneath him.
And then—
A voice. No, not a voice. A presence.
Something etched into the air itself, glowing before his eyes—though nothing was physically there.
Words.
Bold. Final.
LET'S PLAY