The world tilted. One moment, Ethan was staring into the grotesque maw of a creature that defied earthly biology, the next, his shoulder slammed against the cold, unforgiving asphalt of the alleyway. The stench of decay and rot clung to the air, intensified by the beast’s proximity. He scrambled backwards, his boots slipping on loose debris.

Fear, raw and primal, clawed at his throat, choking off any sound. He’d seen enough horror movies to know he should scream, should fight, should *do* something. But his mind was a blank slate, overwhelmed by the sheer impossibility of what he was witnessing. This wasn't a mugging gone wrong, or some drug-induced hallucination. This was real.

The creature, a twisted amalgamation of muscle and bone, with limbs that bent at unnatural angles and eyes that glowed with an inner malevolence, stalked forward. It moved with a unsettling grace, a fluid, predatory motion that belied its monstrous form. A thick, black ichor dripped from its claws, sizzling slightly as it hit the ground.

Ethan’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the silence. He pushed himself up, his back pressed against the brick wall of a dilapidated building. He searched frantically for anything, anything at all, that could serve as a weapon. A broken bottle? A loose brick? Nothing. Just the grime and detritus of a forgotten corner of Detroit.

The creature lunged.

Ethan flinched, bracing for the inevitable. But the impact never came. Instead, a wave of pure, unadulterated energy erupted from within him. It felt like a volcano igniting in his chest, a surge of raw power that ripped through his veins and exploded outwards. He cried out, not from pain, but from the sheer intensity of it.

The creature recoiled, hissing as the energy washed over it. The ichor on its claws smoked and sputtered. For a fleeting moment, Ethan saw a flicker of something akin to fear in its glowing eyes. Then, with a frustrated roar that echoed off the brick walls, the creature turned and fled, disappearing back through the shimmering tear in the air from whence it came.

The tear, a swirling vortex of iridescent colours, flickered and shrunk before vanishing entirely, leaving only the oppressive darkness of the alley and the lingering scent of ozone.

Ethan stood there, panting, his entire body trembling. The surge of energy had subsided as quickly as it had appeared, leaving him weak and disoriented. He felt… different. Changed. Like a circuit board that had been overloaded, rewired in some fundamental way.

He looked down at his hands, expecting to see them glowing, or perhaps covered in the same repulsive ichor as the creature. But they looked normal. Too normal. The alley seemed the same, the only evidence of the encounter the lingering smell of ozone and the faint trembling in his limbs. Was it all a dream? A hallucination brought on by stress and exhaustion?

He dismissed the thought almost immediately. The fear was too real, the creature too vivid, the surge of energy too… powerful. This was no dream.

As the adrenaline began to recede, a new feeling started to creep in: confusion. What was that energy? Where did it come from? Why him?

He reached up and rubbed his chest, where he had felt the initial surge. It felt… warm. Not painful, but definitely different. He pulled back his sleeve, his heart pounding in his ears.

There it was.

On his left forearm, etched into his skin like a brand, was a symbol. It was intricate and alien, a swirling pattern of lines and curves that seemed to writhe and shift before his very eyes. It wasn't a tattoo, not like any tattoo he had ever seen. It was… organic. Alive. It glowed faintly with an inner light, pulsing with a subtle rhythm that mirrored his own heartbeat.

He traced the symbol with his fingers, his breath catching in his throat. It felt smooth and cool to the touch, yet he could sense a deep, resonating power humming beneath the surface. This was it. This was the Mark.

Overwhelmed and terrified, Ethan stumbled out of the alley and onto the deserted street. The streetlights cast long, distorted shadows, making the familiar cityscape seem alien and menacing. Every creak of the pavement, every rustle of leaves, sent a jolt of adrenaline through his system. He felt exposed, vulnerable, hunted.

He needed to get home. He needed to understand what was happening to him.

The walk back to his apartment was a blur. He kept glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting the creature to reappear, to drag him back into the nightmare he had just escaped. He quickened his pace, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

He practically ripped the door to his apartment open, slamming it shut behind him and fumbling with the deadbolt. The familiar surroundings of his cramped, cluttered living room offered little comfort. The flickering light of the television, tuned to a late-night infomercial, only served to amplify the unsettling feeling that something was fundamentally wrong.

His grandmother, bless her heart, was asleep in her armchair, a half-finished crossword puzzle resting on her lap. He tiptoed past her, his every movement exaggerated in the silence. He didn't want to wake her, not with this. She wouldn't understand. She'd think he was finally losing it.

He went to his bedroom, a small, spartan space crammed with books and discarded electronics. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the Mark on his arm. He tried to wipe it off, to scrub it away, but it wouldn't budge. It was a part of him now, etched into his very being.

He needed answers.

He grabbed his laptop, his fingers trembling as he typed in a search query: “Strange lights Detroit… Unusual sightings… unexplained phenomena.” The internet, as always, was a deluge of information, a chaotic mix of fact and fiction, conspiracy theories and crackpot ideas.

He sifted through the results, his eyes scanning for anything that might shed some light on what he had witnessed. He found articles about UFO sightings, reports of strange atmospheric anomalies, and countless threads on conspiracy forums filled with wild speculation about government cover-ups and alien invasions.

Most of it was nonsense, easily dismissed. But then, he stumbled across something that made him stop. A cryptic blog post, buried deep within a fringe website, that mentioned the "Veil."

The post spoke of a hidden reality, a thin membrane separating our world from another, a realm of unimaginable power and unspeakable horrors. It claimed that the Veil was weakening, that tears were appearing, allowing creatures from the other side to slip through.

Ethan scrolled down, his heart pounding in his chest. The post went on to describe "Marked individuals," people who had been touched by the Veil, granted extraordinary abilities, but cursed with a connection to the darkness.

He clicked on a link, a forum dedicated to the discussion of the Veil and the Marked. The forum was filled with posts from people claiming to have seen strange things, to have experienced unexplained phenomena, to possess unusual abilities.

He read through the posts, his mind racing. Some of it sounded like fantasy, the ramblings of delusional individuals. But some of it… some of it resonated with him. The descriptions of the Veil, the tales of the Marked, the warnings about the encroaching darkness… it all felt strangely familiar, like fragments of a half-forgotten dream.

He found a post that contained an image of a symbol, a swirling pattern of lines and curves that looked eerily similar to the Mark on his arm. He clicked on the image, his breath catching in his throat.

The accompanying text was brief and to the point: "The Serpent's Kiss. A Mark of Power. A gateway to Oblivion. Beware the shadows within."

He slammed his laptop shut, his hands shaking. It was too much. Too much to process. He felt like he was teetering on the edge of a precipice, staring into an abyss of madness and despair.

He needed to sleep. He needed to clear his head. He needed to pretend, just for a little while, that none of this was real.

He crawled into bed, pulling the covers over his head. But sleep eluded him. His mind was a whirlwind of images and sensations: the grotesque face of the creature, the surge of energy, the pulsating Mark on his arm, the cryptic warnings from the internet.

He tossed and turned, haunted by the events of the night. He was no longer Ethan, the ordinary, insignificant factory worker. He was something else now, something… Marked.

He didn't know what the future held. He didn't know what he was supposed to do. All he knew was that his life had changed forever, and that he was trapped in a nightmare he didn't understand. He just wanted it to end.