The man places the cigar in his mouth and begins taking slow, deliberate drags, as if bidding farewell in the face of the creature, whose grotesque voice sounds in a way that makes the air itself tremble.
"There is nothing left for me to do but surrender," the man thinks to himself.
The creature stretches its distorted arm toward him, and with an act of bold defiance, he exhales a thick cloud of cigar smoke directly into the face of the advancing thing.
Suddenly, the creature recoils, taking three awkward steps back, and begins to stagger as though drunk.
"What? The damned thing is retreating?" he whispers in disbelief.
The man removes the cigar from his lips, stares at the smoke-spewing object between his fingers, then turns his gaze back to the creature, which continues to roar and sway as if in intense agony.
He does not understand what is happening, but as the thing staggers aimlessly, he musters what little courage he has left and seizes the moment to flee — bolting from the room, putting distance between himself and the abomination, desperate to preserve his life.
He runs with every ounce of strength until he finds himself outside the house. There, his eyes land upon a massive wrecked spaceship — something utterly alien to the Earth he remembers.
"Aliens?" is the first word that leaps to his mind.
He hears nothing but the rasp of his own rapid breathing. The sky remains that same cursed shade of red, its hue deepening by the moment. He cannot tell if it is night or day — everything feels endlessly monotonous.
The creature's roars grow faint as it reaches the outside of the house, no longer within striking distance.
A gnawing hunger grips his stomach, and a desperate urge to return home for food overtakes him. But the fear of crossing paths with that creature inside the building leaves him paralyzed.
He stops at the doorway and, for the first time, takes a closer look at the door itself. A name is faintly carved into the wood, nearly obscured by age and grime.
"Punkson," he reads slowly, and the word stirs a strange, half-lost memory.
In his mind, he sees a young man — one identical to himself — carefully writing the name on the door, a fervent, satisfied smile on his face.
"That is my name."
The realization hits him like a surge of cold electricity through his veins.
"No way… this huge house is mine. Who… who am I?" he murmurs, his eyes fixed on the door.
With his left hand, he tucks his long, straight hair behind his ears. With the other, he grips the cigar, taking a long drag before standing completely still, staring at the weathered letters.
Then, naturally, he recalls how he had sprinted into the house just minutes earlier, chased by that monstrous thing. His memories are returning, piece by scattered piece. The reason he had immediately thought of an alien ship was because of the news report he had seen on the television in the living room before hiding in the bedroom.
"The number of victims rises daily. The Zralkies are attacking all regions of Moamba, especially the city of Orge." The broadcast resonate in his mind.
Still standing at the door, Punkson struggles to piece together the meaning behind everything unfolding around him. Worse, he does not know if there is any chance of finding other survivors.
He takes a deep breath, sits cross-legged on the ground, and, though it feels foolish, prays — hoping there might be others who have escaped these monstrous beings slaughtering humans without restraint.
After the prayer, he stands and notices the creature inside his house has gone silent — its footsteps and roars no longer sounding. He lifts his gaze to the sky, lets the cigar slip from his mouth, and turns his eyes back to the doorway.
"Is it what I am thinking?" he wonders, staring intensely. His heart has stopped pounding.
He considers, for the first time, the strong possibility that the creature may have died because of his prayer moments ago. A sudden surge of courage makes him step back inside. Carefully, he tests the light switches, desperate to illuminate the house and see things clearly.
The first switch he presses floods the living room with light. Strangely, everything appears neatly arranged — except for the areas disturbed during his frantic escape from the skeletal thing.
His hunger sharpens rapidly, and Punkson finds himself thinking of nothing but satisfying it before confirming the creature's death. It is an irrational urge — even knowing the risk, he heads directly for the kitchen, desperate to silence the gnawing emptiness in his belly.
As he walks, a familiar smell drifts through the air, triggering a vital memory — one that should never have slipped from his mind. Punkson remembers that the food waiting in the kitchen is his beloved daughter's favorite dish. Yet, agonizingly, her name eludes him.
Upon entering the kitchen, he flips the switch. A harsh light reveals a space immaculately organized, as if tended by a woman's careful touch.
He scans every detail, struggling to believe what he sees.
"Who lives here? Did I do all this?" The questions echo in his mind, unanswered.
On the dining table sits a roasted chicken and carrot rice, steam still rising — freshly made.
Like any starving man, he hesitates for only a moment before rushing to serve himself. Doubt gnaws at him.
"Who lives here?"
Suddenly, light, sluggish footsteps approach the kitchen — slow, but steady. No growls.
Punkson's heart begins to drum violently against his chest once again.
"What is coming this time?"
To be continued…