Chapter 1: A Good Deed in the Bank

Chapter 1: A Good Deed in the Bank

The heat hadn't broken with the sunset. It clung to the asphalt of the New Mexico highway, a suffocating blanket that smelled of hot metal and scorched rubber. Zach’s truck, a beat-up Ford he’d sunk his last savings into, was dead. Not a cough, not a sputter. Just a final, definitive silence.

He wiped a greasy hand on his already filthy jeans and stared at the engine. It was a mechanical corpse, and he was no miracle worker. His dreams of a fresh start in Arizona, of a steady carpentry job that didn't involve dodging a sleazy foreman, were dying right here on the shoulder of nowhere.

Desire: Get to Arizona. Start over. Leave the past behind.

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the vast, empty landscape in bruised purples and oranges. The silence that followed was heavier than the heat. It was an absolute void, the kind that made the blood thrum in your ears. He was alone. Utterly.

Obstacle: Stranded in the desert with a dead truck as night falls.

He slammed the hood shut, the clang echoing unnaturally in the stillness. Walking was the only option. He grabbed his dusty duffel bag from the cab, slung it over his shoulder, and started down the blacktop ribbon that stretched into infinity. The smell of his mother’s baking, a phantom memory of a life that no longer existed, felt a million miles away.

That’s when he heard it.

A faint clicking, like stones being tapped together, from the scrubland to his right. He stopped, straining his ears. It stopped, too. He took another step. The clicking resumed, faster this time, keeping pace.

Paranoia, cold and sharp, pricked the back of his neck. He picked up his pace, his worn work boots crunching on the gravel shoulder. The clicking became a chittering scramble, the sound of something with too many legs moving too fast. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a flicker of movement—a shape that was all wrong angles, skittering between the skeletal remains of yucca plants. It was low to the ground, but its shadow stretched long and thin in the twilight.

Action: Run.

Panic seized him. He broke into a dead sprint, the duffel bag thumping against his spine. The chittering grew louder, closer, a sound of dry, scraping hunger. He didn't dare look back again. He could feel it gaining, a presence of profound wrongness just behind him. His lungs burned, his legs screamed, but the inhuman sound was right at his heels—

A light, brighter than the sun, erupted in front of him. It wasn't a car's headlights; it was an all-consuming, silent explosion of white that bleached the world of color and sound. It didn't illuminate—it erased. Zach threw a hand up to shield his eyes as the light swallowed him whole.

And then, nothing.

---

He woke to the crunch of gravel under his cheek and a voice cutting through a fog of disorientation.

“Whoa there, space cadet. Rough night at the cosmic cantina?”

Result/Turning Point: Memory of the creature is gone, replaced by a new, strange reality.

Zach pushed himself up, his head pounding. A man leaned against the grill of a pristine white T-top Trans Am, its headlights cutting cones of light through the darkness. The man had a feathered blonde mullet, neon pink sunglasses despite the pitch-black sky, and a grin that was far too wide. He wore a faded T-shirt for a band Zach had never heard of.

“Car trouble?” the man asked, gesturing with a thumb back down the road where Zach’s truck was now just a dark lump.

“I… yeah,” Zach mumbled, his throat raw. A sharp, stinging pain throbbed on the side of his neck. He reached up and felt a small, crusted wound. “What happened?”

“Found you taking a dirt nap, dude. Looked like you tripped. Gnarly scrape.” The man offered a hand. “Name’s Ray. You looked like you could use a righteous rescue.”

Zach took the hand and let himself be pulled to his feet. His head swam. He couldn’t remember falling. He couldn’t remember anything after the sun went down. There was just a black, terrifying hole in his memory.

“I’m Zach. My truck… it’s dead.”

“Bummer,” Ray said, his smile never faltering. “Major bummer. Tell you what, I know a place you can crash. The manager’s a super cool dude, always willing to help a guy out. Put a good deed in the bank, you know?”

Desperation was a powerful motivator. Zach was exhausted, confused, and his neck felt like it was on fire. He nodded. “Okay. Thanks.”

The drive was short and silent, the Trans Am’s engine a low rumble against the oppressive quiet of the desert night. Then, it appeared. Rising from the flat, empty plains was a building. A ten-story tower of brutalist concrete, a grid of dark windows staring out into the void like a thousand dead eyes. It was a concrete tombstone, utterly alien to the landscape. There were no other buildings, no roads leading to it, save for the dirt track they were on. It simply… was.

“Welcome,” Ray announced with a theatrical sweep of his arm, “to The Complex.”

Inside, the lobby was sterile and cold, smelling of antiseptic. Ray led him to a heavy oak door marked ‘Manager.’ He knocked once.

“Enter,” a calm, cultured voice replied.

The room was the complete opposite of the lobby. It was a lavish penthouse office, filled with antique furniture, leather-bound books, and dimly lit by a green banker’s lamp. Behind a massive mahogany desk sat a man in a perfectly tailored three-piece suit. His silver hair was slicked back, and his dark, piercing eyes seemed ancient. He looked up and offered a thin, predatory smile.

“Ah, Raymond. You’ve brought a guest.”

“Found him on the road, Mr. Rags,” Ray said, his cheerful demeanor suddenly strained, subservient. “Car gave up the ghost.”

“I see.” Mr. Rags stood, moving with an unnerving grace. He was tall, slender, and didn’t seem to make a sound as he crossed the plush carpet. He circled Zach like a shark. “You’ve had a difficult evening, Zachary.”

Zach flinched. He hadn’t told Ray his full name.

Mr. Rags’s eyes fixed on Zach’s neck. “You’ve picked up a parasite. A common nuisance in these parts. They burrow. Best to have it out before it settles in.”

Before Zach could protest, Mr. Rags guided him to an antique armchair. From a drawer in his desk, he produced a pair of long, slender silver tweezers. He tilted Zach’s head to the side with a grip that was gentle but unbreakable.

“Hold very still,” he murmured. “This will only be unpleasant for a moment.”

Zach’s heart hammered against his ribs. He wanted to run, to scream, but he was frozen by the man’s unnerving calm. He felt the cold metal of the tweezers probe the small wound on his neck. There was a sickening, wet pressure, then a sharp, piercing pain that made his vision flash white.

A wet, chitinous click echoed in the silent room.

Mr. Rags pulled the tweezers back. Pinched in their tips was a small, black object, no bigger than a grain of rice. It was made of a strange, metallic material, but it pulsed with a faint inner light and had tiny, hair-like legs that were still twitching feebly.

“There,” Mr. Rags said, dropping the thing into a crystal ashtray where it sizzled and went still. “Much better.”

Zach stared, horrified and nauseous. That… thing had been inside him.

“The previous maintenance man, Jerry, was not so fortunate,” Mr. Rags said conversationally, wiping the tweezers on a silk handkerchief. “He let one fester. It affected his work. His… disposition. He is no longer with us.” He fixed his gaze on Zach, an offer and a command in his ancient eyes. “Which brings me to my proposal. The position is open. You have practical hands, I can see. And you are in need of a new start. I provide lodging, food, and purpose. In return, you keep my building running.”

Surprise/New Obstacle: The job offer is a trap.

A job. A place to stay. It was everything he’d wanted when he set out this morning. But this place, this man… it was a nightmare. Yet, what choice did he have? He was in the middle of nowhere, indebted to a man who had just performed amateur surgery on him with a pair of tweezers.

“I… okay,” Zach heard himself say, his voice sounding distant.

“Excellent.” Mr. Rags’s smile widened slightly. “Ray will show you to your apartment. 6A. Jerry’s old place. Your first work order will be delivered in the morning.” He handed Ray a key. “Welcome to The Complex, Zachary. I’m sure you’ll be a valuable asset.”

Ray led a numb Zach out of the office and to the elevator. The forced cheerfulness was back. “See? Told you he was a cool dude! You’re all set, man!”

He pressed the button, and the ancient elevator doors groaned open. The smell that wafted out was a cloying mix of sour milk, dirty diapers, and something else… something coppery and metallic.

Inside, sitting directly on the floor, was a baby. It was wrapped in a simple white blanket, its skin pale and waxy. It looked up as they approached, and Zach’s blood ran cold.

Final Surprise/Hook: The monstrous infant.

Its smile was too wide, stretching its cheeks into an unnatural grin that showed a full set of tiny, needle-sharp teeth. But it was the eyes that were the worst. They weren’t the cloudy, unfocused eyes of an infant. They were ancient, intelligent, and filled with a ravenous, predatory hunger.

The baby let out a high-pitched, unhinged giggle and reached out a chubby hand, its grip impossibly strong as it latched onto the cuff of Zach’s jeans.

“Oh, hey little guy,” Ray said, his voice straining. “That’s just the Miller kid. Don’t mind him.”

The elevator doors began to groan shut, trapping Zach inside with the giggling, hungry thing.