Elliot's POV

"I see the world as it truly is: breathtaking in its chaos, terrifying in its order. And I must uphold both"

—Elliot Starfall

My heart pounds like a war drum. It wants to sink into my stomach, drag my shoulders down, deny the reality my eyes perceive. But this is real.

Blue-skinned creatures. Their figures range from gaunt to massive. One of them hurls itself against the window, the glass trembling but holding firm.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

Three times, it slams its half-shattered head against the sturdy bus window. Its skull splits further, oozing with writhing maggots feasting on its exposed brain matter. My stomach churns at the grotesque sight as the creature, with its mangled hand—little more than stripped bone—smears blue blood against the glass, desperately trying to burst its own empty eye socket. Thick, inky liquid dribbles down the transparent shield that separates me from them, my fragile sanctuary in this nightmare.

My breath quickens. White specks dance in my vision. My limbs tremble. I sway.

Breathe. Steady yourself.

My shaking hand grips the heated silver bar of the bus. Breathe. I press my cold, sweat-drenched forehead against the back of my hand. My stomach revolts, and I barely manage to stifle a retch. Sticky remnants of bile smear across my brow. The acrid stench of vomit clings to me.

Thump! Thump!

More pounding against the windows.

A cold blue glow bathes the scene, casting jagged shadows across the floor. My knees buckle, my body sinking into the bus's dim interior.

Focus. Focus.

I bite the inside of my cheek, my brows furrowing in pain. A drop of vomit trickles down my left eye. My fingers claw at my sweat-soaked shirt, gripping it tightly as if clinging to my last shred of control. I press the fabric against my mouth with both hands, a desperate mimicry of prayer.

A plastic bag would be better, but there's none to be found.

Creak!

My eyes widen. My breath catches in my throat. My body recoils instinctively, limbs scrambling backward like an overturned insect. The sight before me sends ice through my veins.

A crack in the glass. No—beyond that. A horde. Larger, broader figures pressing forward. Their ravenous eyes gleam with madness.

My brain struggles to process the grotesque details—the writhing maggots spilling from their gaping maws look almost like frothing foam, like rabid beasts on the verge of attack.

The crack expands.

I lurch backward until my head slams against a seat. A sharp pain erupts, momentarily eclipsing the horror before me. I hiss in pain, my hand flying to my throbbing skull.

Thump!

A massive shadow engulfs me. The eerie blue light vanishes.

Creak!

My gaze crawls sideways, slow and unwilling, just as shards of glass explode into the air. My body refuses to move. It's happening too fast.

A monstrous figure looms. Towering over two meters tall. A grotesquely broad face, half torn away, its skull barely clinging to a massive neck. No, not even a neck—just a thick column of exposed vertebrae supporting a grotesquely oversized, amber-hued head.

Maggots and thick, orange blood drip onto my disheveled hair.

I flinch.

The behemoth reaches out. As if it's the most natural thing in the world, it grips the metal wall of the bus and rips it away.

Two blue-skinned creatures are flung aside, their twisted bodies colliding with the neon-lit asphalt. They lie still for a mere three seconds before stirring, groaning, rising—shambling forward once more, their jagged grins exposing more maggots than teeth. Their eyes, empty yet burning with the color of the sun, fixate on me.

My elbows jerk upward, shielding my face. The hulking orange beast exhales sharply. I freeze. No breath. No sound. Only the cold sweat trickling down my cheek.

My heartbeat eclipses everything else. It pounds in my ears, in my throat, in my fingertips. My entire body thrums with it.

How alive I feel.

The decayed, peeling feet step closer—like the flesh of a skinned orange.

I dare not move. My gaze flickers upward, meeting its hollow, gaping eyes. Its grotesque head barely stays attached, pressed against the ceiling, barely held together by whatever remnants of flesh still cling to its bones.

Should I strike first?

One blow. A well-placed kick, and I could bring it down.

Thud.

The weight of its step sends a gust of air rushing past me. It is enormous. A creature broader than any bodybuilder, radiating sheer physical dominance. My earlier thoughts dissolve into nothingness. They were a lie.

I am going to die.

The blue-skinned creatures, no taller than me, shamble into the bus behind their monstrous leader. Black spikes pierce through their bodies, yet they move undeterred.

And still, I remain frozen. Silent. Paralyzed.

A rancid stench of rotting eggs floods my senses.

The giant bends down, its breath hot against my trembling hands—still raised in a futile shield over my eyes.

I swallow hard. It burns in my throat.

Every step it takes shakes the ground. Every breath I take drives my heart into a maddening tempo. My senses sharpen. I feel the rough, worn floor beneath me, the sickening heat of its breath, the wriggling maggots burrowing into my hair, slipping into my shirt, staining my once-white fabric with putrid orange.

To my right—a grating noise. To my left—a rasping wheeze.

My vision flickers. The giant extends its open hand toward my face.

Will it crush my skull? Scoop out my brain like a delicacy?

Darkness edges my vision. My mind spins.

I don't want to die.

My body moves before my thoughts can catch up.

Thud.

The impact of its step rattles my bones. My palms slap against the floor as I scramble backward.

Thud.

My soaked shirt clings to my fevered skin. My right elbow twists. Pain flares. I cry out.

Thud.

My back turns to the beast. My trembling hands push against the floor, but my weakened right arm falters.

Thud.

Its breath sears the nape of my neck.

Maggots drop onto my exposed skin, wriggling into my collar. My fingers claw at the bus seats, desperate for escape.

I must look pathetic.

My breath shudders, my bloodshot eyes reflecting the dim, sickly glow.

I don't want to die.

"*****"

A voice echoes.

A language not meant for mortals. It sounds familiar, yet uncertain. My eyes widen. My rigid body loosens. Fingertips glide across the ground. Instinct takes over—I twist abruptly, raising my forearms before my face like a boxer. They run. The giant and his followers, the ones who wished to see me suffer, flee.

My breath releases every worry, every pain, every fear. I rub my eyes—harder than usual, just to be sure. Yet when I lower my hands, they are even farther away. Their black, spire-like limbs pulse like my own heartbeat. And within merely twenty deep breaths, they are nothing but faint silhouettes on the horizon.

At first, I stare in silence. My shoulders sag, my hair falls before my eyes. Then, the corners of my mouth rise—higher and higher until my teeth show. My trembling hands run through my disheveled blond hair, still shaking from the rush of adrenaline. My breath, once ragged like a whistling kettle, twists into something else. A laugh. A hysterical, unbidden laughter that spills from my throat.

"In an apocalypse?" I say, my voice carrying the last remnants of a chuckle. "So, there is a way to survive after all."

My brows knit into a serious expression. My left-hand curls into a fist—my right hand tries, but stops midway. A sharp pain shoots through my forearm, and I click my tongue in frustration. I curse under my breath but shake the pain away as I slowly rise to my feet.

Since the very first breath I took after escaping death, I have been scanning my surroundings. And to my fortune, no colorful beings have appeared—only the dozen who followed that mysterious voice. Wiping the sweat from my forehead with my sleeve, I lift my gaze to the sky.

Pinkish-violet, like a withering rose.

My lips part slightly as my eyes drift farther, locking onto something even more bizarre. My breath hitches for a fraction of a second before continuing its rhythm. The sky is fractured. A pristine blue peeks through the cracks in the dying rose-colored expanse. A sun—radiating not golden light, but an ethereal blue.

I stare in awe as birds glide across its glow, shattering the light with their wings. But as quickly as I am distracted, I regain focus and push forward.

…

I gasp for air. My head pounds. Unrelenting, I run. Sweat drips from my forehead, burning my eyes. Then, finally—I see it. My apartment. A standard student complex. A long row of balconies stretching across the second floor. The sight of it sends a jolt through my chest, and I force myself up the stairs, my legs screaming in protest.

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With shaking hands, I reach beneath the doormat, feeling for the key. My heart hammers at the thought—what if it had been stolen? I had planned to leave everything behind, to abandon my life completely. But as my fingers close around cold metal, relief floods my chest.

A clatter, like chains rattling.

Click.

The door swings open, and I rush inside. My Colt M1911. My eyes dart around frantically—from the wooden coat rack to the porcelain plates, to the drawer beneath my desk.

The blue light catches on its surface, reflecting in the polished, obsidian-black metal.

Eight rounds.

A lopsided grin tugs at my lips as I hold the pistol, its barrel angled toward the ground. With a flick of my thumb, I disengage the safety, pressing the lever down on the left side. I tilt it slightly, examining it, before securing it once more. My eyes flicker upward, my head following a moment later.

If these things are like zombies from the movies…

My gaze sweeps across the room before landing on something else—a baseball bat. I grip it, letting its weight settle in my hand.

…then I shouldn't be too loud.

Securing the Colt in the holster strapped to my worn brown belt, I rest the bat casually over my shoulder. I pause, thoughts racing as I consider my next move.

Then, a sharp hissing noise.

My breath catches. My head jerks to the right.

The television.

Flickering, its screen invaded by streaks of chaotic color. Slowly, the distortions form hazy, unrecognizable silhouettes. Voices crackle through the static—one high-pitched and grating, the other calmer but laced with panic.

"MONSTERS—SUPERIOR BEINGS WITH BLOOD OF A DIFFERENT COLOR!"

The shrill voice screams. A gaunt old man appears on the screen, an aluminum cap perched atop his wrinkled head.

"THE GOVERNMENT LIED TO US! TOLD US THERE WAS NOTHING BEYOND THE ICE! LIED! DECEIVED US!" He throws up his skeletal hands, clutching his face. Thin, white strands of hair dangle from his gleaming scalp.

"THE WORLD IS BIGGER THAN WE THOUGHT! SPACE ISN'T REAL! THE MOON LANDING WAS A FARCE! WE ARE NOTHING MORE THAN ENTERTAINMENT FOR BEINGS WHO SEE MORTAL LIFE AS NOTHING BUT A FLEETING AMUSEMENT!"

Beside him, another man—middle-aged, with thick brown hair and weary eyes rimmed with dark circles—speaks.

"THIS WORLD IS MERELY A CONTINENT IN A FAR GREATER RE––"

My eyes widen.

I blink.

Less than a heartbeat. Not even half a breath.

And yet, in that instant, I see them—split in two.

The plastic-covered room, shredded. A hole in the wall, large enough to swallow a car.

Entrails spill to the floor, thick and wine-red. The color drains from their fading brown eyes.

Behind them—

A faceless creature.

No eyes, no teeth, no nose. Just a mouth—a gaping void stretched into a cruel grin.

Draped in a black suit, soaked in red. Its long, spindly fingers drip with blue and yellow viscera.

It stares at me.

Through the television.

Watching.

Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, it lifts a handful of intestines to its mouth—and eats. Like slurping noodles, it devours them, its horrific grin widening.

The screen cuts to static.

A deep unease coils in my gut.

My knees weaken. My grip on the baseball bat loosens.

I lower my head, running a trembling hand over my brow. My forehead creases.

"This can't be real…" I murmur, but even as the words leave my lips, my body moves.

My left hand grips the doorknob. It trembles, but I squeeze tighter.

Blue light floods over my cold skin.

My hair stands on end.

So warm.

I slam the door shut behind me, shoving the key into my pocket. Taking a deep breath, I lift my gaze—to the bizarre sky stretching before me.

And then, my thoughts turn to my brother.

Ren…

"Please be alive…" I whisper. "At least you mu––"

Bang! Bang! Bang!

My body jerks involuntarily. A ringing tinnitus forms in my ears.

"Get the fuck away from me, you faceless motherfucker!"

An African American man, his voice carrying a distinct accent, screams as he lies on his back, gripping his firearm with both hands. He unloads his bullets into the creature looming over him, but the rounds bounce off as if they were mere Nerf darts.

My legs freeze as I catch sight of its suit. Faceless? Shit! Shit! Shit!

I inch sideways, my steps silent against the slick floor of the long corridor. I look from the second floor, feeling gnawing guilt. It isn't my fight. Rescue is futile.

On tiptoe, I hurry down the stairs, my arms moving faster than my legs.

"N–no! No–!"

The man's voice fades, replaced by the wet, visceral sound of tearing flesh. Bones snap. But what unsettles me most is the sickening, guttural slurping of blood.

Barbaric.

I steal a glance over my shoulder. My fingers go numb. My hair turns gray.

The faceless creature stares at me like the ones from the television screen. Zombie-like figures stand behind it, their eyes empty voids. Glistening entrails drip from its gaping mouth. The corpse of the man has been quartered—limbs neatly separated.

Three differently colored zombies' claw at the remains, rending them apart, while the faceless one locks its gaze onto my flickering eyes. It lifts its clawed fingers—werewolf-like talons—and presses them against its blood-smeared abdomen. Green veins bulge across its cheeks as its mouth stretches grotesquely, splitting open to the ears. Blood—thick and red—drips like sweat. And then it laughs.

A haunting, unnatural laugh.

The blue, orange, and green zombies join in, their grotesque snickering filling the air.

I don't waste another second. My trembling legs move. My heart pounds three beats per second. My breath comes in desperate gasps.

I leap over lifeless bodies, my soles coated in crimson. My foot barely clears a rose-colored puddle.

"Goddamn it," I mutter, the words barely audible over my ragged breathing.

Wind hisses past my burning ears. I grip my baseball bat tight in both hands, the Colt M1911 strapped securely to my hip.

…

I've been running nonstop for half an hour, down the length of Samanta Street. My left hand grips a bat stained blue, while my right arm lags behind. I don't know if I've torn a muscle or just sprained something. My elbow bears no bruises—only an aching stiffness.

I keep biting the inside of my cheeks, though I haven't seen those things again.

Only four of the blue ones have crossed my path. I had to bash one in the skull. It was messier than I expected. Its head caved in like a beanbag, flesh collapsing inward.

Wiping away the splatter of blue blood on my chin, I fixate on a house in the distance. A modest home in what once was a quiet neighborhood. Now, it's a battlefield—littered with corpses, none of them moving. All of them drained pale, shriveled like raisins. Even the children.

I press on, dodging the vacant stares of the dead.

Ren.

Please, just be the same damn shut-in you've always been.

Please be at your desk, buried in paperwork, glued to your screen.

I press my thumbs into my palms until my pulse dulls to a steady rhythm.

Then, with a single breath, my hope shatters.

The door stands ajar, smeared in crimson.

Pain forgotten, I charge inside, ripping my Colt M1911 free from its holster, dropping my baseball bat.

I don't care what's inside. I don't care if a legion of faceless horror waits for me. Let them rip me apart, let them devour me alive, let them drink me dry.

So long as Ren survives, it will have been worth it.

My toes dig into the wooden floorboards. My right thumb flicks the safety off. I raise the gun, barrel held just over half a meter from my eye.

I suck in a breath—

Thud.

Something falls.

I snap left the moment I step into the hallway, my knees slightly bent, adrenaline sharpening my senses. The room is dim, vacant. Cold light spills onto the floor, curtains billowing like sails in the wind.

I hesitate. I pivot sharply to the right.

I'm blind to any stench of blood or rot—I've drowned in it for too long.

For a brief second, I lower my gun.

Then I choke.

My throat tightens under an unrelenting grip. My body flails like a child's. I drive my bruised elbow toward my attacker's ribs, twisting violently to break free.

I squeeze the trigger once—

Glass shatters. A cup I gave Ren for his eighteenth birthday explodes into shards.

My grip falters. The gun slips from my fingers, clattering to the floor.

"Damn it, Ell."

A familiar voice dances in my ears.

I gasp, inhaling greedily as the pressure on my neck loosens. My eyes flicker with recognition.

It's him.

"Ren!" I cry out, my voice cracking.

My arms wrap around his legs as I stagger upright, pulling him into a fierce embrace.

"You're alive!" I nearly sob with relief.

But my elation dims. His clothes—soaked in red and blue.

I clutch his arms despite the pain shooting through my own. My hands roam over his limbs, desperate for wounds.

I forget my surroundings.

I forget the darkness.

I see only him—the only family I have left.

He offers me a small, weary smile. "Not mine."

He hesitates before stepping forward, his movements slow, almost hesitant. Then, suddenly, his grip tightens, and his well-built frame crashes into me, squeezing me with a force that nearly cracks my ribs.

I cough, peering over his shoulder.

The blue light of the sun glows in the distance.

My eyes sting. Red bleeds into my vision.

Tears slip free, mixing with the blood on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

He doesn't answer. He simply pats my back—gentle, reassuring.

I'm the older one, yet he's always been so much stronger than me.

"Pa and Ma would be proud of you," I whisper. And they truly would.

My eyes remain shut as I savor this rare moment. I feel his oily blond hair—identical to mine—brush against my left cheek. Just one more breath. One more second. Then, I open my eyes.

They widen in an instant.

How many times has my heart stopped today? How many times have my knees buckled under the weight of terror? How many times have my hands frozen in fear?

I stare into the vacant eyes of grotesque zombies. A Faceless One stands before them. They are dozens of meters away.

I want to grab Ren's hand, yank him with me, and run. But I can't.

My body refuses to obey.

I try to open my mouth, but no sound escapes.

"What is it?" Ren asks, puzzled. But I do not answer. I can only stare at the Faceless One's lightning-fast movements.

Twenty meters—crossed in a single breath.

It stands before me. The acrid stench of death fills my nostrils.

It grins, a gaping maw like a black hole, except thick, red blood drips from its lips, as if it had drunk too much grape juice. It smiles at me, playful, almost teasing. Its smooth face tilts slowly to the side, studying me with unnatural curiosity. Then, it shakes its head and makes clicking sounds.

The colorful zombies behind it march forward. But the Faceless One raises a pale hand. Instantly, they halt. The stakes in their bodies loosen, and maggots flood over their blue and orange corpses.

The Faceless One cracks its neck.

Then, with a deliberate motion, it drags its fingernails across its own forearm, splitting the flesh open. The sleeve of its black suit tears apart, revealing the wound beneath. Green blood seeps from the gash, spilling over its pallid skin like an eerie mist.

I stare, horrified.

Ren's voice—I've ignored it three, four, maybe even five times now.

"Ell, what's wrong?!" he shouts, his arms shoving against me, trying to push me away. But I don't let go. I've been clutching him like a fool for the past few seconds.

I swallow hard.

"Sorry."

My vision blurs. My knees buckle. Ren pivots sharply, turning one-hundred-and-eighty degrees. His eyes widen in sheer disbelief.

His lips—rosy, just like mine—tremble.

Unlike me, he takes a step back. Then, he grabs my sleeve. I feel his hands shaking. They are smaller than mine, yet so strong.

I collapse onto my palms.

The Faceless One cracks its vertebrae. And before I can react—its face begins to peel.

Not shift. Not transform. Peel.

First, the paper-white skin sloughs away, revealing nothing but raw green flesh.

I shove myself sideways across the ground, my pulse roaring in my ears.

Teeth form first. Then gums. Then more of that same sickly green flesh shaping the contours of its cheeks. Two eyeballs emerge, their irises a deep, hazelnut brown.

Its grape-colored skin sizzles, and a layer of flesh stitches itself from its throat to its skull. The same grotesque process plays out across its hands—once skeletal, now wrapped in burning, shifting tissue.

I scuttle backward like an insect. Ren, however, stands frozen. His gaze flickers between the Faceless One and me, then to the Colt M1911.

His mouth is open. I know what he's thinking.

Take the gun.

Even though I know it's useless, I reach for it anyway.

The Faceless One is no longer faceless.

Now, chestnut-brown hair—like rich soil—spills across its head.

Its grin is smaller than before. But in its own way, it is far more terrifying.

The steam dissipates as its transformation nears completion.

It scoffs, stifling a chuckle.

Its fingers, once gnarled, now look perfectly human. It takes a slow, deliberate step toward me, shoving its hands into the pockets of its suit.

"Go ahead," it taunts.

My hands tremble as I level the gun. My finger tightens on the trigger, sluggish, as if trapped in molasses. Faster. Do it faster.

Ren nods at me. But he doesn't know. He thinks we can kill this thing.

"Oh, come on. Do I really look that human?" Its voice lilts into an irritatingly high pitch. It takes another step forward. "Go on. Right here."

It presses a hand to its stomach.

"Come o—"

I pull the trigger.

The shot rings in my ears, a deafening hiss. My grip nearly falters, but I fire again.

Three more rounds. Then, the gun slips from my grasp.

"Sorry," I whisper, my voice fragile.

For a moment, silence.

No. I squeeze my eyes shut. Please.

"Yes!" Ren yells, his gaze snapping to me.

I look at him, confused. Then, dread unfurls in my gut.

The creature clutches its stomach. Green blood dribbles between its fingers. It stares at me, as I once stared at it.

One bullet in its stomach. Another in its shoulder. One missed.

It staggers backward. Then, an eerie, guttural laughter bubbles up from its throat.

It spits green blood, dimples forming in its grotesque cheeks, like a baby's.

Then, it lunges.

I scramble for the Colt. But before I can reach it—

Its foot slams onto my wrist.

Its black leather shoes, slick with red and gore, press down with sickening force.

It smiles. Green blood stains its teeth.

It spits in my face.

My expression must be like a gambler who has just had his winning lottery ticket snatched from his grasp.

I try to lift my arm, but it presses down harder.

Ren remains still. Too still.

The creature crouches, its brown hair falling over its emerald-green eyes turning. Pupils vanishing..

"Elitranian steel." It sounds amused, playful even. Then, its voice hardens.

It presses its fingers into its wounds, and steam hisses from the gashes.

"Tell me, Red One, where did you humans get such a thing?"

Its dark green eyes bore into mine.

The wounds vanish. Not a trace remains. Only the tattered fabric of its suit.

My lips part. Ren's do the same.

The creature's green gums and tongue flick out the last drops of blood onto my face.

I do not blink. I do not move.

I only stare into the wide, mocking grin.

"I'm full," it sighs, stretching leisurely.

Then, its gaze sharpens.

"How about this?" It tilts its head. "Why don't you become my slaves?"

Its tone flits between amusement and command, as if this is all a game.

And in the next moment—

Only darkness awaits.

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