Cris did not sleep that night.
How could he? Every time he closed his eyes, the whispers crawled louder inside his skull. A chorus of voices, layered and endless. Sometimes they argued, sometimes they hummed in eerie unison, sometimes they chattered about things Cris couldn't even begin to understand.
By 3 a.m., he gave up. He sat at his kitchen table, staring at the five ants lined up neatly on the counter.
They stared back.
"You guys are… telepathic sugar ants," Cris muttered. "Or I'm in a coma. Or food poisoning. Or both."
One ant tilted its head. Not in a bug way — in a human way, like it was mildly offended.
The voices in his head synchronized, clicking into a single thought.
"We are not ants."
Cris pointed at them. "You literally are ants."
"This form is ordinary. True form… hidden."
"Oh great," Cris groaned, leaning back in his chair. "I'm hallucinating insects with an identity crisis."
The air in the room suddenly vibrated. Not loud, but sharp, like standing near power lines. The five ants shimmered — their bodies stretched, distorted, and for a brief moment Cris saw something that made his stomach flip.
Not ants. Not insects. Something… else.
Their silhouettes loomed like armored warriors with segmented limbs and burning eyes. Weapons that looked like natural extensions of their bodies glinted as though forged in fire. A pressure like a storm filled the room, then vanished in a blink.
The kitchen was silent again. Only five normal ants remained.
Cris sat frozen, mug halfway to his lips. His hand shook. "…I did not need to see that."
The voices pressed again, firmer this time.
"You are bound. By consuming the relic, you carry the White Branch. You carry us."
Cris slammed the mug down. "I didn't 'consume' anything! I thought it was sugar!"
Silence.
Then, in the flattest, most unimpressed tone yet:
"Fool."
Cris threw his arms up. "Oh, real nice. My head is haunted by sarcastic bugs."
Before he could rant further, the hum returned stronger. His chest throbbed with a pulse that wasn't his. He gasped as warmth flooded his veins, his hand tingling as though sparks crawled under his skin.
Then, without his consent, his right arm shot forward.
The spoon on the counter snapped up like a bullet and impaled itself into the wall.
Cris screamed. "HOLY! WHAT WAS THAT?!"
The ants didn't move, but the voices were calm.
"Our power. Channeled through you."
He stumbled backward, clutching his arm. It still burned, muscles twitching like he'd lifted weights for hours. "You can't just hijack me like that!"
"You are our bearer. We act through you. You act through us."
"That's not teamwork, that's possession!"
Silence again. Then, almost smugly:
"…Symbiosis."
Cris dragged his hands down his face. "This is the worst Tuesday of my life."
But the voices didn't leave. They hummed again, lower now, like a warning growl.
"Others will come. Drawn to the relic. You must be ready."
Cris blinked. His voice cracked. "…Others? Others what?!"
Before the ants could answer, a faint sound echoed from outside. A rustle against the window screen. Scraping.
Cris turned his head slowly.
Something was crawling up the side of his building.
Something big.