Ryan Greed finished wiping down the last bench a few minutes past seven in the evening, though the exact time hardly mattered. His body had been counting hours long before he checked the clock.
His shoulder and back were full of sweat from the overwork.
The gym was nearly empty. Two treadmills still ran on the far side of the floor, their belts running slow in endless loops. A half-finished protein shaker sat beside a dumbbell rack.
Juno still hadn't come in.
A full week had passed since his coworker called out sick.
No replacement had appeared and no temporary staff hired by the management, as if they had stopped pretending a solution existed.
Ryan opened the gym, closed the gym, trained clients, corrected form, cleaned equipment, and handled every complaint that surfaced.
Overtime padded his paycheck, but it also stripped away whatever energy remained after rent, utilities, and groceries claimed their share. Complaining wouldn't change any of that.
He tossed the rag into a bin, grabbed his bag, and shut down the remaining machines.
When he pulled the metal shutter down over the entrance, night had already settled in.
Low clouds smothered the sky, reflecting the dull glow of streetlights and turning everything a washed-out gray.
Ryan stepped outside and inhaled slowly. The coolness slid across his overheated skin, doing little more than reminding him he was no longer inside.
The walk to the station passed without incident. A few cars drifted by.The 7:15 local arrived as Ryan reached the platform.
He boarded, found an empty seat near the window, and let his weight drop into it. The glass pressed cool against his temple. His eyelids sagged as the train lurched forward, the steady clatter of wheels against rails forming a hollow rhythm that tugged at the edge of sleep.
Static crackled through the overhead speakers.
"Good evening. Another tremor was recorded near the southern district earlier today. This marks the fifth minor earthquake in the region within the last three days. Seismologists report no detected tectonic activity beneath the area."
Ryan opened his eyes.
Earthquakes were rare here. Not impossible, but rare enough that people usually talked about them. Five in three days should have caused more concern than it had. Yet the city seemed to absorb the news with a strange, muted calm.
The announcement continued.
"In other news, police have confirmed the discovery of bloodstains near the Westbridge underpass late last night. Authorities believe the scene may be connected to the recent string of disappearances in nearby neighborhoods. This marks the fourteenth suspected case within just over a month. No bodies have been recovered. No witnesses have come forward. Investigators have not identified a suspect."
A man across the aisle shook his head.
"What the hell are those bastards in the police department doing?"
Ryan didn't look at him, but he gave a small nod.
Fourteen people didn't vanish by accident.
Every few days, another name appeared. Another person who had simply failed to come home. Always the same pattern. Only blood found in the spot and no bodies were ever found, it was as if the magically disappeared.
Ryan didn't feel panic. What settled in his chest was heavier than fear, a quiet pressure that refused to go away. The sense that something fundamental was wrong, and that knowing it offered no protection at all.
The train slowed and his stop arrived.
Ryan stepped off the platform and headed toward the exit. Outside the station, a battered vending machine flickered between dim and bright. He bought an energy drink and a small bag of chips, cracked the can open, and swallowed a mouthful of overly sweet liquid that barely cut through the dryness in his throat.
'Ah, the artificial sweetness sucks!'
He started walking toward his apartment.
Old apartment blocks loomed on either side of the street, their windows scattered with uneven light. Closed storefronts formed dark gaps between buildings, their signs faded and half-peeled. Streetlights stood far enough apart to leave long stretches of pavement submerged in shadow.
Ryan had walked this route hundreds of times.
About halfway home, he heard something behind him.
*scrape*.
He paused.
When he turned, he saw nothing.
'Probably a cat. Or a rat.'
Without minding, he kept his steady pace. But then, he heard the sound.
*Scrape... scrape...*
He stopped again. This time, the sound was heavier. Not the light paws of a cat or dog. It was something bigger, like dragging something deliberate.
He turned sharply. Still nothing, but his heartbeat rose quickly and he vaguely felt something wrong.
But the air had changed. It was thicker now, like walking through syrup. The hairs on his arms stood up.
He walked faster, almost started jogging.
*Scrape. Scrape. SCRAPE.*
Then he saw it
A shadow, massive and malformed, slithered from the alley behind him. It didn't walk. It crawled, limbs too long, body too low, like it was folding itself in half just to fit between buildings. Its eyes if they were eyes glowed faintly, like dying embers.
Ryan froze.
"What the hell is that?" he whispered, but his voice cracked mid-sentence.
The thing surged forward.
He didn't get the time to react, surprised by the sudden acceleration. In panic, he turned and ran.
But, he didn't get far.
A weight like a wrecking ball slammed into his back, sending him flying. He hit the pavement with a sickening crunch, the world spinning, his limbs refusing to obey. Pain exploded through his spine, white-hot and blinding. He tried to scream, but only a strangled gasp escaped.
His vision blurred and blood trickled into his eyes.
He couldn't move and couldn't breathe. The weight pressed down on him made him suffocate. He wanted to leave this hell.
Then came the tearing.
A sound like wet fabric being ripped apart. His back was splitting open. He felt every tendon snap, every bone grind against the asphalt. His body convulsed, nerves firing like live wires.
"AAAHHHHHHH!"
The scream tore from his throat, raw and primal. It echoed down the empty street, bounced off buildings, and vanished into the night.
He had never imagined death would feel like this.
He had imagined it might be quick. A bullet. A car crash. A heart attack in his sleep.
Not this. Notthis.
The pain was beyond comprehension. It wasn't just physical, it was existential. Like his very soul was being ripped off.
'I want to die,' he thought. 'Please. Just let me die.'
But death didn't come.
Instead, the thing, whatever it was, grabbed his leg.
And ripped.
Another scream. His scream echoed across the street, far louder than before. Tears flowed down his eyes.
He wanted to look, to see what happened, to see the face of the culprit, but he couldn't turn around. He knew his leg was gone.
Not broken. Gone, simply gone, disappeared.
Blood sprayed in rhythmic pulses, painting the pavement in arcs of red. His vision dimmed and his body trembled. He couldn't scream anymore. He couldn't think.
With final effort, he turned his head with all the strength he had.
The last thing he saw was the creature's face or what passed for one looming over him. Its mouth opened, impossibly wide, and inside was not teeth, but darkness and an empty void, like black hole that sucks even the light.
Darkness slowly filled his vision, his vision was gradually drowning and his heartbeat also began to slow down. He was slowly dying, with agony and pain that no one deserved and helplessly wait for death.
Somewhere nearby, a voice cut through the haze.
"Target located. Requesting immediate support."
Ryan didn't know who said it. He didn't know what it meant.
His awareness slipped, the street fading into shadow as everything went black.