The rain battered the alley like a broken drum, an irregular rhythm that mingled with the stench of rot and congealed blood. Cain opened his eyes—or what he assumed were his eyes—and the world appeared in fragments: a gray sky pierced by purple lightning, cracked black stone walls, and a murky puddle reflecting a face he didn’t recognize. Skin dark as bitter chocolate, sunken cheekbones, glassy eyes framed by dark circles. A child

  His mind, sharp as a scalpel, rebelled against the confusion. This isn’t my body, he thought, and the echo of his own internal voice sounded strange, too calm for the chaos surrounding him. He remembered the rift: a whirlwind of fractured light, the crunch of his bones disintegrating, the sensation of being torn from reality like a ripped sheet of paper. He had been a man nearing forty, a titan of science on Earth, and now… this. A sack of skin and bones, sprawled in the mud like refuse.

  Hunger struck him then, an invisible fist twisting his guts. He tried to move an arm, and pain shot through him like lightning: atrophied muscles, tendons taut as cords about to snap. Severe malnutrition, he diagnosed with clinical coldness. Probable cause of death. But I’m alive. How? His photographic memory sifted through every detail of his past life—formulas, dissections, theories—searching for an explanation. He found none.

  A sound snapped him out of his analysis: a wet screech, like tearing flesh, followed by a slow dragging noise. He turned his head—as much as his emaciated neck allowed—and saw it. A few meters away, in the alley’s shadows, a creature emerged from the ground. There was no visible rift, but the air shimmered, distorted, as if reality itself had cracked to vomit this abomination. It was small, the size of a dog, but its form was an insult to logic: a bulbous body of pulsing black flesh, six legs like twisted needles, and a circular mouth filled with teeth that spun like a saw. This was a rift horror, a lesser predator in the vast hell of Anrk.

  Cain cursed silently. No time for hypotheses. He tried to stand, but his legs gave way, bony and trembling. The monster smelled—or sensed—him and advanced, leaving a trail of corrosive drool that sizzled on the ground. Survival instinct, older than his intellect, spurred him to act. He rolled onto his stomach, ignoring the crack of his ribs, and groped the ground with skeletal fingers. He found a loose stone, the size of a fist, and threw it with what little strength he had. It missed the creature but struck a wall with a dry echo, distracting it for a moment.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  It was enough. Cain crawled toward a pile of debris—the remnants of a broken cart—and hid behind it. His breathing was a faint wheeze, and hunger dizzied him, but his mind kept working. I need a weapon. Or an escape. Then he felt it: a tingling in his forearm, as if the skin itself tightened. He looked and saw something impossible: the flaccid flesh hardened for a second, forming a rough layer like bark before returning to its frail state. What the hell…? He experimented again, focusing on that sensation, and the skin responded, hardening once more. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  The screech drew closer. The creature had found him. Cain gritted his teeth, his cynicism surfacing even now. If I’m going to die again, I’ll go down fighting. He closed his eyes, visualizing his arm as he had during dissections: muscles, tendons, connective tissue. Strength, he commanded, and his awakened ability—still clumsy, still raw—obeyed. The flesh of his right hand twisted, bones realigned with a painful snap, and his fingers elongated into something like claws. They weren’t sharp, but what choice did he have?

  The monster lunged, and Cain struck. The claws tore through the creature’s soft flesh, ripping off a black, viscous chunk that splattered the ground. Pain surged through his arm—his body wasn’t ready for this—but adrenaline held him up. The creature shrieked and retreated, bleeding green ichor. Cain didn’t wait: he crawled out of the alley, leaving a trail of sweat and blood diluted by the rain.

  He emerged onto a wider street, lit by torches burning with strange blue fire. Rough stone buildings rose on both sides, some with rotting wooden roofs, others scarred with claw marks on the walls. Humans—or what seemed like humans—walked hunched under tattered cloaks, ignoring the rain and the half-dead child who had just appeared. Beyond, an uneven wall loomed, crowned with rusted metal spikes. A city, Cain hoped.

  He collapsed against a wall, exhausted. The monster hadn’t followed, but his arm trembled, the molded flesh reverting to its original form with a spasm. I can shape my flesh, he thought, cataloging this ability with a scientist’s precision. Interesting. And useful. His gaze hardened as he studied the city. He didn’t know where he was, but he’d find out. He’d survive. He always did