Aster scans the shelves with all the enthusiasm of a man trying to find meaning in a rigged game. Instant noodles, instant regret—but a man’s got to eat. His fingers trail over garish packaging, searching for the one brand that justifies dragging himself through the wet streets and this fluorescent purgatory.

  The hum of the fridges drones on like some dying machine god. Overhead, the lights flicker and buzz.

  “Come on…” he mutters under his breath, voice dry. “Sold out? Seriously?”

  He crouches, knees popping like cheap fireworks, and glares at the lower shelves. That’s when something—something in the corner of his vision—twitches.

  Aster blinks once, twice.

  The shelves… ripple. No, they bend, like reality was a funhouse mirror.

  The hum shifts, deepens. It worms its way into his ears, turns liquid and strange, like the sound is folding in on itself. And then—snap—everything goes sideways.

  The store fractures. Splinters. Cracks apart like glass hit with a hammer. And there it is again, that creeping thought he’s tried very hard to ignore all day: I knew that expired tuna was a bad idea.

  His stomach drops as the ground tilts. Lights above him stretch and smear like melting plastic, shelves twist into shapes that make his head ache just to look at, and the air—oh, the air—vibrates like it’s laughing at him.

  His foot catches on something that shouldn’t be there, because really, what should be there when the universe is having an episode? And he goes down hard.

  The mist surges in. A wave of colour and rot and raw feeling, like being swallowed whole by a kaleidoscope that hates him personally. It slams into him like a psychic, multi-coloured car crash.

  Aster, gagging as it crawls into his mouth, his nose, his lungs—sharp and cloying, electric and wet, wrapping around him like a bad lover whispering every awful thing he’s ever felt. Rage. Shame. That one time in third grade he called a teacher “Mom.” All of it. All at once.

  Oh great. Emotional trauma fog.

  He gasps, tries to shove it away, but his hands pass straight through. He coughs, breath stuttering, and for a second—just a second—he wonders if this is it. If this is how it ends. Drowned in his own unresolved mommy issues while shopping for instant ramen.

  But then, with one last push, he pulls himself above the mist, sucking fresh air into his lungs like a billionaire receiving a bailout after a ten-percent stock dip.

  The store is still here. Kind of.

  The lights flicker greenish-yellow, casting halos like bruises. Shelves tilt at angles that make his temples throb, and they’re—oh god—they’re alive. Vines curl around them, pulsing like arteries, splitting the metal open like cracked bone. Their leaves spread wide, cradling products that should not be glowing like that.

  Logos on the packages pulse in time with his heartbeat, warping and shifting like they’re breathing.

  Aster swallows against the bile rising in his throat.

  Nope. Nope. This isn’t the store I walked into. This is some kind of retail fever dream from hell.

  Then—

  Pulse.

  A sickly pink light flickers in the mist. Then another. And another.

  Aster’s eyes snap to the nearest glow, and he stops breathing.

  It steps into focus.

  All teeth and slime and eyes like endless voids that look through you and see what’s left. The lure on its head flickers invitingly, a neon SALE sign for the damned.

  Aster’s chest tightens. His mouth goes dry.

  What the actual fuck is that?!

  And then it moves.

  Fast. Too fast for something that size. It lunges, lure swinging, jaws yawning open to show too many teeth.

  Aster freezes, because of course he does.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  What’s he supposed to do? Scream? Bargain? Ask for a manager?

  His brain scrambles for logic—finds none.

  His legs shuffle backward, slow, heavy, like the mist is dragging him down.

  Where the hell even am I? his thoughts spiral. Discount Silent Hill? Some kind of Bad Trip strip mall?

  And then—

  Out of nowhere.

  A figure.

  Robed. Moving between him and the thing like a blade through water.

  Aster coughs, chest heaving. His vision blurs, but the sarcasm still curls up, bitter and sharp as ever.

  At least it’s not Pyramid Head.

  A sharp crack splits the air. A barrier slams down in front of him, shimmering gold, solid enough to make the world shudder. The creature’s strike rebounds with a ripple that tears through the mist like a stone dropped into sludge. It screeches—a wet, grating sound like someone strangling a clogged drain—and hurls itself at the barrier again, desperate and furious.

  The robed man doesn’t even blink. No flair. No drama. Just a flick of his wrist—efficient, terrifying—and the barrier folds in like a bear trap. The creature pops. That’s the only word for it. One second it’s thrashing; the next it’s pulp. Gore splatters the warped floor with a sound Aster’s brain files under sounds I never want to hear again.

  “Move!” The man’s voice cuts through the static, sharp as broken glass.

  Aster does not move.

  Because of course he doesn’t.

  His brain is still flickering between convenience store and horror show like a busted TV. His limbs are locked, frozen somewhere between run and scream. Neither option wins. So he just stands there—a malfunctioning, human-shaped statue.

  Another one of those overgrown nightmare fish lunges, and the man is already in motion. His feet hit a platform that wasn’t there a second ago, launching him like a missile. He drives his palm into the thing’s chest. The impact echoes wetly, and the creature slams into the wall with a noise that makes Aster’s teeth clench.

  More pink lights flare in the mist. More shapes moving.

  A big one this time. Thicker, uglier. Its lure flickers like a cheap porch bulb as it zeroes in on Aster again.

  His legs twitch. Useless. Slow.

  The robed man doesn’t hesitate. His hand slices through the air—clean and bright, too bright—and the thing just… falls apart. Cut in half like it’s nothing.

  Aster’s stomach lurches. No time to breathe. No time to think.

  Two more come screaming out of the fog, fast enough that his panic finally shoves his body into motion. He stumbles back, nearly tripping over his own traitorous feet. Their lures whirl, pulsing, dragging at his mind. Jaws snap.

  The man moves like violence given form.

  He doesn’t run. He steps—through the air as if it’s solid—like a goddamn fever dream and crushes one of the things mid-lunge with a slab of force. The platform slams it down like God’s slap. Before it can twitch, another blast drives into its side, hurling it across the room like trash.

  The last one tries to be clever. It darts low, swinging a hook-lure toward Aster’s back, silent, fast.

  He doesn’t see it.

  Doesn’t even feel it coming.

  But the robed man does.

  Another shield snaps into place just as the lure hits—an explosion of sound and light—and before the thing can even blink, the man is there. A single step. A single stomp.

  Crunch.

  Final.

  Ugly.

  It twitches once. Stops moving.

  Aster stands there, shaking so hard his bones feel like they’re humming. His breath comes in sharp, shallow bursts, and his eyes can’t stop darting around, trying to track everything at once like he’s afraid the walls might lunge at him next.

  The world flickers again. Back and forth. Nightmare. Store. Nightmare. Store.

  A final shriek echoes through the fog—a weak, dying sound—and the man doesn’t even break stride. His hand lifts, summoning something massive and golden above them, like the ceiling itself is about to drop.

  It does.

  The impact booms through the air—a god’s gavel slamming down. The last creature is gone. Obliterated.

  Silence crashes in behind it. Heavy. Total.

  For a long, quivering breath, there’s only the faint hum of energy—the robed man standing tall amid the mess, eyes locked on the still-churning fog.

  A line of golden light suddenly connects the robed man to Aster.

  Aster’s field stutters back to life. It flares weakly, flickering like an old neon sign, then locks into place—bright, golden, solid.

  The mist recoils instantly, retreating like it’s been burned. The nightmare store wavers, glitches—

  and vanishes.

  Reality slams back into place.

  Fluorescent lights. Regular shelves. Neatly stacked noodles and candy bars.

  The hum of fridges. The crinkle of plastic.

  Customers move past like nothing happened. Oblivious.

  But Aster—

  Aster just stands there, hunched and shaking, breathing like he’s been running for miles. His hands twitch at his sides, his whole body coiled tight, on the edge of flight even though there’s nowhere left to go.

  To the people around him, he looks like a lunatic. A man mid-breakdown in aisle three. Flinching at invisible things, wild-eyed and twitchy.

  They start giving him space. A woman backs away; a man glances at him, then quickly looks away, like eye contact might be contagious. A kid stares openly until his mother tugs him aside.

  A ripple moves through the store—low whispers, uneasy side-eyes. Someone’s already reaching for their phone, thumb hovering over the emergency dial, weighing whether this is a police call or just a viral video waiting to happen.

  Aster doesn’t see them.

  Doesn’t hear them.

  His ears are full of blood and static. His heart’s still trying to punch its way out of his chest. His mind—

  His mind is just stuck on one loud, looping thought:

  What. The. Actual. Fuck.