Leo crouched lower, back pressed against the cold concrete wall, every muscle in his body stiff. His breath came in short, quiet bursts. His hands were trembling—badly—but he held Sarah close, covering her mouth again as she shivered violently in his arms.
She'd pissed herself from fear. He could feel the dampness soaking through her jeans. Her teeth were chattering, eyes wide with pure panic. Her legs had gone numb. She was frozen in place like a statue made of terror.
Leo wasn't doing much better.
His stomach was still twisted from what he'd seen, and his legs were on the verge of giving out. But he knew if he cracked now, they were both dead. So he gritted his teeth and tried to keep breathing, heart pounding like a fucking jackhammer.
The man in the vintage shirt kept getting closer—slow, steady steps like a predator sniffing out its prey.
Then…
Screams rang out.
Two teenagers had wandered into the area and caught sight of the corpses—the crushed head, the blood-soaked pavement. Their horrified yells cut through the air like sirens, drawing more people in. Someone shouted for the police.
The vintage guy hissed under his breath, eyes narrowing at the crowd forming behind him.
Then—just like that—he took off.
Whoosh.
He shot into the air like a rocket, disappearing into the dark night sky. Gone in seconds.
Leo exhaled sharply, finally removing his hand from Sarah's mouth. His limbs were weak, but he forced himself up and helped her to her feet. Her eyes were still fixed on the bodies. She was shaking hard, lips quivering, like she'd seen the devil himself.
"Come on," Leo whispered, tugging her away. "We're leaving."
She didn't move at first.
"Sarah," he said again, firmer now. "We have to go. Now."
Finally, she nodded, her legs stumbling beneath her as they moved.
Neither of them noticed the shadow still floating high above them.
The vintage man hovered silently, partially hidden by the clouds. He watched them escape through the crowd. He couldn't see Leo's face clearly—it had been turned away. But Sarah's? He saw every inch of it. The fear in her eyes.
He memorized her.
Then, without a sound, he vanished into the night.
The news was already everywhere.
Every channel, every feed. The screen showed blurry images of the victims—faces so brutalized and mangled they could barely be identified. Just blood, bone, and broken bodies. No names. No clues. Just horror.
Leo stepped into his apartment, the door clicking shut behind him. Sarah rushed in past him, pacing like she'd swallowed a bowl of hot pepper soup. Her hands were shaking, and her voice cracked as she spoke.
"What the fuck was that, Leo?" she snapped, her eyes wild. "We need to tell the cops. That guy—he's not human. He flew. Like actually flew, Leo! Like some goddamn Superman knockoff from DC or something!"
Leo said nothing, sinking onto the couch like his soul had been dragged behind a moving truck.
"You work in a newspaper firm, right?" she continued, voice rising. "Write something. Expose that monster. Did you see what he did to that girl's head? That shit wasn't human, Leo. It was evil."
Still no reply.
He just stared at her, his expression unreadable.
She paused, breathing hard. "Leo… say something."
"Go clean yourself up," he said flatly, nodding toward her soaked pants.
She blinked, confused, then looked down—and remembered.
"Ahh… fuck." She turned and walked off to the bathroom, muttering under her breath.
Leo leaned back, letting out a quiet breath. His voice was low as he spoke to himself.
"You want me to report that freak? You really think anyone's gonna believe that shit?" He shook his head. "They'd say we were high or seeing things. And if that thing comes back for us... how the hell are we gonna survive?"
He glanced at the TV. The footage looped again.
Nope. This wasn't the kind of story you write.
And as a man who knew how dangerous the truth could be—Leo understood one thing very clearly:
Some stories will win you a Pulitzer.
Others will fucking kill you.
This was one of them.
That same night, while Sarah dried off in the bathroom, Leo sat alone on the couch, eyes glued to the TV.
Breaking News flashed across the screen. A massive cruise ship had just vanished—gone without a trace somewhere in the Atlantic. The broadcast said the ship carried over two million passengers. The navy had deployed surveillance drones and satellites, but so far, nothing. No signal. No wreckage. Just silence.
Leo sat forward, elbows on his knees, fear crawling through his gut like a snake. His mind raced.
First, Tony's plane. The meteor. No wreckage. No survivors.
Then a man from that same flight shows up flying like fucking Superman, stomping skulls like he's in a horror movie.
Now a cruise ship disappears?
"What the hell is happening…" he muttered.
He couldn't ignore it anymore. These weren't random tragedies. This was the beginning of something bigger. Something worse. Something... coming.
"I need to figure this shit out," Leo whispered to himself.
---
The next day at the office, Leo barely noticed the noise or chaos around him. He was locked in, head low, hands typing fast as he connected the dots between every disaster from the past days.
He'd pulled up maps, satellite images, news clippings, everything he could find. His computer screen was now filled with lines and markers, all pointing back to one thing—the meteor showers. Especially the one that crashed ten miles off the Pacific coast.
Even the cruise ship had been sailing close to that zone when it vanished.
He rubbed his temples, eyes narrowing. "This can't be a coincidence."
"Yo, Leo," someone tapped his shoulder.
Leo spun slightly. It was Liam, his loudmouthed co-worker who never minded his damn business.
"I've never seen you this focused," Liam said, peeking over his shoulder. "What's got you working like Madam Tracy promised you a raise or some pussy?"
Leo shot him a look. "Shut the fuck up, Liam."
Liam raised both hands, smirking. "Damn. Relax, lover boy. What's this? Some superhero investigation shit?"
Leo sighed and leaned back. "I'm tracking everything that's happened lately—the meteors, the missing ship, Tony's plane crash. I think they're all connected somehow."
Liam squinted at the screen. "The Pacific... You think the meteor that fell in the ocean has something to do with it?"
"Maybe," Leo said. "Every weird thing that's happened recently started right after that rock dropped. People disappearing. And now ships vanishing into thin air."
Liam gave a low whistle. "Shit. That's movie-level crazy, man."
Leo just nodded slowly, eyes back on the screen. Something dark was unfolding. And the more he dug, the more he realized:
They were already too deep in it.
---
Meanwhile, at Dockweiler Beach, just off the coast of Los Angeles—a spot where the ocean water channels straight into the Pacific—summer was in full swing.
The place was packed.
Kids splashing waters on themselves. Couples sunbathing. Music blaring from Bluetooth speakers. It looked more like a carnival than a beach. Food trucks lined the edge, and surfers rode the waves like it was the best day of their lives.
Up in the safety tower, the beach safeguard sat perched, shades on, sipping his lukewarm coffee, eyes scanning the crowd with practiced boredom. But then—something changed.
The waves shifted. Fast. Violently.
He squinted and raised his telescope, adjusting the focus until the image cleared.
And then he froze.
Fins. Dozens. Maybe hundreds.
Slicing through the water. Sharp. Fast. Headed straight for the beach.
"Out of the water!" Out of the water!" he screamed into the mic, his voice blaring across the loudspeakers. His hand slammed the red emergency button. The sirens wailed.
Panic erupted.
Families started screaming. Sand flew. People tripped over each other trying to get out of the water. But for the surfers, it was too late.
They saw the big wave coming and cheered, paddling faster, excited for the ride.
Then it happened.
One of the sharks lunged out of the water—massive jaws wide—and bit clean through a surfer's head like it was a soft fruit. Blood sprayed into the air like a fountain, and his board snapped in two with a loud crack.
And right then, the shark multiplied.
Where there had been one—now there were two.
The others barely had time to scream. One surfer was yanked under, his scream bubbling through blood-red foam before his torso flew out of the water, spine still attached, like some kind of sick trophy. Another had his legs torn off, his body flailing uselessly as he was dragged down.
One girl tried to paddle away—but she was too slow. A shark slammed into her board from below, launching her into the air before snatching her mid-fall, ripping her in half with one snap. Her limbs hit the water like meat chunks at a butcher shop.
Screams echoed across the shore, but the blood-curdling horror out on the waves drowned everything else.
The water turned red. The fins kept coming.
And with every kill, they multiplied again.
The beach had become a feeding ground.
Just when everyone thought it was over—when the screams had faded and the blood had mixed deep into the waves—the real nightmare began.
The sharks didn't stop at the water.
They kept coming.
And then—they started changing.
One by one, the massive beasts swam closer to the shore, their bodies twisting unnaturally. Their thick tails split into legs, long and muscled, dripping with seawater. Their skin stayed slick and rubbery, fins still sharp and sticking out of their backs like knives. Gills flared along their necks. Their eyes burned yellow, and their jaws—still wide, still filled with rows of massive teeth—opened and closed like they were already chewing their next meal.
They walked.