The zipper stopped halfway, and the bus fell into a silence so deep Kenzo could hear his own pulse hammering in his ears. The hooded woman pressed herself against her seat, whispering, “Don’t touch it… whatever comes out, don’t touch it.”

The bag bulged once… twice… then something thin pushed through the opening — a pale, bony hand, impossibly long, its fingers scraping the floor like dry branches. Kenzo froze as the hand felt its way outward, searching blindly.

The creature beside him let out a low rumble, almost protective, almost jealous.

The driver didn’t dare look back. “It wants the one who carried it last,” he muttered. “It thinks that’s you.”

Kenzo shook his head, voice trembling. “I’ve never seen this thing before.”

The pale hand curled, clawing at the floor, dragging the rest of its small, trembling body out of the bag. It wasn’t a child… but it wasn’t an adult either. Its skin was stretched thin, its eyes black and wet like something just pulled from deep water.

It sniffed the air once… then turned its entire head toward Kenzo with a slow, cracking sound.

And with a voice like a broken whisper, it said:

“Found you.”