Mark was nineteen, and his room looked like the rusted wreck of a ship that had sunk inside a landfill.

  Clothes everywhere.

  Mismatched socks that had given up on life.

  Empty energy drink cans stacked around his chair like tiny votive totems.

  The only light came from the blue glow of the monitor, cutting through the darkness like a low-budget apocalypse lighthouse.

  On the screen, a game had been paused for hours.

  His MMORPG character stood motionless in the middle of an empty arena—armor shining, sword lowered—waiting for an input that would never come.

  Mark had his headphones around his neck. Volume muted.

  The silence was broken only by the steady hum of the PC and the irregular ticking of a heater that never worked right.

  Outside, December did what December does: bastard cold, humidity crawling straight into your bones.

  Inside wasn’t much better.

  The clock in the corner read 02:17.

  Mark blinked, eyes dry as sandpaper.

  He couldn’t remember how long he’d been sitting there.

  He’d started playing after dinner.

  Then he’d stopped playing, but hadn’t stood up.

  Classic.

  He stared at the avatar on the screen as if it might eventually move on its own and fix his life, when the chime arrived.

  A short, familiar sound.

  WhatsApp Web.

  A notification popped up in the top-right corner of the monitor, just above the latency indicator:

  “3 new messages – Class Group Chat”

  Mark sighed.

  The class group chat.

  He hadn’t opened it in months. Maybe a year.

  What the hell do you want now…?

  The mouse slid between his fingers.

  Click.

  The chat opened.

  He scrolled through the newest messages—memes, voice notes, semi-friendly insults, someone complaining about university, someone else about their shitty job.

  Then he saw a bold message, sent just seconds earlier:

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  > “Two years without you, Micheal. We miss you, brother. ??”

  Below it, an old class photo from high school.

  Third year.

  Badly lit hallway, bored faces, someone making a dumb gesture in the back.

  And in the center: Micheal.

  Perfect hair even in a random snapshot, catalogue-model smile, that “good kid” charm that let him get away with anything.

  The kind of guy who managed to be popular without coming off as an asshole.

  At least, not openly.

  He’d been the pretty boy of the class.

  Honestly, of the whole school.

  Mark stared at the photo, eyes sliding across the familiar faces.

  There—half hidden behind someone else—Anton.

  Anton had been his best friend.

  Entire afternoons spent grinding levels, talking about anime, laughing at things no one else found funny.

  But in the months before Micheal vanished, Anton had started hanging out more and more with Micheal’s group.

  Trips downtown.

  Parties.

  Soccer.

  Pictures with beers in hand.

  Mark had watched those Instagram stories like someone watching the trailer of a film they know they’ll never see.

  It wasn’t that he disliked Micheal.

  To him, Micheal had always been… a bright shadow.

  One of those classmates you greet in the hallway, exchange a few words with, then forget as soon as you turn the corner.

  Micheal’s disappearance had become a school legend.

  Newspapers, rumors, bullshit theories.

  Then graduation came and went, and life started grinding everything down.

  Two years without you, Micheal.

  Mark read the words without feeling anything.

  No lump in his throat.

  No tightening in his chest.

  That almost annoyed him.

  Should I feel something? Guilt? Sadness? Envy? No idea.

  He closed the chat with a sharp click.

  The screen returned to the empty arena and his frozen character.

  Outside, the building across the street was as dark as a concrete graveyard.

  The street was deserted.

  Dirty snow clung to the edges of the sidewalk—grayish slush that wasn’t snow anymore but wasn’t water yet.

  A streetlamp flickered.

  Another dimmed for half a second, then buzzed back to life.

  Mark leaned back, vertebrae protesting.

  It took him a moment to register that… something had changed.

  A light.

  Small.

  Greenish.

  Something that hadn’t been there before.

  At first he thought it was a reflection from outside.

  A drone, maybe.

  Or some asshole playing with a laser pointer from another building.

  But no.

  The light moved wrong.

  Not straight.

  Not following any sensible path.

  It wobbled.

  Jerked.

  Staggered through the air like someone who’d had way too much to drink but insisted they were totally fine.

  Mark leaned forward, narrowing his eyes.

  It was getting closer.

  Closer.

  His heart delivered one hard, solitary thud.

  No.

  The greenish glow reached the window—

  —and passed through it.

  It didn’t break it.

  Didn’t crack it.

  Just slipped through, as if the glass were a hologram someone had forgotten to turn off.

  Mark jolted, his chair creaking beneath him.

  The thing drifted into the room, slowed, and settled mid-air.

  Its glow dimmed slightly, as if catching its breath.

  And Mark realized he was staring at a… dessert.

  A muffin.

  A muffin.

  Glowing.

  Green.

  Its puffy surface shimmered faintly, pulsing as if breathing.

  The paper wrapper looked slightly burnt but intact.

  And underneath it, two tiny legs dangled and twitched in the air.

  “…What the fuck,” he whispered.

  The muffin spun weakly in place—

  —then dropped.

  It hit the desk with a wet, unpleasant thud.

  Bounced once, leaving a green smear on the mousepad, and righted itself.

  Mark didn’t move.

  His brain was still trying to update the firmware of reality.

  The muffin started running.

  Running.

  It dashed across the keyboard, stomping random keys with its tiny legs (“e4tgf9,.-”), then slipped on a week-old bag of chips, ricocheted off a box of trading cards, and crashed briefly into an empty energy drink can.

  Mark felt something inside him crack—not a belief, but probably his sanity.

  He tried to scream, but only a strangled sound escaped—half gasp, half “eh”.

  The muffin stopped.

  Turned toward him.

  If it had a face, Mark would’ve sworn it was staring.

  The green glow intensified.

  The little thing trembled, charging up.

  “No, no, no, no—”

  Mark shot up from his chair.

  The chair skidded backward and slammed into the wall.

  He bolted for the door—

  —and tripped over a hoodie on the floor.

  He stumbled, lost balance, crashed onto his knees.

  The muffin didn’t hesitate.

  It leapt—absurdly high, elastic, as if fired from an invisible slingshot.

  Mark understood just one thing:

  It’s aiming for my face.

  The muffin slammed straight into his mouth.

  No bounce.

  No resistance.

  A soft, determined projectile.

  The taste detonated on his tongue.

  Not sweet.

  Not salty.

  Just—

  battery acid, melted plastic, burnt sugar, expired medicine.

  A spark of toxic lemon and electricity.

  Mark clawed at his throat.

  Tried to spit it out, cough it up, vomit it out.

  His fingers scraped his lips, his tongue—but the thing wasn’t there anymore.

  It was melting.

  He felt it sliding down his throat like boiling oil.

  Hot.

  Thick.

  Viscous.

  Every inch searing into his nerves.

  His eyes watered.

  His breath fractured into dry sobs.

  The world tilted.

  The room twisted—ninety degrees, then one-eighty.

  The monitor, the desk, the window: everything dissolved into a vortex of green light that swallowed the edges, crushed the colors.

  The ceiling spiraled.

  The spiral pulled him in.

  Black.

  Silence.