Harder.
Behind the first Child—more tears formed.
The first rupture was no longer alone.
The abyss pulsed, and the world split again.
And again.
And again.
Each tear opened faster than the last, reality weakening under the strain, its resistance slowing as the pressure mounted.
From each rupture, something else forced its way through—serpentine horrors with too many joints and not enough bones slithered through, their bodies glitching between forms—now centipede, now angel, now something that had no name because names were for things that belonged.
Winged things that were never birds flapped through on wings made of screaming souls. Limbs sprouted, withered, exploded into new limbs tipped with mouths that whispered every secret fear you had ever tried to forget.
They poured out.
Endless.
Hungry.
The Unfinished Children.
The ground split into canyons as they landed, their weight alone enough to make mountains kneel.
