The sky’s acting weird. It’s not gray, nor stormy. The sky bled, not crimson, but a fuzzy bone white. A tide of fur, colossal and ethereal, rolled like a leviathan across the horizon, swallowing skyscrapers whole. No rumble of thunder, no crack of lightning, just the slow, relentless advance of this impossible beast. A typical Tuesday. Traffic jams, overpriced coffee, and the usual people in motion.

Sirens, once a symphony of terror, faded into muffled whimpers as the first tendrils of fur crept over the city. They were like spectral brushstrokes, blotting out sunlight, muffling screams. Each wisp, caught in the headlights of abandoned cars, glowed with a corpse-cold light.

Panic, a low hum at first, escalated into a crescendo. People stumbled, ran, crawled, faces contorted in a primal dance of fight-or-flight. Some embraced their loved ones, a final act of defiance against the encroaching oblivion. Others devolved into feral beasts themselves, clawing at their own throats as the fur, like a million icy needles, pricked their skin.

A man staggered across the parking lot, his shirt a canvas of crimson. He choked, eyes wide with the suddenness of it all. His body, once a familiar vessel, rebelled, twisting, contorting. Tears streamed down his face, the taste of transformation metallic on his tongue.

Confusion morphed into terror. The biblical pestilence, like a slow-motion nightmare, consumed everything in its path. Cars, once symbols of freedom, became tombs of steel, swallowed by the living wall of fur. Screams, raw and primal, competed with the dying wail of sirens, each choking sob a prayer to a silent god.

The fur, a suffocating shroud, pressed into buildings, choked engines, filled lungs with the scent of damp earth and animal musk. It was a baptism by fur, a chilling rebirth into something monstrous and wild.

And through the chaos, through the howling wind and the dying light, a chilling realization dawned. This wasn’t just a plague, it was a mirror. A reflection of humanity’s darkest instincts, its capacity for fear and savagery laid bare. The fur wasn’t just an invader; it was a reminder of the beast that lurks within us all.

The world held its breath, a collective gasp of terror and despair, as the furry apocalypse swallowed the sun and plunged the planet into an eternal twilight. The dance of man and monster had begun, and the steps were written not in blood, but in fur.

The ash from 23-year-old Bronte’s cigarette drifted lazily upwards, a stark contrast to the stillness of her heart. She held Seda tight, the little girl, a fragile bird, huddled against the storm that raged within her mother. Dust, like a shroud, coated Bronte’s tamed into a mane of red hair, now a tangled nest that veiled her beautiful, haunted face. Her eyes, wide and vacant, seemed lost in a world only she could see. Her cigarette, a lone shard of defiance, dangled from her slack lips. She crouched beneath the meager shade of a building, as the acrid sting of smoke couldn’t penetrate the fog of shock that clung to her.

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The toddler’s whimper, a fragile melody against the city’s sudden quiet, ripped through Bronte’s haze. A sob, raw and primal, escaped her throat, carving fresh tracks through the soot on her cheeks. Seda, sensing her mother’s anguish, reached up, her tiny hand tracing the contours of Bronte’s tear-streaked face, a silent plea for comfort for her mother’s pure, heart-shattering grief. A flicker of warmth, a spark of maternal love, ignited in Bronte’s numbed soul. She pulled Seda closer, her own body a shield against the unseen horrors that lurked beyond the dust. Seda gazed at the sharp lines of her nose, full lips, and the haunted depths of her eyes. They were eyes that had seen the unthinkable - her lover, torn limb from limb by a monstrous, furred shadow in the heart of a bustling city.

Bronte listened, not with her ears, but with every nerve ending screaming for survival. The silence, once suffocating, became a canvas of fear, each rustle, each echo a brushstroke painting a scene of terror. Bronte’s gaze, vacant and vast, seemed to pierce through the dust haze, searching for answers in the empty sky. The tears that carved their way down her cheeks were like tracks through forgotten snow. Each sob echoed in the hollow space left by Lukas’ absence. The silence that pressed against them wasn’t peaceful, it was an oppressive presence, pregnant with the echo of screams and the rasping breaths of monsters.

Each rustle, each creak of the dying city, sent a tremor through Bronte’s already shattered nerves. Then, a sound, sharp and clean - the whimper of a child. Seda, face smudged with tears and dust, looked up at her mother, her eyes wide with an innocent confusion that cut through the haze of Bronte’s grief. For a fleeting moment, a flicker of warmth broke through the ice in Bronte’s heart. She reached down, her fingers tracing the soft curve of Seda’s cheek, a silent promise of protection etched in the touch. A sob, raw and primal, tore from her throat, a release of the terror she’d held captive. Then, a sound – a guttural growl, a low moan that vibrated through the concrete jungle. Her head snapped up, eyes darting frantically, searching for the source.

They squatted outside the building, seeking refuge in the shade. The toddler cried, breaking the woman’s heart. Tear streaks cleared paths on her catatonic face. Her dark hair was a mess. Loose locks covered her long nose, full lips, and strong facial features. She listened… hard. The silence was deafening, broken only by the toddler’s whimpering. The child caught her mother’s eye, and a sweet empathy was plastered on her smile. Her phone rang and she answered it.

The phone, clutched limply in her other hand, came alive with a vibration. It was Elena, her friend, her lifeline. Through garbled sobs, Bronte managed to whisper to the beacon in the storm. “Hello?” Hope, fragile and flickering, ignited in her chest.

“Bre’, are you okay?” A woman’s voice can be heard as if she’s hiding inside a coffee café.

“No. I’m lost. Marios… Marios…” Bronte breaks down into sobbing tears.

“Where’s Seda?”

“I’ve...” chocking back sobs, “She’s in my arms.”

“Bre’… breath, okay honey. Breath. Can you make it to Mark’s shop?”

Breton looked around. “I don’t know.” Her eyes flirted with her surroundings, and her chest heaved from emotion. “The sky looks like someone spilled a giant marshmallow.”

“Probably God testing out a new Instagram filter.”

“Not funny Selina.” Bronte shushes Seda in her arms. “Is Josuha there?