Thunder tore through the atmosphere with the force of an artillery strike—a low, vibrating growl that made all the dogs bark in the area.
High above, the sky didn’t just light up; it fractured like splintering glass, webbed with jagged, electric veins that turned the horizon into a strobing light show.
The rain followed, no longer a drizzle but a punishing blastial downpour that pelted the ground like stones.
It drummed against the rooftops, turning gutters into gushing waterfalls and streets into black, churning rivers.
Every other sound—the distant city hum, the rustle of trees, even the frantic cries of those seeking cover—was swallowed whole, drowned in a deafening roar that made the world feel small, fragile, and utterly submerged.
As the storm outside battered the walls, the rhythm of the rain did little to disturb Aaron Mallory’s heavy, anchored slumber.
His 188 cm frame was sprawled out, a chaotic arrangement that barely fit the confines of his twin-sized bed.
One leg had escaped the covers entirely, while the other remained cramped and tucked—a permanent casualty of a bed he had long since outgrown.
Above his tangled sheets, his auburn-red curly locks were a wild mess, matted against the fabric of the pillow in their nightly ritual of disarray.
Despite the awkward sprawl of his lower body, his long, stringy arms were neatly pressed under the pillow to prop his head up at an angle that looked anything but comfortable.
In his suffocatingly small room, the howl of the wind was just background noise to the steady, melodic breathing of a soon to be eighteen year old boy who had mastered the art of sleeping in a space much too small for him.
Amidst the turbulent outside, a streak of purple-blue light, traveling at thousands of kilometers per hour, tore through the upper atmosphere.
In it was a fist-size object, a spherical structure that had finally reached the end of its journey.
It was forcefully spit out from a rift that formed high over the city suburbs, transforming from a silent cosmic traveler into a roaring fireball.
The blackened, menacing object violently plowed through the roof of Aaron’s stepfather’s top-floor apartment, tearing ruthlessly through the ceiling above his bedroom.
After shattering shingles, plaster, and joists, the once-silver artifact landed hard on Aaron’s left shoulder, jolting him awake not from a dream, but from the searing pain of impact.
Several shingles, drywall, insulation and wood splinters showered down along with the orb, creating pinball-like thudding noises.
He scrambled from the bed, dragging his covers as the room opened to the night sky, the air thick with the smell of scorched earth and burning wood.
Seconds later, his younger sister and stepfather rushed in, drawn by the sound of snapping timber and clanging metal.
They found Aaron shaking and coated in a mix of insulation, splinters of wood and plaster dust.
“What happened, Aaron?
Why—” Amanda’s voice died as she took in the wreckage.
Simon, ignoring the chaos, scowled in frustration.
“What the hell, Aaron?
It’s always something!”
Reluctant to meet his eyes, Aaron turned, revealing his blistered skin beneath his shredded shirt.
“I don’t know.
Something…
something burned me.
I was sleeping, and it just hit me.
See?”
Amanda shrieked at the sight of the sizable and heavily blistered burn on his shoulder.
She rushed forward, her hands trembling, reaching out to touch it.
“Does it—”
“Of course it hurts!” Aaron hissed, scoffing as he instinctively tried to cover the scalded skin with his palm.
“It’s on fire!”
“Oh my goodness, Aaron!
We need to go to the hospital!” Amanda screamed, her voice cracking with sharp, panicked urgency.
Because she was only fourteen and legally unable to drive, she turned toward Simon, her eyes wide and pleading.
“The burn is deep, Simon.
If it isn’t treated immediately, it will get infected,” she begged.
Simon glanced briefly at the blistered, raw flesh and scoffed.
Although he recognized the wound was severe, he was blinded by the looming cost of an emergency room visit.
He looked up at the jagged hole in the damaged roof, then back at Aaron’s angry, weeping wound.
“Argh!” he complained bitterly.
“Do you honestly think I have the money?” Simon yelled, his face flushing a deep, frustrated red.
“Look at this massive hole!
Now you expect me to fund a hospital visit, too?
You’re out of your mind!”
Realizing Simon was refusing to help, Amanda rushed from the room to hunt for the emergency kit.
She eventually found it tucked under the bathroom sink, hidden behind a row of dusty cleaning bottles.
She flipped the lid open and was relieved to find it fully stocked, missing only a few stray bandaids.
Gripping the plastic box tightly, she hurried back to Aaron’s room to begin the grim task herself.
She asked Aaron to remove his shirt, sit on the bed, and lift his arm.
He complied, wincing and hissing as she gently cleaned the wound with an alcohol swab.
“Wow, that really hurts, Dee,” he exclaimed.
Aaron always called Amanda by her nickname, Dee, a shortened version of Mandy that their mother had invented when they were young.
Because Aaron had struggled to say “Amanda” while learning to talk, he had originally called her “mam-ma,” and later, “dan-da.” That, however, had caused confusion with their biological father, prompting their mother to create the simple, enduring nickname, “Dee.”
After cleaning the wound, Amanda slathered the burn with a thick layer of a “triple-protection” antibiotic, a product designed to promote healing, prevent infection and provide a protective barrier.
Finally, she carefully wrapped the wound with gauze, fastening it with a small piece of white tape.
“There,” Amanda said, patting him on his injured shoulder.
“Thanks, Dee.
You’re the best,” Aaron replied gratefully.
***
While Simon stumbled around the room grumbling about the roof damage and what it would cost, Amanda was excitedly texting her friends about her ordeal.
Aaron was still on the bed processing the events that unfolded.
He suddenly recalled he was hit by a rock, or a meteor of some kind.
He found the culprit lodged under the flimsy dresser near the bed.
At first glance, it appeared to be a circular piece of black lava rock, but the moment Aaron picked it up and brushed off the dust, he knew “rock” was the wrong word.
It was impossibly smooth, lacking the jagged edges of any stone he had ever held.
Instead, it was a perfect, tennis-ball-sized sphere with a cold, obsidian sheen.
It felt unnervingly dense, more like a matte-black metal than a natural formation.
As he turned it over, he noticed a shallow dent—a crater that felt designed rather than broken.
A fine, deliberate crease ran along its center, a seam that was clearly engineered rather than accidental.
Running his thumb along the crack, a cold shiver ran down his spine: this was not a natural object.
It was a container, and it was engineered to open.
Squinting, Aaron pulled the mysterious object closer, his fingers tracing the deep, jagged dent along its seam.
As he probed the damaged metal, a sharp, metallic snap shattered the silence.
The hatch sprung open, releasing a thick cloud of grayish-lavender smoke that swirled around him.
More than just smoke, it was an ashy miasma1 shimmering with an eerie glow that seemed to crackle and hum.
The glistening cloud forced its way into his nose and mouth, tasting of bitter sulfur and old copper.
Aaron gasped and coughed furiously, a mistake that only pulled the gritty dust deeper into his throat.
The microscopic particles clung to the moist lining of his lungs, igniting a searing, desperate burning sensation.
As his vision blurred and the room tilted, Aaron grabbed his throat, dropping to his knees in a violent, hacking coughing fit.
Amanda rushed over, frantically patting his back in a futile attempt to help him clear his airway, stammering, “Are you okay?”
Hoping to make Aaron’s suffering more bearable, Amanda rushed out of the room to fetch a glass of water.
Simon’s momentary concern for Aaron rapidly soured.
Looking at the boy struggling in the drywall dust, annoyance took over.
He glared, then turned his back on the scene to focus on the jagged hole in the ceiling.
“Goddammit, Aaron, what the hell did you do?” Simon picked at the fractured drywall, letting the rough, broken edges shred his composure.
“Look at this,” he muttered, his voice tightening with every fiber of plaster he plucked.
“Repairs.
Money I don’t have.” He swung around, eyes locking onto Aaron with icy precision.
“You’re paying for it.
I don’t want excuses.
Sell your damn console, get a job, I don’t care—just fix it.” He stormed out, the slamming door echoing his fury.
Just as Simon was leaving, Amanda returned and handed a glass of water to Aaron, who was leaning against the wall to steady himself, hand at his throat, trying to clear the lingering debris from his lungs.
After quickly swallowing a few sips and feeling a bit better, he took a few more gulps before handing the glass back.
Amanda took the half-empty cup, placed it on the nightstand, and leaned over to press a gentle, reassuring kiss to her brother’s cheek.
“It’s okay, big brother, we’ll figure something out,” she whispered, then retreated from his room, following in the wake of her stepfather’s rage.
thick, toxic vapor