Hugo stared at the glowing message in front of him, the cold blue light reflecting off the empty cans and crumpled snack wrappers littering his desk.
The notification hovered in the air, steady and silent.
[Randalf the Lich Monarch is requesting permission to enter.]
He blinked unsure of what to think.
Then rubbed his eyes, because clearly, sleep deprivation was getting creative again.
"…Requesting permission to enter where exactly?" he muttered.
But there was no answer, the text just pulsed faintly, like it was alive.
He waited thinking maybe it would disappear like those annoying ad pop-ups that insisted he'd won a free vacation.
Instead, two new options blinked into existence beneath the message.
[Grant] [Deny]
"Oh sure," Hugo said flatly. "Mysterious Lich monarch wants to 'enter.' Let's just grant it permission."
He leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. "Is this a prank? Or some weird new update i don't know about?"
Still there was no response.
He sighed and decided to see where this was headed.
'What's the worse that could happen?'
"..."
His thumb hovered between the two glowing words. If life had taught him anything, it was that whatever choice he made would probably be the wrong one anyway.
"Fine," he muttered, and tapped [Grant].
The interface flickered once, then vanished.
Nothing happened.
He stared at the empty air, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but It didn't.
"…Okay?" He glanced around his dimly lit room. Same flickering desk lamp. Same humming mini-fridge.
He waited another ten seconds. Still nothing.
"Great," he said under his breath. "Even the universe trolls me now."
He flopped backward onto his bed, the springs squealing in protest, and pulled the blanket over his face.
"Maybe I'll dream of not existing," he murmured.
And then out of nowhere, the ground trembled.
It started faint — just a low vibration that made his lamp rattle and the soda cans clink together. Then it deepened, rolling through the floor like something heavy was dragging itself under the house. The walls creaked. His heart jumped to life in his chest.
He sat up so fast he smacked his head against the wall. "Ow—shit."
The tremor didn't stop, a dull boom followed, muffled but close.
Every instinct screamed the same thing: portal breach.
"Of course," he muttered, swinging his legs off the bed. "Because why not."
He shoved his phone into his pocket and dashed for the stairs. His body moved before his mind caught up.
Upstairs, the living room was still. No alarms, no warning sirens from the city defense system, not even the distant hum of the automated patrol drones. The only sound was the faint buzz of a fly somewhere near the window.
He stood there, half-expecting to see glowing cracks in the air or swirling energy coalescing into a rift. But there was nothing.
"…False alarm?" he muttered.
He peeked outside through the curtains. The street was calm. The neighbors' houses looked undisturbed — lights off, cars still parked neatly in driveways. The stars blinked overhead like they hadn't just watched the planet almost open its skin again.
He let out a long, shaky breath. "Fantastic. I'm losing it."
But then he felt it — a faint tug in his chest, like static, pointing downward. The tremor had felt close… under the house, maybe? The thought made his stomach tighten.
Curiosity warred with exhaustion.
He slipped on his sandals and headed for the backyard door. The night air hit him — cool, damp, with that heavy earthy scent that followed a day of heat. Crickets chirped lazily from somewhere beyond the fence.
His mother's tomato patch sprawled across half the yard — neat rows of soil and wire cages, each plant staked carefully, lovingly. She'd always said they were her therapy. If anything had wrecked them, Hugo would be the one needing therapy next.
He took a few steps forward, scanning the area. Everything seemed fine at first glance.
Then he heard it.
Munch.
He froze.
Munch.
Munch.
MUNCH.
The sound was… disturbingly enthusiastic.
Wet, rhythmic, and entirely too loud for an insect or rodent.
He reached down, grabbed a loose plank leaning against the fence, and held it like a bat. "Hello?" he called out, because that always ended well in horror stories.
Silence for two seconds.
Then another munch.
He moved forward, carefully, his feet sinking slightly into the soft soil. The moonlight caught the tomatoes — several of them bitten clean in half, still hanging from the vines, their juices glistening dark red in the night.
"What the hell…"
He crouched, heart thudding, following the noise. And then he saw it.
Half-buried between the rows, something small and round was moving.
A faint shimmer of light reflected off something metallic — or gold?
He squinted.
It looked… like a raccoon that had lost a fight with a costume designer. Short and pudgy, its fur matted but streaked with a strange bluish tint under the moon. It wore what could only be described as a miniature robe — gold silk embroidered with faint, pulsing runes. The fabric shimmered faintly, even as the creature stuffed its face with another tomato.
Juice ran down its chin in rivulets as It chewed noisily, swallowed, then grabbed another like it was racing a clock.
Hugo just stood there, plank raised, brain refusing to process the visual data.
The creature froze mid-bite as though sensing a stare. Slowly, it turned toward him. Two bright yellow eyes blinked up, wide and intelligent. For one long second, man and… raccoon… locked eyes.
Then the creature grinned. A wide, disturbingly human grin full of tiny, sharp teeth.
"Oh! Is that you, master?" it said cheerfully, its voice oddly articulate — rich, formal, yet slightly muffled by tomato pulp. "Splendid timing indeed! Do forgive my… ah, culinary enthusiasm. These crimson orbs are divine!"
Hugo blinked once, then again.
"…What."
The creature dabbed its mouth with its paw like it was attending a dinner party. "I assure you, I shall cease momentarily! One must restore one's ectoplasmic balance after such a taxing summoning, yes indeed. Quite standard procedure."
It nodded to itself, as though this fully justified stealing someone's vegetables.