The car stood motionless, its headlights slicing through the thick, humid air of the underground garage. A faint electric hum vibrated in the background. Darkin leaned against the cold, metallic frame, his nerves fraying, when a flat, synthetic voice broke the silence.
"Car owner detected: Darkin Thomas Punkson. Please select your option. One, Air Mode. Two, Ground Mode."
His heart skipped a beat. He staggered back, staring at the car as though it had just spoken some ancient curse.
"What? What year is this?" he blurted out, voice trembling, fear clinging to his throat.
The car — a futuristic Lamborghini Tron Light — replied in that same neutral, soulless tone.
"The current year is 3000."
A cold chill swept down his spine. Time had become something alien. Something dangerous.
Then, a voice — thick with hatred, twisted yet still undeniably human — slithered out from the shadows.
"You're not getting away, Darkin. I'm coming for you."
Thomas. Or whatever Thomas had become.
Instinct seized him.
"I want to get in the car!"
"Opening Lamborghini Tron Light."
The door slid open with a sharp hiss, releasing a blast of sterile, freezing air. Darkin scrambled inside. The world outside dimmed, replaced by the cold glow of the hyper-modern cockpit. Lights flickered across polished surfaces. A control panel glowed ahead, offering two options: Air Mode or Ground Mode. Holograms floated above each — one showing the car soaring above a neon city, the other speeding along a shimmering glass highway.
"Activate Air Mode."
The systems hummed to life, wheels retracting, turbines warming, preparing for flight. The engine gave a low, menacing growl, like a predator ready to leap.
But before it could lift off, something hit the car — hard.
A massive, bone-crushing impact from the front.
The entire vehicle jerked back like a toy thrown by a child. Metal shrieked and bent. Darkin's head snapped against the seat, a burst of white-hot stars blinding his vision.
The car crashed against a concrete wall. Sirens blared.
Dazed, Darkin fought against the locking restraints. His pulse was thunder in his ears. Through the cracked windshield, something moved. Something heavy. Something monstrous.
It stepped into the flickering light.
Darkin's breath froze. It wore the face of his grandmother — or at least, something wearing her face like a mask. Its eyes were pale, glassy orbs, dead yet watching. Its body, once frail, had transformed into a grotesque, sinewy, powerful thing. Muscles writhed beneath thin, translucent skin. Its breath rattled like a dying animal.
"Grandma?" he whispered, his voice fragile, barely audible.
But this thing was no relative.
Darkin fought harder, adrenaline pumping through every nerve. His vision blurred. When he looked up again — his father was there.
Or what was left of him.
Thomas stood, or something wearing his shape. His right arm was grotesquely mutated — stretched, veined, and wet, shimmering like raw muscle. His face twisted into a grin, stretched too wide.
"Darkin," Thomas growled, his voice a blend of human and beast, "stop running."
With a feral snarl, Thomas lunged at the creature.
Their bodies collided, a sound like meat hitting stone. Limbs tangled. Growls filled the air — one savage, one monstrous.
Darkin, weak and drifting toward unconsciousness, watched the chaos, unable to tell if this was real… or some nightmare his shattered mind had conjured.
The battle was brutal but brief.
Thomas — monstrous, enraged — pinned the thing to the floor and drove his mutated arm through its chest with a sickening crunch. A wet, hollow sound echoed in the empty garage.
Darkin's world tilted.
His mouth filled with the taste of blood — warm, thick, metallic.
"Darkin! Where are you?" Thomas's voice rose from the haze.
"I've killed the bastard. Took the Solukoyin. I'm one of them now — but stronger."
His words were laced with madness.
"Stop hiding from me. Don't make me sniff you out. I want you to pay. Your wife is with me. Come get her, Darkin. Come."
A horrible laugh followed — cold, hollow, bouncing off the garage walls.
Darkin, barely conscious, sagged in the seat. Blood trickled from his lips.
And somewhere, in the furthest corner of the vast, dim garage — amid the gleaming hovercars and machines of a soulless future — something shifted.
A massive shape rose, growling low and hungry.
The Zralky.
A hulking nightmare of flesh and bone, its skin cracked and glistening in the flickering light. It moved with terrifying grace, its massive form both beast and man. Hunger dripped from its gaze.
The creature's yellow eyes locked onto the wrecked car.
It could smell weakness. Weakness meant food.
Though the garage stretched far, filled with sleek, polished machines and silent hums, the Zralky's steps made the very air tighten. Each movement was impossibly quiet, yet the ground seemed to shudder beneath its weight.
Thomas continued his unhinged ranting, unaware of what was closing in.
"Let me tell you," he spat, venom dripping from his voice.
"All of this… was your fault. You and your team declared war on the people of Zraldonkoy. In defense, they released the Zralkies — these abominations."
His voice cracked, half-rage, half-regret.
"Half of humanity was slaughtered. They carry a virus that makes them immortal. I told you it wouldn't work."
Darkin's eyes fluttered. His fingers twitched.
Thomas's words clung to the air like poison.
And then, without a sound, the Zralky struck.
A blur of monstrous power.
A freight train of flesh and death.
The shockwave sent debris skittering across the floor.
Thomas turned too late, eyes wide in disbelief as the beast charged.
"No!" he roared.
But the Zralky was merciless.
And somewhere, deep in the bleeding shadows of his mind, Darkin knew:
if he didn't wake up now, this nightmare would swallow everything that was left of him.