It was the Day the World Fell Silent.
June 18.
It began as a spectacle. Across the globe, humanity gathered to witness what was promised to be the most dazzling meteor shower in recorded history. Streaks of light tore through the darkness, illuminating the night with brilliance. People cheered, laughed, and celebrated under the falling stars.
The first impacts were small, scattered across uninhabited lands and oceans. Rural towns in Siberia. Empty fields in Kansas. In the Middle East. The news outlets were slow to react even as tremors began to ripple through the Earth.
So, wonder turned to terror in moments.
When the larger meteors struck.
In Shanghai, a blazing mass of rock and flame crashed into the Huangpu River, sending a tidal wave surging through the city streets. The screams and cries were drowned by the roar of chaos.
Within moments, entire districts were submerged, and from the impact site came something worse: movement.
Across the Atlantic, New York was crowded packing Times Square, phones raised to capture the night sky. When the meteor struck Central Park, the ground quaked, shattering glass and throwing people off their feet. Smoke and ash billowed upward, choking the air, and then the screaming began.
The Amazon rainforest erupted into flame where one of the smaller rocks landed, as animals scattered in every direction, their instincts screaming of an unnatural predator in their midst. The jungle fell silent within minutes.
The broadcasts shifted into horror. It wasn't just the impacts. Something had come with them.
A meteor crashed into Hyde Park in London, obliterating everything within a mile. Witnesses saw creatures emerging from the crater, impossibly fast, their limbs like blades, their armor impenetrable. They spread through the city like a plague. People ran. Sound betrayed them.
CCTV footage played on loop. A man ducking into an alley, his breath ragged and audible. A blur of movement. Then the camera went black.
In Johannesburg, another impact sent waves of dust rolling across the plains. Villagers gathered to investigate, only to vanish into the quiet. Their livestock, too, fell to the creatures.
Paris was no different. A meteor carved a deep wound into the Seine, surface boiling. The creatures emerged from the wreckage, cutting through the panicked crowds. The Eiffel Tower became a watchtower for the doomed, as the city fell silent beneath it.
The Angels of Death were everywhere. Within hours, the world was in freefall.
Governments scrambled to respond, as in Washington D.C., the President addressed the nation with a shaking voice.
"Remain indoors," he said. "Stay quiet. Do not draw attention to yourselves."
The broadcast ended abruptly, the signal cutting out.
Naval fleets across the ocean were obliterated as Death Angels emerged from the floating smaller impacts in the sea. Ships capsized as their crews screamed and fell silent. Planes flew into impact zones, their engines roaring—a fatal mistake. Airliners vanished from radar as creatures leaped from the ground, claws shredding metal like paper.
In Tokyo, a news helicopter captured footage of Shibuya Crossing. Empty, save for bodies strewn across the pavement. Blood stained the streets, the camera panned upward, catching a Death Angel perched on a building, its head tilted, listening. The footage cut off as the helicopter's blades betrayed its presence.
Wildlife fared no better when herds of bison in the Midwest were slaughtered, and elephants in the savannas of Africa fell to the creatures' speed. Prowling polar bears in the Arctic in the ice caps were struck down, silenced.
The pattern became clear: sound was death.
The Pope's final broadcast echoed through the Basilica: "We must repent. We must—" The feed cut to static in Rome, Vatican City.
By the end of the day, the world was unrecognizable. Cities burned on streets littered with the dead. Survivors huddled in basements, in closets, in cars abandoned on highways. They covered their mouths, wept without sound, prayed without words.
And still, the Death Angels hunted.
They moved from a simple sound. A dropped fork. A cough. A whisper.
Each mistake ended in blood.
And in a small town near the Canadian border, the boy—no, the thing wearing his skin—watched everything unfold from the treeline. Pair of amber eyes unblink. A hunger, a need to devour. Not unlike its own.
The Death Angels were new. But they were intruders in its hunting grounds.
It tilted its head.
Let them hunt.
Let them feast.
The Antlers would wait.
And when the world was empty and the noise was gone, it would be the last to feed.