Wren Ashford was brushing her teeth when the lights flickered. Not the normal kind. Not the “storm outside, grid acting up” kind. This flicker had rhythm. On. Off. On—but dimmer, like the apartment itself was hesitating. Wren spat into the sink and stared at her reflection. For half a second, her face lagged. Her eyes blinked a fraction too late. “Okay,” she muttered. “Nope. That’s not happening.” She reached for her phone. No signal. Wi-Fi dead. Even the little emergency bars were gone, like the phone had forgotten what a network was. The hallway outside her bathroom stretched. That was the only word for it. The familiar narrow corridor elongated, doors pulling away from each other like taffy. The framed fire evacuation map at the end slid farther back every time she blinked. Somewhere down the hall, Mrs. Calder screamed. Wren froze. Mrs. Calder was eighty if she was a day, with a voice like sandpaper and a habit of feeding the pigeons on the fire escape. She didn’t scream. She complained. Loudly. Constantly. But never screamed. The sound cut off abruptly, like someone had hit mute. Then came the chewing. Wet. Fast. Wrong. Wren backed into her living room, heart pounding hard enough to make her ears ring. Her apartment felt… thinner. The air vibrated, like static before a lightning strike. Her laptop snapped open on the coffee table. She hadn’t touched it. The screen flared to life, flooding the room with sickly yellow