Page 22 of Alien Boss. Human Pet

The air smells like burnt plastic and despair. I take a step back, my boots crunching on shattered glass. The wailing grows louder, and I realize it’s not the wind—it’sthem. Dozens of alien figures, their bodies nailed to the sides of crumbling skyscrapers. Some of them are so high up they’re just specks, their cries echoing down like some sick symphony.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” The voice comes from behind me, smooth and mocking.

I spin around, my heart slamming against my ribs. Malkus stands there, his grin stretching unnaturally wide, like a predator who’s already tasted blood. His eyes gleam with a malice that makes my skin crawl.

“Not real,” I mutter, more to myself than to him. “This is a mindscape. None of this is real.”

“Not real, is it?” Malkus echoes, his laugh a low, guttural rumble. He steps closer, his shadow looming over me. “Yes, I can read your mind, what there is of it, puny insect. Tell me, if this isn’t real, then why do you feel… pain?”

Before I can react, a shard of glass rises from the ground, spinning in the air like some macabre ballet. It flies straight for my calf, embedding itself deep. I scream, the pain sharp and immediate, blood soaking through my pants. I stagger back, clutching at the wound.

“It’s not real,” I chant, my voice trembling but defiant. “It’s not real.”

“I am god here,” Malkus says, spreading his arms wide. More shards of glass lift from the debris, glinting in the sickly green light. They hover in the air, aimed directly at me. My stomach churns.

I turn and run, limping as the pain radiates up my leg. The streets are a maze of twisted metal and shattered buildings, and I have no idea where I’m going. My breath comes in ragged gasps, my heart pounding in my ears.

“You can hide, but you can’t run,” Malkus calls after me, his voice dripping with amusement. The sound echoes off the walls, bouncing around me like a predator toying with its prey.

I duck behind a crumbling wall, pressing my back against it as I try to catch my breath. My leg throbs, l the warm stickiness of blood soaking through my boot.

“Shall I give you a… what do you humans call it?” Malkus’s voice is closer now, and I can hear the crunch of his footsteps. “Ah yes, a head start. Shall we say thirty seconds?”

I don’t wait. I’m already moving, forcing myself to ignore the pain as I push off the wall and stumble down the street. The glass shards whiz past me, one grazing my arm and drawing another cry of pain.

“Twenty-nine, twenty-eight…” Malkus’s voice follows me, taunting. I don’t look back. I can’t. I just run, my mind racing as I search for a way out, a way to fight back.

But in Malkus’s mindscape, I’m just a mouse caught in a maze with no escape.

The dilapidated house looms ahead, its sagging roof and shattered windows like a beacon of desperation. My lungs burn as I scramble toward it, the crunch of glass under my boots grating against my nerves. Malkus’s voice echoes behind me, low and mocking, but I don’t look back. I can’t.

I dive through a busted window, shards of glass scraping my arms as I tuck and roll onto a dusty hardwood floor. The air inside is thick with the smell of mildew and decay, but something about it feels… familiar. Too familiar.

“Wait a minute,” I whisper, my voice trembling. I push myself up, my eyes darting around the room. The cracked wallpaper. The threadbare couch. The old recliner that always smelled like cigars.

“No, this can’t be right.”

But it is. I’m standing in my childhood living room, down to the chipped coffee table and the outdated TV in the corner.

A cold laugh cuts through the silence. “Where have you been, Willow?”

My stomach twists as I turn to face the voice. There he is, sitting in his recliner, puffing on a cigar like he never left. My father. His face is exactly how I remember it—sharp, disapproving, and utterly indifferent.

“Out whoring around like your mother?” His voice is bored, almost casual, like he’s commenting on the weather instead of eviscerating me.

“You’re not real,” I say, my voice shaking. “You died five years ago.”

He leans forward, the chair creaking under his weight. “I’m real, Willow.” He takes a long drag, exhaling a cloud of smoke that curls toward the ceiling. “I just faked my death because I was so ashamed to have you for a daughter.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I stumble back, my hands trembling.

“At least you could have been pretty like your mother.” He waves the cigar dismissively. “Smart girls are worthless.”

“Shut up!” My scream echoes through the room, raw and guttural. I spin around, my heart pounding as I bolt down the hallway. The walls seem to stretch and warp around me, the familiar corridors twisting into something darker, more oppressive.

I don’t look back. I can’t.

The hallway morphs as I run, the faded wallpaper peeling away to reveal cracked lockers and scuffed floors. My old high school. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flickering in time with my racing heartbeat.

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