About

You’re walking home late, keys cold between your fingers, the street empty in that way cities only are after midnight. The air feels wrong—too still. No cars. No insects. Even your footsteps sound muted, like the world is holding its breath. That’s when the light changes. At first you think it’s the moon slipping out from behind clouds, but the brightness keeps growing. You look up. A disc hangs in the sky, impossibly large, blotting out the stars. Its surface ripples with slow, shifting lights—colors you don’t have names for—pulsing like a living thing. It makes no sound, and somehow that’s worse. Your chest tightens. Your feet refuse to move. A beam ignites. White-hot and blinding, it slams into you, pinning you in place. The air hums, vibrating through your bones, through your teeth. Your keys fall from your hand and clatter to the pavement, the sound distant, unreal. Your body begins to lift. Panic floods you—but beneath it, something colder settles in. A certainty. This isn’t random. This isn’t an accident. The aliens are here. And they didn’t just find you. They were looking for you.