The sound of synchronized footsteps echoed down the ruined street—measured, deliberate, inhuman. The entities marched forward in perfect rhythm, their bodies upright, heads tilted slightly downward like they were following an unseen conductor.
There was no rage in their stride.
No hostility.
No panic.
Just... intention.
Nathan and Ivy walked side by side, leading the group, their steps slow, tense, and barely in sync. Each footfall felt heavier than the last. Behind them, Harper clutched Alice tightly, dragging her forward more than walking. Alice, detached from reality, softly hummed a tune—a tune none of them recognized. Something broken. Something off-key. Something wrong. Harper didn't even try to shut her up anymore. Not now.
Because behind them—just beyond the collapsed house—the tentacles were still rising.
Thick, veined, slick with black slime that glistened in the faint light of this distorted place. They coiled like the arms of something that hadn't yet woken up... but would. Soon.
Time was bleeding out.
Every second stolen here meant getting swallowed by whatever horror was growing behind them.
But still—they walked.
Each step forward toward the marching figures felt like walking into the unknown mouth of death.
Nathan could feel his breath catch in his throat. He wanted to say something to Ivy—to ask again if she was sure—but his mouth was dry, and there was no room for doubt now. She had taken the lead, and he had to see it through.
The sound of their own footsteps began to merge with the marching rhythm.
It was hypnotic. Maddening.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
It felt like walking through a dream... or a nightmare with no end.
Fear had morphed into something stranger.
The kind of numb tension where nothing feels real—but everything feels like it could kill you.
They stopped.
Face to face with the front line of the entities.
Only a few meters separated them now. The space between was loaded with tension—like a bridge of glass over a bottomless pit. One wrong move, one misread gesture, and the glass would crack.
The group stood still.
The entities stood still.
No one spoke.
Not yet.
They were close enough now to see the details.
These weren't people. Not fully. Some looked almost human—except for skin stretched too tightly over their faces, or eyes that didn't blink, or mouths that didn't seem to open. Their clothes didn't belong to any one era. It was like they were dressed from scattered pieces of history—soldiers, nurses, businessmen, children, all blended into something uncanny and wrong.
Nathan's hands curled into fists. His legs twitched, preparing to run. Just in case.
Ivy stared ahead, calm on the surface, but her brain was racing, trying to read every flicker of body language.
Alice just giggled under her breath, still humming, until Harper shot her a glare that could've broken stone.
The air between them trembled.
The tentacles behind them shifted. A wet, slapping sound echoed out—closer than before.
They were running out of time.
And still, not a single word had been spoken.
Not until one of the entities tilted its head and stepped forward.
"You caused the Hunt?"
The voice was… normal. Disarmingly so.
No gravel, no monstrous echo, no distortion.
Just a calm, curious tone—like someone trying to understand the details of a misunderstanding.
Like a teacher asking who knocked over the science project. There was no accusation in the words. Just a need to know.
Ivy blinked.
The entity that had spoken stood at the front. Its form was vaguely male, its proportions almost human—but the head was warped, like melted wax frozen mid-drip. Its eyes, if they were eyes, didn't blink. And yet… the posture, the way it tilted its head—it was patient. Attentive.
Still, her hands were shaking. She clenched them tight into fists.
Ground yourself. Stay centered. You're the one in control here.
She slowly exhaled, loosened her fingers, and pressed her feet firmly into the ground—silent reminders to not lose herself.
Harper was tucked behind them, one hand clamped around Alice's wrist like she was holding onto a balloon that could float away at any second. Harper's eyes flicked up, scanning the entity from behind Nathan's shoulder. She was trying to disappear.
Alice, oblivious or pretending to be, was still lightly bouncing on the balls of her feet, grinning, lips twitching as if she was holding back a joke.
Nathan didn't say a word.
His body was still, but his gaze drifted sideways—toward Ivy.
He was waiting.
Trusting her.
And Ivy knew it.
She didn't have the luxury of silence anymore.
She let out a deep breath, recalling the mental steps she'd rehearsed since the moment she saw the marching—repeating it internally like a mantra.
"Speak clearly."
"Keep your tone respectful."
"Don't raise your voice."
"Show intent without desperation."
"Do not show fear."
"They're watching for cues."
"Give them what they want to see."
She lifted her chin.
"Yes," she said, voice firm, steady—even if her chest was shaking beneath it.
"And we need help."
The words hung in the air.
No dramatic music.
No sudden change.
Just silence.
The entity tilted its head a fraction further, like it was listening to her more closely now.
And in that moment—before the response came—time slowed again. The tentacles behind them gave another wet, serpentine shift, a reminder that this moment, this conversation, might be their only shot at survival.
"You caused the Hunt, so whoever's house you must've visited... is already dead by now."
The words came steady—measured. Not cruel. Just factual.
Ivy didn't move. Her eyes stayed locked on the speaker, lips pressed into a thin line as she listened. Her breathing slowed, like she was preparing herself not just to respond—but to receive.
The entity's posture didn't change. Still as ever. Yet something about its tone shifted slightly—less inquisitive now, more like someone passing down instructions they'd recited a thousand times.
"And now your life is definitely at risk."
"Usually, when the Hunt starts... you have only a fifty-over-five chance of survival."
A beat.
"Depending, of course, on how much effort you're willing to put into that survival."
Nathan furrowed his brow, lips parting slightly as the strange phrasing caught him.
"Fifty-over-five?" he muttered under his breath. "What kind of—"
"It's not math you'd understand," the entity said without looking at him, as if reading his thoughts. "The Hunt doesn't follow your rules."
Its words weren't threatening. They almost sounded… instructional. Like it wanted them to make it through. Like it wanted them to learn.
Nathan felt a flicker of unease crawl down his back. He was used to monsters trying to tear them apart. Not talk to them. Not advise them.
"We won't be in danger," the entity continued, its attention returning fully to Ivy. "But—"
It paused.
A silence fell. Thick. Heavy.
"Are you worthy enough for our help?"
The way it said it… that word—worthy—landed like a stone in the pit of Ivy's stomach.
Harper shifted uncomfortably behind them.
Even Alice, finally, had stopped humming.
No one spoke right away.
Because this wasn't just a question.
This was the beginning of a test.