I knew this was probably the best time to get the fuck out of there—but I couldn’t. Not yet.

  That thing I shot—ran like a goddamn nightmare and died like one too—I had to know. You don’t just walk away from something like that and hope it was a bad trip. If I left it behind, I’d always wonder if I made it up, if my brain finally cracked under the pressure. I needed eyes on it. Needed proof.

  So I circled back, moving slow. Cautious. I’d been fooled twice already—gray guy bait-and-switch style.

  The shark-man lay sprawled in the sand, unmoving. When I got within thirty feet, I dropped to one knee, aimed, and put a round into its left leg—right at the knee joint. If it was playing dead, that shot would make damn sure it stayed down.

  It didn’t even twitch.

  And yeah, I know how that sounds. Sharks with knees? The fuck? But I wasn’t hallucinating. I wasn’t drunk. I wasn’t on meds. I was sharp, wired, and very, very sober.

  Five rounds to the head. One to the knee. Its skull looked like a goddamn exit wound gallery—softball-sized holes punched clean through. Whatever it was, it wasn’t getting up.

  I swept the beach again—every few steps, eyes on my six, ears tuned for movement.

  Then I got close enough to flip it over with my boot.

  And holy shit.

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  It wasn’t imagination.

  It was a tiger reef shark, or at least something that used to be one. Human shape. No tail—just two thick, powerful legs wrapped in some kind of gray, hide-like skin. Its side fins had morphed into grotesquely muscled arms, like a roided-out bodybuilder in a wingsuit. The head was pure nightmare fuel. Still shark, but with the eyes of something that knew what it was doing.

  Predator eyes.

  I scanned the surf, the sky, the bluffs—then turned back to the body.

  That’s when I saw it. A glint of gold, shining through one of the exit wounds.

  I leaned in, careful. The light hit it again.

  Definitely metal. Gold-colored. About the size of a baseball, jammed deep inside the skull. Looked like one of my bullets had hit it and shoved it partway out.

  Still cautious, I kicked the thing hard in the ribs.

  No reaction. No twitch. No bullshit.

  This time, I wanted answers.

  With my pistol pressed to its spine, I reached into the wound, gloved hand slick with ick, and yanked the gold ball free.

  Wires came with it—thin, snakelike, stretching a few inches before they snapped.

  I stumbled back, holding the orb in front of me.

  It was about an inch across, dense as hell. Gold, maybe. Lead? No clue. But it felt wrong. Heavy in a way that didn’t feel physical. Alive. Like it knew I was holding it.

  I crouched in the sand, tried brushing the gunk off. Didn’t help much—my glove was already coated in gray sludge. I dropped the orb onto a clean patch and stripped the glove one-handed, using my thumb while keeping the Sig ready.

  Now I had choices: pick it up with my clean glove, switch my pistol to my left, or just grab the damn thing barehanded and get it over with.

  I hesitated, then reached for my backpack for a fresh glove and to swap my respirator for a surgical mask. That’s when I saw it—movement in the surf again.

  No time.

  I dropped the respirator, ditched the prep, and picked up the orb barehanded with my left.

  Instant regret.

  The second my skin touched it, a bolt of electricity tore through my body. Full system crash. Muscles locked, lungs froze, vision collapsed into black.