Jean stared at the television screen with glazed eyes, shock gnawing at his insides like rust eating through iron. "It has to be a grand hoax," he whispered to himself, the sound of his own heavy breathing the only companion in his cramped room. He switched off the TV with a jerky, nervous motion and grabbed his phone, hoping "virtual reality" would debunk the "actual reality." Instead, the screen ignited with news of gates tearing open in world capitals. He hurled the phone away, screaming: "Even you, you cursed piece of junk? Have you all conspired to drive me insane?"
He lunged toward the window, tearing the curtains back with such violence it felt like a slap from the truth. The streets, once serene, had transformed into a human slaughterhouse. Screams for mercy pierced the atmosphere: "Where is my daughter?" "Save us from these monsters!" He threw open the balcony door, and the metallic scent of fear rising from the crowds hit him like a physical blow. He let out a bitter laugh—a sound that resembled a choked sob.
— "Are you joking with me, Fate? Was my wish the lightning bolt meant to incinerate the world?"
Suddenly, the light vanished, replaced by a shadow as heavy as a grave. Jean slowly raised his head, and in that moment, the gears of time seemed to grind to a halt in his mind. A massive lizard, with horns twisted like charred branches and skin oozing filth and malice, was clinging to the balcony ceiling. With a chilling indifference, it extended a long, viscous tongue, licking his face in a cold "kiss of death." A sharp shiver raced down his spine as he stumbled back, muttering:
— "Great... it seems I've moved from being the reader to being the main course."
He didn't wait for a reaction. He burst into the living room and slammed the glass door, but it shattered behind him as if it were never there. He scrambled to the kitchen, unsheathed a knife, and pointed it at the beast with a hand that trembled despite his desperate attempt at courage:
— "Stay back! I swear I'm not an easy meal!"
But the lizard flicked the knife away with its tail as if brushing aside a bothersome insect. Jean dove, narrowly evading its lethal lunge, as the creature slammed into the wooden table. That collision bought him golden seconds to flee to his bedroom and bolt the thick wooden door.
His heart thrashed against his ribs like a war drum. "The bag... the book... the pendant!" he chanted like a mantra, stuffing his mysterious belongings into his backpack. Behind him, the door groaned under the beast's strikes: (BOOM... BOOM). With every hit, the wood splintered. He stripped the bedsheets with frantic speed, knotted them together, anchored them with heavy weights, and hurled them toward the giant tree across from his window.
"One leap between me and death," he said before throwing himself from the fifth floor. He slid down like an arrow, the wind tearing at his clothes, until he hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud. His forehead split open, blood streaming down to mask his right eye, but he didn't look back. He sprinted in his black sportswear, weaving through the terrified masses, with the monster relentless in its pursuit.
— "Damn it! It seems she really likes my flavor!" he shouted, dodging between cars.
He ducked into a deserted shop, grabbed a canister of insect repellent, and as the lizard lunged with its maw wide open, he sprayed and sparked his lighter in a suicidal gambit. A massive fireball erupted, searing the creature's hideous face. The lizard recoiled, howling in a voice that threatened to shatter his eardrums.
Jean stopped in the middle of the road, gasping for air, blood mingling with sweat on his face. Chaos reigned supreme, but his gaze suddenly locked onto the sky. There, a gargantuan gate floated—sickly "wheat-yellow" in color—with massive bells hanging from it, tolling a funeral dirge that shook the soul.
His eyes widened in horror, and he whispered in a trembling voice:
— "Damn it... it's the Fourth Gate. The Swamp of Temporal Decay."
With the final chime of the bell, hundreds of distorted hands with long, eroded nails began to emerge from the gate's membrane, clawing at the air as if searching for souls to tear apart. Jean took a step back, tightening his grip on his bag:
— "The novel has ended... and the hell that was never written has begun."