Nobody knew where the stranger came from or how he ended up in Floating City—he just appeared one day, like he slipped out of a dream or drifted in on a cloud of fog. One moment, nothing; the next, there he was, setting up an apothecary in some old corner shop.

And you could tell, right off, he wasn’t one of the locals. Not just ‘cause he never took off that mask—some freakish thing strapped to his face, all tubes and metal, tethered to an oxygen tank strapped to his back like he’d just walked in from another world, or another planet. He moved like a ghost, silent, distant, always keeping himself just out of reach, even though he stood right there.

He walked around like he owned the place—an air of authority, like he knew every alley and shadow in Floating City. But here’s the thing: nobody knew him, and he sure as hell didn’t know anyone. Not that it mattered to him. The locals wore what you’d expect—kelp tunics, fish scale vests, some wrapped in seal or shark skins.

But not this guy. No, he strutted around in a dark metallic blue one-piece suit that clung to him like it was vacuum-sealed—long sleeves, the whole deal. And over it, a heavy silvery coat, flapping behind him as he moved. Then there were the boots—thick, heavy, and hard as iron, each step landing with a thud that shook the ground around him.

A bizarre figure, no doubt about it. He didn’t fit, didn’t try to, but that’s what made it so damn curious. You couldn’t look away. A man out of place, out of time, stomping through the streets like he was on some kind of mission that only he knew about. Weird as hell, and nobody could figure him out.

And nobody really wanted anything to talk to him, no sir, except to get their hands on whatever strange medicine he brewed up. People whispered about his potions, swore they worked faster than anything they’d ever seen—like magic, almost too good to be true. Some even claimed he pulled a kid back from the edge of death, like snatching life right out of the jaws of the void. But that’s as far as it went—get the medicine, then get the hell away before anything about him got under your skin.

While the stranger did some good, ever since he showed up, things have been getting real strange around here. First, it was the rats. They started disappearing. Now, you'd think that would be a blessing, right? Vermin gone, problem solved!

But it didn’t feel right. When the street rats vanished—either hiding or just poof, gone—something else was going on. The rats at the vendor stalls? They weren’t disappearing; they were being stolen. Like someone was out there, collecting them for God knows what.

People are starting to worry there’s gonna be a meat shortage coming, and that’s bad news for animals like us because when the meat runs out, they might turn to us—hell, they tried to eat me when I was just a pup. I remember that all too well, the way their eyes looked at me, circling around me like vultures. So now, with the rats disappearing, everyone’s on edge. But I know who’s behind it. Yeah, that’s right. The Masked Stranger. He’s the one taking them.

I got hired by a rat vendor to guard his rats—pretty straightforward gig. He promised me a meal after every shift, but only if none of his rats got swiped. Fair deal, I thought. He kept them locked up tight, stacked in cages with a dirty sheet thrown over them, like that’d do anything.

I could still hear them, squealing every so often, and a few of the clever ones even tried talking to me, whispering through the bars. They promised me real food if I let them loose. But I didn’t bite. You can’t trust rats. They’re born liars, all of them. You can’t trust a word they say.

So there I was, circling the stall, pulling guard duty. First night? Nothing. Dead quiet. Boring as hell. Second night? Same deal. But I wasn’t complaining. It wasn’t all bad; at least I got a meal out of the deal. Then came the third night... and that’s when I screwed up.

I let my guard down, nodded off for what felt like a second. Next thing I knew, I was jolted awake by this rustling sound and those high-pitched squeals. I shot up and there he was—the Masked Stranger—right in front of me, clear as day. He was taking the rats, zapping them with some kind of weird metal stick with buttons, knocking them out cold, and shoving them into a bag.

I barked at him, full force, teeth bared—“Hey, you! Stop right there, motherfucker, or I'll tear your leg clean off if you don't put those rats back!”

But of course, humans don’t understand a damn thing we say. To him, I was just some crazy dog, barking like mad. He stopped for a second, and when I tried to bark again, he pulled out the little stick with the buttons on it. Before I could react–bam!–this tiny ball of light shot out and hit me square in the throat. Next thing I knew, I couldn’t make a sound—not a growl, not a bark, just a pitiful wheezing cough. And then, the bastard bolted.

I chased him as fast as my legs could carry me, followed him all the way back to his shop, but he slammed the door in my face. The next morning, the rat vendor was pissed off, incredibly furious. He blamed me for the whole mess. He dragged me down to the Shelter, said I was a bad dog, that I let his rats get stolen. That’s how I ended up there, at the Shelter—branded as a failure for trying to stop that masked son of a bitch. It was only for a few days but a day there felt like a year.

Oh, and another th–

***

Lee came to a sudden halt mid-sentence. His spine stiffened, every sinew drawn tight. He straightened, head jerking slightly as his eyes locked onto the dead end of the alley. Something was moving there. I, too, felt it—a creeping sensation. Instinct overtook me as I rose to my full height, my claws unsheathed, ready to strike at whatever horror lay ahead.

Slowly, a form materialized, rising from the heaps of discarded filth, like a creature dredged from the blackest depths of the ocean. Its shadow stretched upward against the alley wall into the unmistakable shape of a monstrous rat. Against the grime-streaked wall, its shadow loomed monstrous, warped into the silhouette of a colossal rat. Its eyes were twin orbs of blinding white cutting through the darkness. Its movements were jerky and unnatural.

But it wasn’t the creature’s bulk that set my fur bristling and sent icy tendrils crawling up my spine. As the thing advanced, its mouth yawned open, and something worse than razor-sharp teeth emerged. A nest of thin, writhing tendrils spilled forth, serpentine and vile, quivering as they stretched toward us.

I could almost hear them, the sickening, whispering slither of living threads tasting the air, seeking flesh. They seemed to pulse with a life of their own, independent of the thing that birthed them. Whatever this thing was, it was not of our world.