"Human."
The word slid into my ear like a breath that did not belong to any living thing—low, resonant, vibrating through bone rather than air.
"You should not have survived this long."
My body refused to move.
Every muscle locked as if commanded by something far older than fear. I could still breathe, but even that felt borrowed, as though permission might be revoked at any moment.
The alley was narrow, damp with the smell of rust and rain. Neon light from the street behind me bled weakly into the shadows ahead, flickering like a dying pulse. I had taken this shortcut a hundred times before. Nothing had ever followed me here.
Until now.
Footsteps echoed once.
Then stopped.
He stepped out of the darkness.
Not human.
I knew it instantly, the way prey knows the shape of a predator before understanding its form. My instincts screamed long before my mind caught up.
His face was… perfect.
Too perfect.
Cold symmetry, flawless skin untouched by age, scar, or emotion. No horns. No wings. Nothing grotesque or monstrous in the way stories promised.
That was the worst part.
Because monsters were supposed to look wrong.
He did not.
And yet every cell in my body recoiled, screaming the same truth over and over:
He does not belong to this world.
The air around him felt heavier, as if reality itself bent slightly in his presence. The shadows clung to his outline, reluctant to let go.
I tried to step back.
Nothing.
My feet might as well have been rooted to the concrete.
"Who…" My throat tightened, voice shaking. "…who are you?"
His gaze swept over me slowly, deliberately—like a collector examining something already claimed. I felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with skin.
"I am not what you would understand," he said at last.
His voice was calm. Controlled. Not cruel.
Which frightened me far more.
"You were not meant to see me," he continued. "Not yet."
"Then why am I still alive?" I whispered.
A pause.
Something flickered across his eyes—interest, perhaps. Or calculation.
"That," he said, stepping closer, "is precisely the problem."
The distance between us vanished in three soundless steps. I could see details now—eyes too dark to reflect light properly, pupils edged with something faintly metallic, inhuman.
He raised a hand.
I flinched, finally able to move just enough to turn my face away.
But he did not touch me.
Instead, his fingers hovered just above my chest, where my heart pounded violently against my ribs.
"Do you know," he asked quietly, "how many times your kind brushes against death without realizing it?"
I shook my head.
"Hundreds," he said. "Thousands."
His hand lowered.
The air burned.
Something clicked inside me.
A pressure, deep and internal, as though a locked door had been forced open. Pain flared—sharp, sudden—and I gasped, collapsing to my knees.
Memories that were not mine flashed behind my eyes.
Stone pillars under blackened skies. Blood soaking into ancient earth. Voices chanting my name in a language I had never learned—
I screamed.
The visions shattered, leaving me shaking on the ground, palms pressed to cold concrete.
When I looked up, he was watching me closely now.
Not detached.
Not bored.
Focused.
"You felt it," he said.
I swallowed hard. "What… what did you do to me?"
"Nothing," he replied. "I merely confirmed what should have been impossible."
My hands trembled. "Which is?"
He crouched in front of me, bringing his face level with mine.
Up close, the wrongness was undeniable. His eyes held no warmth, no reflection of the world around us—only depth. Endless, waiting depth.
"You were marked long before you were born," he said. "Chosen, before you ever drew breath."
"Chosen for what?" I demanded, anger sparking through the fear. "By who?"
His lips curved, not quite a smile.
"By us."
The word landed like a verdict.
I forced myself to stand, legs shaking. "I don't believe you."
"Of course you don't," he said calmly. "Humans rarely do. Not until it is too late."
The alley lights flickered.
For a heartbeat, the world tilted.
And in that instant, I saw him—not as he appeared now, but as something vast and terrible, layered beneath a fragile human shape. Power pressed against reality like a storm straining against glass.
I staggered back, heart racing.
"What are you?" I whispered.
His gaze softened, just slightly.
"Your beginning," he said.
"And," after a pause, "quite possibly your end."
Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance.
The sound broke whatever hold he had on the space around us. The pressure lifted. The air lightened.
When I blinked, he was gone.
The alley stood empty.
No shadows clung unnaturally. No presence weighed on my chest.
Just me.
Alone.
Shaking.
I stumbled out onto the street, neon lights blinding after the darkness. Cars passed. People laughed. The world moved on, unaware that something fundamental had shifted.
I pressed a hand over my heart.
It burned.
Deep beneath the skin, something unfamiliar stirred—awake for the first time.
And I knew, with terrifying certainty, that whatever he was…
He would come back.
Because I had been chosen.