The walls shook.

The ground trembled beneath the soldier's feet as he gripped his spear tighter, his knuckles white with strain. He wasn't sure how long they had held the walls. Hours? Days? Time was meaningless now—everything blurred together under the constant pressure. The gates of the city, their only defense against the horrors unleashed by Pandora's Box, had been battered, hammered, and now—now, they were broken.

"Hold the line!" The captain's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and desperate.

The soldier's breath came in short, ragged bursts, sweat pouring down his face, his armor sticking uncomfortably to his skin. He adjusted his grip on his shield, instinctively backing into the ranks. The distant screams from the walls outside were drowned by the blood-chilling roar that echoed from beyond the gates. The creatures were already here, swarming over the ruins of the once-proud city, their twisted bodies slithering through the gaps.

A shudder ran through the soldier's bones. There were too many of them. Too many.

He heard the creak of the main gate—a final groan before it gave way, and in that moment, all his hopes for survival vanished. The beast-like shapes poured through the broken walls, their grotesque forms more monstrous than any war he'd ever fought. Some were humanoid, others were more like nightmarish animals, their eyes gleaming in the moonless darkness. Their breath stank of rot, their claws scraping against stone.

A scream split the air as a soldier beside him was yanked off his feet, dragged into the mass of creatures. His desperate cries were cut short by the sound of teeth tearing flesh.

"Form up!" the captain shouted again, but his voice cracked as the creatures surged forward, unstoppable.

The soldier thrust his spear toward the nearest beast, but the monster sidestepped it with a grotesque, unnatural speed. It retaliated with a slash of its claws, raking the soldier's shield with terrifying force. The shield buckled under the pressure, but he managed to hold it, his heart pounding.

Then came the crack—the unmistakable sound of stone breaking—and the wall beside him collapsed. A roar. A flood of creatures poured into the breach.

There was no holding them back now. No lines to hold. Only death. The soldier's comrades fought beside him, but he knew, even before the chaos fully consumed them, that it was over.

His spear went wide as he swung at one of the creatures, but his hand faltered, too weak, too exhausted to land a killing blow. His vision blurred with blood, his own blood staining the ground beneath him as a clawed hand pierced through his armor. The weight of the creature's attack brought him to his knees, the last thing he saw being the monstrous face of his attacker, its mouth open wide as it closed in.

A few seconds later, there was nothing but darkness.

____________________________________________________________________________

Nikomedes flinched, his back pressed against the cold, stone wall of the closet. He was hunched over, trying to make himself as small as possible, his body trembling under the weight of his fear. The sounds of destruction echoed outside—the screams of soldiers, the shrieks of monsters. He was nothing but a shadow in this dark corner of his home, nothing but a ghost in the face of the chaos.

Water droplets traced down his soft, delicate skin, the faint tremor in his hands betraying his anxiety. His once-dark hair, thick with unruly Greek curls, hung limp and soaked from the sweat beading on his forehead. The curls, normally wild and full of life, now clung to his face, emphasizing the gauntness of his features—sharp cheekbones, hollow cheeks, a jawline still too soft, too young to convey any strength.

His limbs were thin, barely muscled, like a sapling that hadn't yet been hardened by the storms. The loose tunic he wore hung from his frail frame, the fabric clinging in places where the wetness had made it stick to his skin. Despite the storm outside, despite the horrors raging in the streets, his body betrayed him—weak, fragile, barely more than a boy.

His gray eyes—wide and fearful—darted nervously around the closet, searching for an escape that wasn't there. There was no fighting back. He was no soldier. No warrior. Just a boy caught in the middle of something much bigger than him.

"Why… why… why… why…why… why…Why… why… why… why… why…"

The words tumbled out of his mouth, barely more than whispers, choked by his ragged breath. Each repetition felt like a hammer striking his chest, and yet the answer—whatever it might be—remained elusive, slipping through his fingers like sand.

He clenched his eyes shut, trying to shut out the world around him, trying to escape the screams, the blood, the chaos. But no matter how tightly he held onto himself, the questions kept coming—Why did it have to be him? Why now? Why did the world feel like it was crumbling into pieces? Why had Pandora's Box been opened? Why was he here, hiding in a closet like a frightened child, while the streets burned and the monsters tore through his home?

The fear crawled inside him, gnawing at his insides. He couldn't stop the trembling of his hands, couldn't stop the dread building in his chest like a storm. He wasn't strong enough. He wasn't prepared for this.

Why couldn't he do something?

Anything!

"Useless you're so useless you shouldn't have even been born…"

And then came the scratching.

A sound so unnatural, so horrifying, that it cut through the fog of his thoughts like a jagged knife. It was slow at first, barely a whisper against the wooden shutters of the window. But it grew—grating, relentless—like claws against bone.

His breath hitched, caught in his throat. The air felt suddenly colder, heavier, as if the darkness outside had seeped inside with that sound. His heart raced, but the terror didn't make him move. He was frozen—frozen not from the cold, but from fear. His body refused to respond, locked in place by the weight of his own uselessness.

Scritch. Scritch.

Closer now. Too close.

Nikomedes squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his hands against his ears as if he could block out the nightmare, but the sound only grew louder, more urgent. Something—something out there was hunting.

Something was waiting.