《KALKI : The Breathing World》 1. A precious normal Day (introduction) Trriiing, trriiing¡­ The alarm screeched through the quiet, yanking Nick from sleep. It felt louder today, more intrusive, as if reality itself was warning him. His hand slaps the phone, silencing the noise, but the damage is done. His body protests, heavy with exhaustion, but there¡¯s no time to negotiate. Six hours of sleep. That¡¯s what the experts recommend. And technically, he got it¡ªon a $ 10,000 mattress that promised baby-like comfort, in a room with central AC, wearing silk eye blinds and noise-canceling earbuds. According to his smartwatch, he had a ¡°restful¡± night. So why does he feel like he hasn¡¯t slept at all? With a deep sigh, he picks up his phone, squinting at the screen. Work emails. Ads for things he neither needs nor wants. A spam message claiming he won a million dollars. He scrolls, skims, deletes. His health app reports he¡¯s doing great¡ªheart rate stable, blood oxygen normal. According to the data, he¡¯s a picture of wellness. But data doesn¡¯t feel fatigue. Dragging himself to the bathroom, he lets the shower run, heating the water to the perfect temperature¡ªbecause of course, that too is automated. He should feel refreshed afterward. He doesn¡¯t. Running on Auto-Pilot Breakfast is textbook healthy: an omelet with toast, imported matcha tea from Japan, dragon fruit from China, cranberries labeled organic, fresh, locally sourced. The packaging screams quality, but the fine print whispers otherwise. Not that it matters. He eats, not because he enjoys it, but because he must. This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. Dressed in neatly pressed branded clothes, he looks into the mirror. Average height. Average build. A face that neither stands out nor fades away. He isn¡¯t out of shape, but he¡¯s far from fit. His lifestyle doesn¡¯t allow extremes¡ªit keeps him neatly in the middle, just like everything else in his life. Work is the same as always. The hours stretch. His colleagues are pleasant, their smiles practiced. He does what he does best¡ªefficient, reliable, replaceable. When the clock hits 8 PM, he breathes a little easier. Finally, he can leave. Between Millions, Yet Alone The first thing he does is call home. His mother¡¯s voice is warm, his father¡¯s steady. His sister laughs at something he says, and for a moment, something inside him untangles. Outside, the city is alive, its streets pulsing with people who are all going somewhere. He moves through the crowd, unseen yet surrounded, heading toward the best spot to catch a taxi. His polished shoes pick up dust, his shirt clings to his back. A cab finally stops. He slides in, sinking into the cracked leather seat. The traffic is a beast, snarling and unmoving. The driver talks¡ªstories about the city, about life. Nick listens, nods, even laughs once. For a few minutes, it feels real. A Home That Feels Empty The security guard at his apartment gives the usual nod, and Nick returns it, a silent exchange they repeat every night. The elevator dings as it carries him to the 25th floor. Inside, the silence is thick. His apartment is modern, clean, comfortable¡ªyet utterly lifeless. He strips out of his work clothes, steps into another shower, trying to scrub away the exhaustion that never really leaves. Hunger tugs at him. Normally, he¡¯d order something healthy¡ªsomething guilt-free, with words like organic, superfood, whole grain stamped all over it. Not tonight. Tonight, he orders a burger and fries, drowns it in ketchup, and washes it down with an ice-cold soda. It¡¯s greasy. Salty. Delicious. For the first time all day, he feels something close to joy. Then guilt settles in. He pops an antacid. Swallows it dry. Slipping into bed, he secures his earbuds, tightens his eye mask. The AI assistant¡¯s voice hums softly: "Cloudy and humid; a thunderstorm in spots in the morning, followed by a couple of thunderstorms in the afternoon." No surprises. Nothing ever changes. And in a few hours, the alarm will ring again. 2. The Box (introduction) 8:00 PM. His chest tightened. His fingers felt numb. It wasn¡¯t morning. It was night. He had lost an entire day. His mind reeled, searching for explanations. A glitch? A prank? A medical condition? He swallowed hard. This wasn¡¯t the time to panic. He forced out a chuckle, shaking his head. "Damn, looks like I got my AM and PM mixed up." The coworker laughed, but Nick barely heard it. His pulse thundered in his ears. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. Without another word, he left work and headed home. Sitting in his apartment, he tried to think through what had happened. He came to a conclusion. Shit happens. Accept it and move on. That evening, he indulged himself¡ªa whole fried chicken, a large salad, three different kinds of juice, and a bottle of dark soda. Then he set multiple alarms, triple-checked them, and went to bed. The air in his apartment felt strangely dense, carrying a metallic tang he couldn''t quite place. His eyes fluttered shut faster than usual¡ªtoo fast. Falling, Again Nick woke up. But not to his alarm. He woke up falling. Cold air rushed past him. His stomach lurched as his body hit the hard, unforgiving floor. A sharp gasp tore from his throat. He lay there, stunned, staring at the ceiling, trying to process. Then, slowly, he sat up. His mind felt like it was unraveling. Okay. Now he definitely needed to visit a psychologist. And maybe a neurologist. 3. Into the darkness ( introduction) The Awakening The floor was hard and cold. Nick¡¯s body felt sluggish, his muscles stiff, his mind foggy¡ªlike wading through thick molasses. His thoughts crawled, sluggish and disoriented. His body refused to move with its usual ease, weighed down by exhaustion and the unfamiliar environment. Something had taken a toll on him. A nightmare. That was his first thought. A sleep paralysis episode. But something was off. The world around him was too real. The air carried the damp, earthy scent of soil. The roughness of the ground bit into his skin. His breath came in short, uneven huffs, and he could feel every inch of his body¡ªhis limbs, his weight against the ground, the steady thud of his own heartbeat. This was not a dream. A chill slithered up his spine. His mind, now sharpening with creeping clarity, latched onto the memory of the box¡ªthe strange, warm, skin-like box in his apartment. His breathing steadied as his sense of control returned. Rationality took hold. Panic wouldn¡¯t help. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. The Problem First, the obvious. He was lying half-naked on a cement-like surface. His belongings were gone¡ªhis clothes, his wallet, his phone. His watch, which would have at least told him the time and possibly his location, was missing too. Robbery? It made sense¡ªexcept whoever did this took only his external possessions. No pain. No stitch marks. No soreness in his abdomen. His kidneys, liver, bone marrow, blood¡ªall intact. That realization offered an odd sense of relief. Still, there was no mistaking it¡ªhe had been abandoned. And wherever he was, it was far from civilization. He glanced upward, hoping to get a sense of direction. The moon loomed too large. That was unsettling. But then again, the moon¡¯s size did shift depending on its position in the sky. Nothing abnormal. Right? The air around him was thick with silence. Then, the sounds began¡ªmosquitoes whining, insects chirping, the occasional rustle of something larger in the underbrush. An unknown place. An unknown danger. Wandering blindly in the pitch-black night would be suicidal. He had no bearings, no light source, and no sense of direction. The Only Option With no better choice, Nick did the only thing possible. He curled up on the unforgiving ground, trying to conserve warmth. Seconds stretched into minutes. Minutes into eternity. The mosquitoes were relentless. Something scuttled nearby. A low, distant noise¡ªanimal? Wind? He didn¡¯t know. He didn¡¯t want to know. His body ached, his skin burned with the sting of endless insect bites, and sleep¡ªthough desperately needed¡ªrefused to come. Then, after what felt like forever, the sky shifted. A faint, reddish hue stretched across the horizon. Twilight. For the first time since waking, hope flickered in his chest. The night had not swallowed him whole. And now, with daylight creeping in, he might finally begin to understand where the hell he was 4. The confusing City A City That Shouldn¡¯t Exist The rising sun brought relief¡ªnot warmth, but visibility. For the first time since waking, Nick could see. As the dim light spread, details of his surroundings emerged. He was standing on a four-way road, cracked and crumbling with disrepair. Nature had started reclaiming it¡ªweeds pushed through the asphalt, cracks ran like veins along the surface, and the silence was thick enough to feel oppressive. No tire tracks. No footprints. No sign of life. His stomach twisted. "Where the hell am I?" He cursed his kidnappers¡ªwhoever they were. What kind of psychopath abducted a man from the city only to dump him in this godforsaken wasteland? The air felt heavy. Thick with pollution. Every breath burned slightly in his lungs. The haze blurred the horizon, and even though the sun was up, the light remained weak, unnatural. The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. He tried walking, but his body protested. Hunger gnawed at his stomach. Thirst dried his throat. He was weak, dizzy, and utterly exposed.his vision blurry. Yet, he had no choice. So, he walked. The March to Civilization Three hours. That¡¯s how long it took before he finally saw it¡ªthe unmistakable silhouette of a city. Towering buildings, stretching into the sky, half-swallowed by haze. A beacon of hope in the distance. But as the details became clearer, his hope shrank. This wasn¡¯t the city he knew. The buildings¡ªonce proud and modern¡ªhad been consumed by nature. Vines crawled up steel frames. Grass sprouted from cracked windows. These weren¡¯t skyscrapers anymore. They were graves of a forgotten world. Near the city¡¯s edge, a destroyed vehicle lay in ruins. But it wasn¡¯t a car. It wasn¡¯t anything he recognized. Nick¡¯s breath quickened. A massive hole gaped in one of the buildings, and at its center stood something impossible¡ª A giant metallic rod, as tall as a two-story building, embedded deep into the structure as if it had fallen from the sky. His mind raced, grasping for logic, for any explanation that made sense. But nothing fit. The architecture was wrong. The materials were foreign. The vehicle had no wheels, no treads, no visible way of moving. This¡­ this isn¡¯t my world. His heart pounded. He wanted to question everything¡ª**how, why, where¡ª**but right now, those answers didn¡¯t matter. Survival did. And at this moment, f inding water was more important than questioning reality. 5. Shelter A Desperate Search for Water Nick¡¯s feet dragged against the cracked earth, his breath shallow. His body had stopped sweating, a sign he recognized but refused to acknowledge. The road ahead was fractured, split open like parched skin. Scorched patches of molten veins pulsed faintly beneath the surface, their eerie glow casting twisted shadows against warped, glass-like formations. Yet life pressed forward. Thick vines, unnaturally coiled, gripped abandoned structures with a force that seemed less like growth and more like possession. Stalks, smooth as bone, flexed gently toward the sky despite the still air. Some curled away as he passed¡ªreactive, aware. He ignored them. A glint of water shimmered through the tangled undergrowth below. His knees struck the dry earth before he realized he had collapsed. Hands, trembling, parted the vines until his fingers brushed the surface of the narrow stream. The water was murky, its movement slow and thick with sediment. It carried the scent of metal, of age. But his throat was too raw for hesitation. His hands cupped, lifted, drank. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. The first swallow burned. The second settled like a rock in his stomach. The third, he barely tasted. His body, despite itself, straightened. He wiped his mouth on the back of his arm, breathing slowly. A thin layer of dust clung to his skin, mixing with the dampness of his lips. The city still loomed ahead, but his legs carried him forward with steadier steps. The City of Ruins The first sign of past struggle lay twisted and half-buried near the city¡¯s edge¡ªa vehicle, its hull warped beyond recognition. No wheels. No treads. No openings where an engine might have been. Beyond it, a building stood scarred and hollow, a massive crater punched through its center. Impaled deep in the ruins was a towering metallic rod, scorched black, its surface fractured as if it had absorbed something far greater than heat. Nature had begun its reclamation, but the battle had been recent enough for the wounds to remain visible. He kept moving. The Edge of Shelter The outskirts were different. Lower buildings, smaller footprints, fewer signs of status. The vines clung just as tightly, but here, there was a hesitation in their grip¡ªas if this part of the city had been less worth taking back. A bridge, its railings crumbled, stretched before him. Beyond it, a house¡ªsmall, unremarkable, with a door sagging in defeat. A branch lay nearby, thick and sturdy. He picked it up, wedging it into the doorframe. The rusted lock crumbled under pressure. Claiming a Space The air inside was thick with time. Dust coated every surface, undisturbed. The walls stretched barely ten feet across, the ceiling marked with the faint scars of past leaks. He tested the structure, pressed a hand against the wall, knocked against the roof with a loose stone. It stood. A metal pot, cool to the touch, sat forgotten in the corner, its surface untouched by rust. Nearby, polymer utensils lay scattered, still intact despite time¡¯s decay. A shattered device, its screen cracked, rested beneath fallen debris. Its purpose was lost, but its presence confirmed one thing¡ªwhoever had lived here once, hadn¡¯t left by choice. He stepped back, gaze sweeping over the space. Not a home. But it would do. Preparation He pulled vines from the walls, twisting them into a crude belt. The metallic pot and polymer kettle hung at his side, swaying with his movements. A dry branch, tested for weight, became a walking stick. His stomach ached, not from hunger but from adjustment. He turned back toward the water source. The city could wait. For now, he needed to gather. 6 preparation Adapting to the Unknown The stream gurgled softly, its presence a rare comfort in the otherwise heavy silence. Nick crouched beside it, submerging his plastic kettle beneath the cool surface. Tiny ripples fanned outward as he filled it, sealed the lid, then set it beneath the nearest tree. The metal pot followed, tucked away safely in the shade. With water secured, he turned his attention to food. The problem was, nothing here felt normal. Plants shouldn¡¯t breathe. Their stems shouldn¡¯t pulse. Some even twitched at his presence, their tendrils curling as though sensing him. Nick kept his distance. Instead, he searched for what looked safe. Stalks that didn¡¯t flex, leaves that didn¡¯t react when touched. He smeared the juice from one plant onto his forearm, waiting for any sign of irritation, numbness, or reaction. Nothing. Only then did he gather them. The Cost of Survival By the time he returned to his makeshift shelter, his body was a patchwork of scratches. His feet burned, raw from constant exposure. The slightest brush of the unnatural vines left stinging marks on his skin. He needed clothing. Shoes. Protection. But that, too, would have to wait. First, fire. He arranged stones into a crude stove, stacking dry branches and brittle grass inside. Then came the hard part¡ªsparking a flame. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. Minutes dragged into an hour. His knuckles bled from the effort, his fingers blackened with soot. But then¡ª A flicker. A coil of smoke. Then a single, fragile flame. He wasted no time, feeding it carefully, keeping the embers alive. The berries and mushrooms boiled in water, their earthy scent filling the air. The taste was bland, bitter, but it was food. It was survival. That night, exhaustion overtook him, dragging him into sleep. He never intended to rest, but his body made the choice for him. The foreign world pressed in around him, silent yet watching. A New Day, A New Struggle Pain greeted him first. His back ached from the unforgiving ground, his muscles stiff from sleeping upright against cold stone. A new routine took shape. No toothbrush¡ªash would do. No shoes¡ªvines, softened in water, became crude sandals. But the forest was less forgiving. The familiar plants were gone. The **safe berries, the harmless mushrooms¡ª**he had picked them all in a single day. Now, only the unfamiliar remained. He ventured further, hunger outweighing hesitation. Tall, unsettling trees loomed in the distance, their trunks pulsating like a beating heart. Vines bled red where they wrapped around the bark. The air near them carried a scent¡ªthick, metallic, unnatural. A low, guttural sound echoed beyond the trees. Something alive. Nick stopped. His breath held. Then, slowly, he turned back. Hunger was bad. But not as bad as walking into something he wasn¡¯t ready for. The Isolation Sets In As the days passed, the world felt heavier. The deeper he moved toward the ruined city, the stranger everything became. Technology that shouldn¡¯t exist. Structures too advanced, yet crumbling. The sheer scale of catastrophe was beyond anything he had ever known. And worst of all¡ª The absence of people. At first, the loneliness was manageable. Necessary, even. But isolation was a slow poison. The silence grew thick, suffocating. The air carried a taste¡ªdusty, metallic, faintly sweet, yet off. The sunlight never shone bright enough. Even at midday, a dull haze smothered the sky. He was alone. And it was beginning to take its toll. Preparation for the Unknown He adapted. Over five days, his hands became skilled at weaving vines into armor-like garments. A sturdy branch, carefully sharpened, became a crude spear. His shelter was stocked. His weapons, primitive but functional. And when he looked toward the hollowed city, its ruins stretching toward the poisoned sky, he knew¡ª It was time. Time to search. Time to understand. Time to find out what happened to this world. And, more importantly¡ª What happened to him. 7. Into the city Nick moved carefully, testing the ground before each step. A rock in his palm, he tossed it ahead every few feet¡ªwatching, listening. If there were old mechanisms, hidden traps, or things lying in wait, he would rather trigger them from a distance. But nothing came. The road stretched ahead, fractured and worn. The only signs of life were flowers blooming in unnatural colors, perched on trees twisted into bizarre shapes. The air hummed with the distant calls of birds, their songs familiar yet subtly wrong, as if they followed a different rhythm than those of his world. Then came the cockroaches. They scuttled across the ruins in droves, their bodies gleaming with metallic hues that shimmered and shifted as they moved. The moment he saw them, hunger clawed at his stomach. Not the slow, creeping kind¡ªbut an urge. Deep, unnatural. His fingers twitched. He almost reached for one. A bolt of cold shot through his spine. That wasn¡¯t his instinct. It was something foreign pressing into him. His jaw tightened, and he forced himself to step back. Not today. The buildings around him were unlike anything he had seen before¡ªa strange fusion of modern precision and medieval grandeur. Sharp geometric edges merged with elegant, sweeping arches, standing as if untouched by time. Vines curled around them, but they didn¡¯t strangle or crack the foundations. Instead, they reinforced them. These weren¡¯t ruins decaying into dust. They were structures repurposed by nature itself. The city was changing, but it wasn¡¯t dying. At an intersection, something caught his eye. A dustbin¡ªat least, that¡¯s what it looked like at first. Then, a leaf drifted into its opening, and the bin shifted. The leaf vanished. Nick froze. The thing had eaten it. He observed from a distance. It didn¡¯t react to his presence, didn¡¯t shift toward him. Instead, it continued its silent work, clearing the ground. Whatever system had once kept this city running¡ªit was still functioning. He adjusted his path. Best not to test his luck. Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. Further ahead, a metallic tram track cut through the ruin. Something about it unsettled him¡ªit was old, yet its structure remained unbroken, unclaimed by rust. Vehicles jutted from walls like impaled insects. Had they been thrown there? Or had they once flown? The city stood silent, but it was watching. A fortress-like building loomed in the distance, its five-meter walls imposing yet aged. The main gate had been forced open long ago. He lingered at the threshold, instincts resisting. Then, he turned back toward the jungle. The eerie red vines, the pulsing tree trunks, the unknown creatures lurking in the undergrowth. He exhaled, steeling himself. The city was the lesser threat. He stepped inside. The first thing that greeted him was a garden, its colors unnaturally vivid, the air thick with a saccharine scent. The fragrance curled into his lungs, almost lulling, almost inviting. Yet, something felt wrong. The insects refused to enter. Small creatures sniffed at the edges of the garden, then scurried away. Nick plucked a dry branch and snapped it in half. A piece landed in the flowers. Nothing happened. He watched. Waited. Minutes passed before he finally stepped forward. Inside, the waiting room stood untouched by time. The walls were smooth, dense¡ªfar sturdier than anything he''d ever known. Even with no power, no hum of machines, no sign of life, the structure held firm. He climbed the staircase, each step deliberate. The first floor opened into a spacious lobby, its corridors stretching into darkened apartments. Doors left ajar. Not forced. Opened. By scavengers? Or something else? Nick chose the most ordinary-looking unit. The door swung wide. A sofa, still standing. A painting on the wall. His gaze locked onto it. A warrior, mounted on the back of a great bird, spear aimed toward the sky. The beast¡¯s wings stretched outward, its rider resolute, unshaken. Something about it felt¡­ human. He moved deeper inside. Some decorations remained, while others had rotted long ago. But the objects¡ª The objects were wrong. A small figurine of a woman, riding an octopus through violent waves. The craftsmanship was too precise, the details unnerving. Fantasy? Myth? Or something else entirely? Shoving the thought aside, he made his way to the kitchen. He found what he needed¡ªa water bottle, a sturdy pot, a sealed container. A sack, most likely made of animal hide. Durable. Lightweight. He stuffed everything inside. The other rooms held nothing useful. He stopped searching. Not because there was nothing left to find. But because the more he explored, the heavier the unknown pressed in. He had already stepped too deep into the unfamiliar. There was no need to push further. The stairs led him to the rooftop. A helipad stretched across the space, faded markings barely visible beneath layers of grime. A broken transport vehicle lay abandoned in the corner. He ran his hands along its structure, searching for something salvageable. The metal was stripped clean. Whoever had come before him had taken everything that mattered. Nick exhaled, pushing forward until his hands met the guarding rail. He curled his fingers around the cold metal, his gaze sweeping across the silent city. Everything lay still. Then¡ªmovement. His breath caught. In the city¡¯s core, a massive creature¡ªeasily the size of a one-story building¡ªbounded across rooftops. And it wasn¡¯t alone. A pack of dog-sized rat-like creatures pursued it, their metallic scales glinting, strange appendages protruding from their backs. Some moved in shadows, their bodies flickering in and out of visibility. Nick¡¯s pulse hammered. The creatures were hunting. But something else was hunting them. From the ruins, tendrils of red and green lashed out, striking at isolated stragglers. The creatures twisted and shrieked, but the tendrils were merciless. Nick¡¯s breathing turned shallow. His fingers ached from how tightly he gripped the railing. This was not a world built for him. The things he had once stepped on without a second thought¡ªthe ants, the insects, the pests of his world¡ª Here, he was them. His vine armor, sharpened stick, and metal pot meant nothing. And if he wasn¡¯t careful, He would be crushed just as easily. 8. Dicision The scene outside was too terrifying to risk another glance. Nick¡¯s pulse thundered in his ears, sweat dripping down his temple. The sturdy structure of the building was his only protection, and for now, that was enough. He forced himself to move, descending to the fourth floor and choosing the same apartment he had searched earlier. He rummaged through drawers, overturned cabinets, but found nothing new. The silence outside stretched unbearably long. It should have been a relief, but the quiet felt unnatural. Forced. "Are they still out there? Waiting?" His fingers trembled as he wiped the sweat from his face. He needed to leave. Tightening the cloth bag, he secured his scavenged supplies in his sack. --- With careful, measured steps, he climbed to the topmost floor once more. This time, he didn¡¯t just look¡ªhe studied. His eyes scanned every shadow, every broken window, every shifting vine. He turned in slow, deliberate motions, making sure nothing moved where it shouldn¡¯t. Only when he was certain no threats lurked nearby did he finally begin his descent. Leaving the building was a different challenge. "If they see me now, it''s over." Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. --- Nick walked like a thief in enemy territory. His footsteps barely made a sound against the ruined pavement. His breath was controlled, shallow. Even the rustling of leaves felt too loud, too dangerous. "A newborn calf fears no tiger. But I am not a calf." He had seen what prowled this city. He had glimpsed the monstrous things lurking in the ruins. "This is their hunting ground. I was never supposed to be here." --- By the time he reached his basecamp, his muscles were taut, his senses stretched thin. And now, the truth was clear. There were no people in this city. Not because civilization had simply fallen¡ªbut because this place had become a hunting ground. The creatures here did not share. Living in the city was a death sentence. "I''ve never killed anything in my life. Not even a rabbit. What the hell am I supposed to do if I run into one of them?" To those things, he was nothing more than delivered food. But the wild was no safer. The unknown threats in the jungle, the shifting trees, the eerie silence¡ªit carried its own kind of death. Yet, staying here meant starving. His supplies would run out. The land around his basecamp would deplete faster than he could replenish it. The city meant certain death. The wild meant possible survival. "Possible is better than guaranteed." He could work with that. --- Nick sat cross-legged on the ground, counting his gains. A sturdy pot, a sack, a large water bottle, three containers, and clothes. "Not bad. Not great either." It was enough. For now. He resolved himself. No more hesitation. He set up a small fire, boiling mushrooms and berries, drinking the thin soup in silence. It was hot, it was bitter, but it kept him alive. And for now, that was all that mattered. --- Morning came too soon. Nick rose early, moving with purpose. He collected water, washed utensils, and packed his remaining food into containers. He filled the last two with water, ensuring he had enough to last at least two days. Then, he dressed. The clothes, the armor of woven vines, the crude weapons. His stick rested firmly in his grasp, his sack slung over his shoulder. Before stepping away from the shelter, he turned back, taking in the space one last time. A house that once belonged to someone long gone. "Who lived here? Did they have time to run?" He inclined his head slightly, a silent acknowledgment. Thank you, stranger. Then, without another word, he left. This time, he wasn¡¯t coming back. 9. On The road Nick stuck to the same road he had taken into the city. It was familiar¡ªan easy escape route if things went wrong. As he walked, his thoughts drifted to his parents and sister. He missed them. He missed home. But the truth was, he had no idea where he was. The past day had been nothing but constant danger, and he couldn¡¯t afford the luxury of distraction. Yet, even now, he felt it. That unshakable sensation of being watched. Hundreds of unseen eyes, hidden in the jungle, their presence a silent weight pressing against his skin. From the undergrowth, thin tendrils reached out toward him, stretching, testing. But after a moment, they retracted, losing interest. Nick exhaled in relief. Good. Whatever these things were, they didn¡¯t see him as worth their attention. He intended to keep it that way. --- After walking for some time, fatigue crept in. His muscles ached, his steps slowed. He found a small clearing and decided to rest. Sitting down, he pulled out his mushroom soup, sipping slowly. The warmth soothed him, but the silence around him did not. It was too quiet. Wrong. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Something was moving in the jungle. He jolt upright, heart hammering. The rustling followed him as he walked. At first, it was distant, uncertain. Then, as soon as he slowed¡ªit grew louder. His pulse quickened. "I''m being stalked." Something was out there, gauging him. Testing him. His mind raced through possibilities. Could he outrun it? Hide? Fight? No. Not yet. Not without knowing what it was. So, he kept walking. --- Nick clenched his jaw, the realization settling in like ice in his veins. This land¡ªthis godforsaken land filled with predatory creatures and bizarre technology¡ª Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. This wasn¡¯t Earth. He had tried to convince himself otherwise. That maybe this was some warped, forgotten part of the planet. But he wasn¡¯t delusional. That rectangular box that had appeared in his apartment¡ªthe one that had vanished as soon as he touched it¡ªthat wasn¡¯t a hallucination. It had done something. It had brought him here. And it had given him nothing in return. No guidance. No way back. "This can¡¯t be a one-way trip¡­ right?" He wanted to believe that. He had to believe that it was two way. Because so far, he had seen no people. Only strange creatures, twisted landscapes, and the endless cycle of one thing devouring another. Had this world once been inhabited? Something had existed here before. There was a civilization. A functional society. But something happened. Something big. Either they evacuated, or they failed to. Which meant this place was never meant for him. And it wouldn¡¯t let him stay for long. --- After two hours of walking, he reached the spot where he had first arrived. His eyes scanned the area, searching¡ªfor anything. Some sign, some clue. But there was nothing. Not even a footprint. No tracks. No disturbance. "I came here in a damn birthday suit." Whatever had transported him had left no trace. His stomach twisted with disappointment, but he forced himself forward. Sticking to the highway, he kept moving. --- A short distance ahead, something finally broke the monotony. A rusted vehicle. It was massive¡ªtwice the size of a standard Earth truck trailer. He approached slowly, eyes narrowing at the damage. An explosion had torn into it, the metal blackened and twisted. But that wasn¡¯t the worst part. Skeletons. Scattered around the wreckage¡ªhundreds of them. Humanoid. Nick¡¯s breath hitched. It was clear what had happened. This vehicle was used to carry people. And something had ensured they never reached their destination. He clenched his fists. "What the hell happened here?" --- Pushing past his unease, he moved in to scavenge for supplies. But as he stepped closer¡ª Something moved inside the truck. Fast. Too fast. Blurred figures dashed past him, too quick to see. His instincts screamed¡ªRUN. But before he could react, a sharp pain tore through his left leg. Nick stumbled backward. His calf¡ªa deep, clean cut. Blood seeped down his leg. Oddly, he hadn¡¯t felt the pain at first. His brain caught up a second later. "Shit." Cold sweat dripped down his back. This was bad. --- Nick¡¯s breathing came hard and fast. The creatures¡ªwhatever they were¡ªhad already left. But if they had wanted him dead¡­ they could have killed him instantly. Instead, they wounded him. Testing. Warning. He stepped back, gripping his leg. The wound was about an inch deep. Bad, but not fatal¡ªif he handled it quickly. Moving carefully, he pulled out a boiled cloth strip, wrapping it tightly around his calf. The pain burned into his nerves, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to keep moving. "If they come back, I''m dead." --- Nick backed away from the truck, grabbing a stone and hurling it at the wreckage. Silence. Nothing moved. He exhaled sharply. Gritting his teeth, he stepped closer again. The truck was in ruins. Most of its contents were twisted beyond recognition. Whatever hadn¡¯t been destroyed was too heavy to budge. Then¡ªsomething intact. A knife. Deep inside the wreckage, untouched by the decay. Nick pried it free. The blade was not particularly sharp, but it was sturdy. The truck had rusted, but this knife looked new. He tied it to the end of his makeshift wooden spear. It wasn¡¯t much. But holding it felt better than holding nothing. "At least now I can poke the air with confidence." The thought was absurd, but he needed it. Because this spear¡ªthis flimsy thing¡ª Was the only thing keeping him from feeling completely helpless. --- After a short rest, he continued down the road. Every step sent a fresh pulse of pain through his calf. Every sound in the jungle made him flinch. The world around him wasn¡¯t just noisy anymore. The rustling was getting heavier. Now, twigs snapped. Now, something hissed. And as the sky darkened, his mood sank with it. Because now, he wasn¡¯t just walking. He was being followed.