Secret of the Fog
A strange white fog descends upon the world, creeping through streets, swallowing the familiar in its ghostly embrace. Where it passes, reality distorts. Structures crumble as if time itself rejects them. Shadows stretch unnaturally. And then… the figures emerge.
They are not human. Nor beast. Their twisted limbs move with unnatural grace, their deformed shapes shifting between impossible forms. Eyeless faces turn toward the sky, mouths open in silent hymns of madness. The fog does not merely obscure—it reveals.
The city drowns in chaos. Streets run slick with crimson as the creatures slaughter indiscriminately, their shrieks mingling with the terrified screams of those who flee. The pounding of frantic footsteps, the wails of the dying, the crunch of bone under monstrous claws—it all blends into a horrific, discordant symphony.
And something listens.
A presence beyond comprehension stirs in the depths of the fog. A pair of immense, lidless eyes—vast as moons, yet closer than the air itself—peer through the shifting veil. It does not blink, for it has no need. it does not search, for they already see all.
The slaughter, the ruin, the collapse of civilization—mere ripples in an ocean too deep for mortals to fathom. In the far away, a young man stood with his friend, gazing at the fog
And something watches them. Silent. Patience. Waiting.
