The gallery was quiet enough to hear the soft hum of the air vents. Ellian walked slowly, hands tucked into his coat pockets, letting his eyes drift across the walls as if he hadn't seen all this a hundred times before.
But he stopped when he reached that painting.
His painting.
It towered over the rest, vibrant brushwork, controlled chaos, colors layered with the particular discipline that critics insisted only he possessed. Beneath the frame, the golden plaque read:
[Art by Ellian Eldarion]
And below that, the short note he had written months ago, back when he believed artist statements had meaning.
He stared at it for a long time.
A faint smile touched his lips, small, almost reluctant. Memories flickered: three months of obsessive work, ruined canvases, sleepless nights, starting over again and again until he hated the sight of it… and then loved it more than anything.
For a moment, he allowed himself to feel proud.
Two students approached, hesitating before stepping closer.
«Um… excuse me, are you– are you Ellian Eldarion?»
He blinked. His face was half-hidden under his cap, but of course they recognized him. That was normal now.
«Yes» he said softly.
They burst into nervous excitement.
«Can we get a photo? And maybe– an autograph? If it's okay?»
«Sure.» His voice was gentle, even warm. He was tired, but it wasn't much of a big deal.
Photos were taken, autographs signed, and the girls left giggling about something he didn't bother hearing. As the gallery door closed behind them, exhaustion settled on Ellian's shoulders like a familiar weight.
---
His house was almost too large for one person. When he stepped inside, his footsteps echoed across polished marble floors. Decorative lights cast soft golden reflections across the hall, making the place feel warm, but not alive.
Ellian set his keys down, walked to the counter, and prepared a cup of coffee. The smell grounded him instantly.
On the second floor, his bedroom looked like a battlefield of unfinished ideas. Sketches littered the floor. Pencils and brushes poked out from under clothing. Abandoned canvas frames leaned against the wall.
In the center stood his main canvas – the sketch of his next piece.
He approached it and let out a soft, almost shy breath.
The sketch was good. No.. excellent. Clean strokes, confident composition. The kind of foundation that promised greatness.
He allowed himself one more small smile.
Then his phone buzzed.
He didn't even look at it before declining the call. But the caller ID, [Contract Agency], flashed bright enough for him to catch it at the last second.
He rolled his eyes. Honestly, he didn't have the energy.
Instead, he opened his laptop and logged into social media. The trending banner at the top displayed an article featuring his name yet again:
[Ellian Eldarion's Avantgarde]:
— The Style That Reshaped the Artistic Landscape
So that was why agencies were calling.
He closed the laptop with a sigh. For him, now fame was too loud.
As he lay on his bed, his thoughts drifted to darker corners.
He was twenty-four. Popular. Successful. Admired.
And completely alone.
People who flirted with him wanted money or influence.
People who hated him called him arrogant.
And people who he liked… didn't have a feeling for him.
He closed his eyes.
He didn't even remember falling asleep.
~~~
~~~~~~
Ellian woke to darkness.
Not the gentle kind, the type that settles over the city when people still walk its streets, but the deep, heavy hush of a night that had already settled in for hours.
He exhaled slowly, hand resting over his eyes as if shielding himself from a light that wasn't there.
He must've slept longer than he intended.
Again.
The ceiling stared back at him from above, silent and indifferent.
He lay there, motionless, letting the shapes of the chandelier blur into abstract patterns.
But eventually, a thought drifted through his mind, almost lazily:
…How long has it been since something actually felt different?
His life had become a loop, exhibitions, recognition, endless praise, money he didn't need, expectations he didn't ask for. A cycle he was admired for but internally exhausted by.
He turned his face into the pillow.
It was ridiculous, wasn't it?
To have everything, yet somehow feel like nothing belonged to him?
And that loneliness…
That was the strange part. It didn't arrive abruptly. It accumulated. Slowly. Quietly.
Like dust settling onto untouched furniture, until the weight of it became impossible to ignore.
He swallowed.
Most people imagined success felt like fire.
To Ellian, it felt like an echo, something distant, never reaching him fully.
His thoughts spun in circles.
People praised his style. They called him a genius.
A visionary.
A prodigy who reshaped the world of modern art.
But where were those same voices when the gallery lights went out?
When he stood alone in his house, with only silence spilling across the floor?
He rubbed his forehead, pushing himself upright. His throat was dry.
Boredom.
That was the immediate feeling.
A hollow boredom that wasn't about entertainment, more like a quiet suffocation.
He needed a distraction.
Anything.
His phone sat on the nightstand, a dark screen reflecting the room's shadows. He tapped it out of habit. Notifications flooded the display, messages from agencies, invitations, event reminders, articles mentioning him.
He didn't open any of them.
Instead, he slid out of bed, letting his feet press against the cold marble floor. The temperature made him shiver awake, grounding him in the moment.
The hallway lights flickered on automatically as he walked.
Soft, warm light followed him like obedient servants.
Eventually, he reached the hall.
The hall was so big and filled with stuff.
Yet all Ellian could think was how empty it felt.
At the far end of the hall stood the television, seamless, practically a digital canvas of its own.
He approached it, remote in hand.
For a moment, he hesitated.
He wasn't sure why.
Maybe he expected the news to be the same as always, politics, celebrity scandals, market updates.
Empty noise.
Still, he pressed the button.
The screen woke with a low hum, flooding the room with cold blue light.
He blinked as the image sharpened.
Then froze…
There was no host. No anchor.
No calm newsroom background.
Instead…
A shaky handheld feed vibrated across the screen, showing a night sky torn open by something massive and crawling. Screams filled the audio, overlapping, raw. At that exact moment sirens started echoing in the distance.
The camera jerked downward.
There…
Between two buildings…
Something moved.
Something not human.
Not close to human.
A long limb slammed into the pavement. Cars flipped from the shockwave. People ran in disoriented terror.
The reporter's voice cracked through the noise:
«I-If you can hear this– stay inside– don't approach the– the creatures– they're… »
Static swallowed him whole.
Ellian stood frozen, breath locked somewhere in his throat.
For a moment, he thought the exhaustion from earlier had resurfaced.
Hallucination?
Dream?
Nightmare?
But no…
The next feed burst on screen automatically.
A woman in a blood-stained coat, broadcasting from behind a barricade, whispering frantically:
«They came out of nowhere… we don't know how many… please, if anyone…»
A shadow fell over her.
The screen cut again.
Ellian's fingers tightened around the remote.
His heartbeat was loud, too loud, thundering in his ears.
His skin prickled with cold disbelief.
This wasn't news.
This was apocalypse footage.
In the space of a single breath, the quiet night he had woken to felt like a fragile shell, already cracking.
His voice came out soft, barely audible:
«…What is happening?»
He swallowed again, throat tightening.
A low tremor ran through him, not dramatic, not cinematic, just real. The subtle trembling of someone who had no idea what was happening.
He stepped closer to the screen without realizing it.
The next feed displayed a city in chaos, fires, overturned buses, the distant silhouettes of creatures moving between collapsing buildings.
His reflection appeared in the corner of the glass, pale, tense, eyes wide.
He didn't recognize himself.
For the first time in years, the world felt unfamiliar.
Dangerously unfamiliar.
And as the news switched to yet another scene of carnage, one thought pierced him with sudden clarity…
The screen flickered again, but Ellian wasn't watching anymore.
Something inside him, instinct, dread, disbelief, pushed him toward the windows. His steps felt strangely weightless, like walking through water.
His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the curtains.
He hesitated.
Just for a second.
As if some part of him already knew that whatever lay outside would carve itself into his memory forever.
But he pulled the curtains open.
The world revealed itself in one breath.
And Ellian's chest froze.
Below him, far, far below, the city stretched out in a sprawling maze of lights, streets, high-rises, and bridges. Usually beautiful. A view he once admired every night before bed.
But not tonight.
Tonight, the city was drowning.
Fire curled up the sides of office towers like hungry vines. Rooftops collapsed under the weight of something enormous. Sparks and smoke twisted together as the night sky pulsed with red reflections.
And the creatures…
At first he couldn't comprehend their shapes.
Some slithered between buildings, long and segmented, pulling themselves with limbs that clicked against metal. Others erupted from deep cracks tearing through the streets, massive, horned, their bodies coated in a black substance that shimmered like oil. Humans scattered around them like dust.
Ellian pressed a hand to the glass.
His breath fogged the surface.
He didn't even notice.
Far above the burning district, dark wings sliced through the night. Something flew, several "somethings." Their silhouettes were jagged, unearthly, their wings beating with a low, thunderous rumble that vibrated even through the window.
He watched one swoop low, snatching a car off a bridge.
His entire body stiffened.
Far-off explosions burst like stars collapsing.
A skyscraper, one he recognized, shuddered, bent, and folded sideways like a dying giant. The impact rippled through the streets, sending dust clouds blooming upward like ash from a volcanic eruption.
Ellian's lips parted.
No sound came out.
His thoughts, normally sharp and fast, crashed into each other chaotically.
This… isn't real.
It can't be real.
What is this? What is happening? What,
How…
Why…
This isn't…
But everything kept happening. The city kept burning. The creatures kept moving.
Reality didn't ask for permission before breaking.
His heartbeat pounded violently, ringing in his ears.
He felt a coldness spreading through him, first in his fingers, then his chest, then everywhere. His legs weakened, and he steadied himself against the window frame.
He tried to speak.
To say anything.
A word, a whisper, a gasp.
Nothing came out.
Fear was an emotion he'd grown used to in small ways, fear of disappointment, fear of failure, fear of being seen too closely.
But this?
This was something primal.
A terror so vast it hollowed him out from the inside, leaving only the instinctive knowledge that the world he knew was no longer the world he lived in.
Ellian's eyes trembled.
He stared, unable to blink, unable to look away.
~
After some time, as Ellian continued to watch the entire landscape, all fear slowly vanished and was replaced by acceptance. Ellian looked at the hellish scenery and managed to force out the words:
«Is this truly the end for humanity?»