˖ ҁ𖥔 ҁ˖ ᥕᥱmmᑲᥙ ˖ ҁ𖥔 ǁ˖

The city was slowly descending into paranoia. Headlines about missing children filled the news, but like Squiddo, I had no time for that. Life demanded resources, and I needed adventure and easy money. So when a night security guard position at the old establishment came up, I accepted without a second thought.

The first three nights passed in a blur. The office, the dim light, the monitors, and that strange voice coming from the speakers. He offered advice, sometimes seemed irritating, and sometimes the only thing keeping me sane. I chalked his odd behavior up to interference on my old line.

The fourth night was especially quiet. The air in the room seemed thicker, heavy, and permeated with the scent of metal. The voice on the radio sounded different—a mechanical grinding sound, fading into a frightening tenderness.

"Dear Squiddo, you're still a child, aren't you?" he whispered, and the question sent a chill down my spine.

I froze, my hand tensed, ready to turn off the radio, when suddenly the silence was shattered by the sharp, unpleasant sound of metal on metal—the sound of a sharp knife scraping across the concrete floor somewhere very close. My heart skipped a beat. Slowly, trying not to make a sound, I turned in my chair toward the doorway.

From the darkness of the corridor, bathed in the violet glow of the emergency lights, he looked at me. His smile seemed unnaturally wide, his gaze hungry. Vemmbu. The one I'd thought was just an urban myth, whose figure now blocked the only escape route. A blade gleamed in his hand, and a quiet, triumphant laugh echoed over the radio, which he hadn't even considered turning off.

"Game time's over, kid," he rumbled, taking a step forward, the floor creaking pitifully under his feet.

There was no turning back. It became clear: all this time I was not a guard, I was bait.

I can't drink anymore, get the fuck away from me, bitch, I'm going to get drunk and do two more.