London stank of piss, petrol, and rain. Always fucking rain.
Daemon leaned against the cold brick wall of a narrow alleyway in Whitechapel, a cigarette burning between his fingers. His jacket, patched and half-zipped, clung to him like a second skin. His boots were muddy, and his eyes were bloodshot, half from the night before, half from what he saw every day.
He scrolled through his phone.
A headline blared:
"WHITE HOUSE MASSACRED. US PRESIDENT KILLED IN BEAST ATTACK."
Below that: Graphic footage not safe for public viewing.
He snorted. Flicked ash off the tip.
"About time someone did something useful," he muttered, deadpan, tapping the article open.
Photos. Screaming senators. A creature—blurred and massive—lunging across marble floors smeared red. The president's body was a stain. Daemon chuckled quietly, more breath than voice.
Then it happened.
A flicker in the corner of his eye. The alley, narrow and slick with rain, shifted. Something subtle—the shadows stretched longer than they should, and the silence deepened into something… heavy. Like the air itself forgot how to move.
Daemon didn't flinch. He just pocketed his phone, dropped the cigarette, and crushed it under his boot.
The wall behind him rippled.
It crawled out slowly.
Thin arms, rail-like. Human in shape, but too long, too deliberate. A bony, pale torso with visible ribs—each one protruding like it wanted out. The thing stood hunched, twitching slightly. Its legs were just as thin. Every joint looked like it could snap backward any second.
But its head—
A pitch-black cat's head. No eyes. No mouth. Just black, like oil and smoke had formed a skull.
It didn't breathe. Just watched.
"Cute," Daemon said, pulling his coat open. "You're new."
The thing twitched. Then charged.
Daemon moved like a switchblade—fast, sharp, unforgiving. He slid his sword from the sheath strapped across his back—a blackened steel thing, unmarked and worn. His sidearm, a heavy revolver, was already in his off-hand.
The Cat-beast lunged. Its hands slashed, nails elongated into claws mid-air. Daemon dodged left, just inches from being torn. He fired point-blank into its ribcage.
BOOM.
Flesh exploded. But no blood. Just black mist.
The thing screeched—no, it hissed. Like metal scraping metal.
Daemon didn't hesitate. He spun low, slicing across its legs. One dropped out from under it, but it didn't fall. It leapt up, clinging to the wall like a spider, then dropped behind him.
It swiped—caught him across the shoulder. His coat tore. Skin too. Blood sprayed the wall.
"Motherfucker," Daemon growled.
He kicked back hard. The heel of his boot smashed into its chest, sending it skidding backward.
Breathing heavy now, he flicked the blood from his blade and holstered the revolver.
"You want a dance, then let's fucking waltz."
The Cat shrieked and charged again. This time faster. Angrier. It moved like broken glass—sharp, erratic. Daemon kept his eyes locked. He wasn't faster. Just meaner.
It lunged again.
He let it come.
At the last second, Daemon dropped low, sliding on the wet concrete. His blade arced upward, deep into the thing's stomach, carving it open.
The beast spasmed.
Daemon twisted the blade and yanked it out.
It stumbled back, clutching its torso.
Daemon raised his revolver again.
"You get one scare, you creepy little shit."
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Each shot ripped through it. The beast collapsed onto the ground, twitching. The cat-head flickered, then started to melt into smoke, revealing something underneath—a pale, human skull. Eyeless. Mouth open.
Daemon stood over it, bleeding and breathing hard.
Then the body dissolved into steam. Not even bones remained.
He looked at his coat. Torn. Great. Blood dripping from his shoulder. Double great.
He pulled out another cigarette with bloodied fingers, lit it, and leaned back against the wall again like nothing happened.
Phone still in his coat.
He pulled it back out. The article was still open.
He smirked.
"World's ending and I'm still stuck killing alleyway freaks. Brilliant."
Smoke curled upward into the rain.
Fade to black.
***
The classroom had neon lights flickers from the faulty ceiling lights. One of them kept twitching above Ollie Carrington, casting static shadows on his desk. He didn't blink. Didn't move.
His hands rested flat on the cheap laminate. Pen untouched. Notebook empty.
"—and if you'll just turn to page seventy-three—"
The teacher's words cut off as a sound cracked through the silence.
A thud.
Everyone turned.
Harvey, the kid two rows up, had slammed his head into the desk. Nose bleeding. Shoulders twitching like he was holding in a seizure.
"Oi, you good?" someone asked, half-laughing.
Harvey lifted his face. His eyes were gone—just black pits. He stood without using his hands. Jerky. Puppet-like.
Then he started screaming.
It wasn't human.
Kids bolted back. Desks slammed. One girl screamed as Harvey climbed onto his desk, spine twisting unnaturally. His skin… shifted. Like something under it was trying to claw out.
Ollie didn't move.
He just stared.
Harvey screamed louder, his jaw unhinging too far, and the ceiling light shattered above him.
"Everyone out! Now!" the teacher barked, panic in her voice. "Move!"
Ollie stood. Calm. Walked out last. No rush. Just eyes locked on the black-eyed boy as he cracked backward and collapsed, convulsing.
He heard someone crying in the hallway. Didn't look.
Didn't care.
***
A grey concrete block with mold on the stairs and piss in the lift. Ollie's flat was fifth floor, left corner.
He walked in. Dropped his bag by the door.
"Mum?"
No answer. Of course.
She was still in the living room, curled up on the couch under a threadbare blanket. TV on, no sound. Eyes open, but dead behind them.
Ollie started.
"Did you eat today?"
Nothing.
He walked past, grabbed a bowl of stale cereal, and plopped down on the floor. Spoon scraped the side of the bowl. Crunches echoed in the room.
The news anchor on screen had a smile plastered on, but the footage behind him was all fire and smoke.
> "...US President confirmed dead. Cause of death still unverified, but eyewitnesses report what appeared to be an animal—"
Ollie chewed.
The screen flashed to a photo—mangled bodies in the White House halls. One of them looked half-eaten. Ollie stopped chewing for a second.
Then kept eating.
Later, in the bathroom.
Ollie stood in front of the mirror.
He stared at himself.
Brown eyes. Dead expression. No twitch. No tears.
He smacked his cheek. Nothing.
Pressed fingers into his arm. Hard. Skin reddened. No reaction.
"C'mon," he muttered. "Feel something. Anything."
He forced his throat to tighten. Tried to cry.
Nothing came out.
He punched the mirror.
Crack.
Blood ran down his knuckle. Still no tears.
Just a quiet breath.
Then—
A voice. Behind him.
"You're not empty. Just broken in a different shape."
Ollie spun. No one there.
The lights buzzed overhead.
He looked down. The crack in the mirror had shifted.
His reflection wasn't bleeding.
It was smiling.