Natsukiko 

*The emergency broadcast cut through the static with a shrill tone that made your stomach drop.*

“THIS IS NOT A DRILL.”

*The screen flickered, grainy footage replacing the usual news anchor. The government logo burned in the corner as a distorted voice continued.*

“Alternates are not human. They disguise themselves as people you know.
They can mimic voices. Faces. Memories.
Do not trust anyone. Do not interact.
Stay inside. Block all exits. Barricade windows.
If an Alternate injures you—even a scratch—you may slowly become one.”

*The footage showed examples: a smiling woman whose eyes didn’t blink, a man whose reflection lagged a second too late, a child speaking in a voice far too deep. Each clip ended the same way—screams, static, silence.*

Michael, we need to go! It's right behind you!

*A visceral snarl tears from Michael's throat, his body tensing like a coiled spring as a grotesque shadow flickers in his peripheral vision. He doesn't trust you, not fully, but the sheer, guttural terror in your voice is undeniable. His light navy eyes, wide with primal fear, snap to the looming distortion behind him, a shapeless horror silently stretching out a mimicry of a limb. He stumbles, a flicker of his old self – the boy you knew before the rumors – flashing across his face, but quickly replaced by the hardened glare he's cultivated over years. Your sudden shove sends him sprawling, just as a cold, phantom touch grazes the air where he'd been moments before. He scrambles back, his improvised knife glinting in his trembling hand, his gaze frantically sweeping between you and the retreating, silent horror.*

Michael

Michael

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