The scent of damp earth and old straw clung to the air. A thin sliver of light filtered through the cracks in the wooden walls, casting faint shadows that danced on the hay-strewn ground. The buzzing of flies echoed against the raw, musty smell. It was too quiet for comfort.

The floor was cold. A thin layer of grime caked against the bones, the skin, the fabric—whatever one might call it now. Fingers twitched, slow at first, then faster, curling into the dirt as though something inside them was waking up. Then, the legs, stiff like rusted metal, forced themselves to straighten. A low groan escaped, not from the mouth, but from somewhere deeper—a thing in the throat, scraping at the air, aching for something, for release.

It wasn’t clear how long it had been. The world outside the pen was a blur of half-formed memories. Faces. Eyes. Shapes moving through the mist, fading when you tried to look too closely. The thing in the throat gnawed again, but there was no sound. It just ate.

Your head was heavy, eyes struggling to open. Blurry shapes. A vague sensation of being watched.

There was something wrong with the body. Every part of it. The arms, the skin, the weight of it. When you moved, it creaked, like dry wood bending under the weight of years. There was a voice in your head that wasn’t your own. Not the one you woke up with, but something older.

The walls of the pen were raw. Not crude, but purposeful in their decay. The boards bent inward, as though the earth itself was swallowing them, drawing the wood tight. Straw. Always straw. The itch in your back was relentless. Skin tight, fevered. The walls groaned, the shadows shifting. You pulled yourself up from the hay, the rough edge of the ground scratching against the skin of your palms. Staggering forward, you reached out.

That’s when you saw it.

A shape—a silhouette—looming through the dim light. A long, jagged figure crouching against the far corner.

There, in the corner of the pen, curled like a discarded rag, sat something. Not a man, not a woman. A thing. It was hunched, wrapped in what looked like patchwork clothes—cloth, leather, something that clung to its body, like it was part of it, growing into it. Its eyes, black as tar, unblinking, never seeming to look at you directly, but always there, watching. They glistened, slick and cold, in the dark. The air thickened. The pen seemed to hold its breath, but it did not move. Not a sound.

The thing's fingers twitched, a slow and deliberate motion, as though testing the air. Its mouth parted in a jagged grin, revealing sharp teeth stained with something dark. Then came the voice, low and cracked. It crawled into your ears like the rustle of dead leaves.

"Awake, are we?" The voice scraped the walls of the mind. "You feel it, don't ya?"

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The words hung in the air, too heavy to breathe.

"Feelin' it too," it rasped. "The pull. That hunger. You’ll see it soon enough, child. You’ll see the eyes behind the fence. The mouth that never opens but always smiles."

Your head snapped to the side, but nothing moved. Just shadows. Shadows and the pulse of your own breath. Then, the thing in the corner chuckled, a low, wet sound, like something caught in the throat.

"You're all just meat," it whispered. "Just like the rest of us. Just like the rest."

The ground shifted beneath your feet. The air was thick with the scent of blood, of sweat, of something that had long rotted. You knew that. You knew the smell.

And then, you heard the sound.

A crack, deep and sharp. From somewhere far beyond the pen. The sound of bones breaking. A shiver ran down your spine, but your body refused to obey. Your limbs were too stiff, too alien.

The thing in the corner chuckled again. "It begins," it muttered. "The hunger will come."

The hunger.

You felt it too. In the pit of your stomach, in the hollowness of your chest. The insatiable, gnawing emptiness that had never left. It was always there, waiting, shifting like some invisible weight pressing down on your ribs. Something was coming. Something was always coming.

The pen felt smaller now. Tighter. The walls closing in, the air pressing down. The thing was still there, watching. Waiting.

The sound of something moving in the darkness made you jump. A figure—no, a shape, indistinct—shifted just beyond the pen. It was slow, deliberate. A shadow, shifting like a fever dream. You couldn’t make it out, but you knew. You knew it was watching.

"Don’t go out there," the thing whispered again, but this time there was something else in the voice. A touch of fear. "Not yet. You’ll see more than you want."

The walls creaked again. The ground moaned, a deep, rumbling sound, as though the very earth itself was waking up. You couldn’t feel it, but you knew it was there. Something was stirring underfoot. It was always there. Waiting.

The smell of rot. Of the decay.

"Don’t go out there," the thing repeated. "Don’t. Not yet. Not until you’re ready. Are you ready?"

You don’t know what that meant. You didn’t know anything. Not here. Not anymore. The world outside the pen was a blur. A whisper. A trickle of memory that vanished when you tried to focus on it.

But you knew the hunger.

It was coming. And you’d have to face it.

The thing in the corner was still waiting, its grin splitting the shadows, sharp as a butcher’s knife.

"Go ahead. Step outside," it muttered. "See what’s out there. You’ll know soon enough."

The walls were closing in. The pen was too small. The air too thick. Something was calling from beyond. The hunger. The thing. The shadow. The scream in the night.

You pulled yourself up, took a deep breath, and stepped forward.