Karma lay on his bed, the room quiet except for the occasional hum of the fan. Eyes half-closed, he drifted into sleep, or something like it.

  He was laughing.

  Not alone.

  His grandmother was beside him, smiling, her voice soft but firm.

  "Enjoying life is important," she said. "Success is nothing if you cannot enjoy. Life has no meaning otherwise."

  Karma felt the warmth of her hands, the softness of her voice. The sun filtered through some window he didn't recognize.

  Beside her, his mother watched. Her face was red, tense. Anger or frustration, he couldn't tell.

  Then the scene shifted.

  Next day, memories or dreams, he couldn't be certain. Walking back from primary school, he overheard his mother, talking to someone:

  "That bitch should die. She is so old-fashioned. She's making my son… bad."

  The words struck him, cold and sharp.

  Two months later, on his birthday, his grandmother collapsed. Stroke. Pressure. Gone before help arrived.

  He watched.

  He saw her.

  Her body returned somehow, as if the world had refused her departure. His brother cried. His father panicked. His mother screamed.

  Karma… did not feel grief.

  Not sadness. Not sorrow. Just confusion.

  Why didn't he feel anything?

  Then he noticed his mother crying. The same woman who had called his grandmother a "bitch." Hypocrisy pressed in on him, heavy and sharp.

  He wanted to ask why, but his mouth remained closed.

  Suddenly, the dream ended.

  He woke with a jolt, sheets twisted around him, sweat slicking his skin.

  Veins constricted, muscles tensing, spasms crawling along his limbs. Pain. Sharp, unrelenting, immediate.

  He swallowed. Tried to breathe. Tried to move.

  The world outside his eyes felt too heavy.

  And somewhere deep inside, he understood: he could not escape the weight of what had happened.

  He lay there, shaking slightly, holding the ghost of laughter, the shadow of anger, and the impossible weight of grief he could not name.

  ---

  dishes from the kitchen was faint but insistent.

  "Karma! Dinner!"

  He stood from his desk, the chair scraping softly against the floor.

  The hallway smelled faintly of curry and something sweet his mother had baked in the morning. He walked toward the dining room, each step quiet, careful.

  The table was set. Plates, spoons, glasses — all arranged neatly.

  His seven-year-old sister was laughing at something on the floor. Her hair fell into her eyes. The small spark of energy she carried made the room feel warmer.

  His fourteen-year-old brother was sitting cross-legged on a chair, leaning over a handheld console, thumbs moving rapidly. His eyes never left the screen.

  His father sat at the head of the table, phone in hand, scrolling through news. Occasionally, he glanced up at the room as if checking the mood, then returned to the tiny screen.

  Karma pulled the chair back and sat down.

  The plates clinked softly. His father didn't look up immediately, still scrolling through news on his phone.

  "I heard you topped the class," his father said at last.

  Karma nodded once. "Yes."

  A pause.

  "Good," his father replied. "It's expected. Do even better next time. I'll provide anything you need for studies."

  Karma's fingers rested against the edge of the table. Still. Steady.

  Then his father glanced at him properly.

  "But you don't joke with us anymore. You don't laugh. You've become very quiet."

  Karma blinked.

  Instead of lowering his head, he tilted it slightly and let out a small laugh — light, almost artificial.

  "Why did you think about that, Dad?" he said, smiling. "I'm fine."

  His brother snorted from across the table.

  "Maybe he has a girlfriend now."

  The seven-year-old sister looked up instantly, eyes wide. "Really?"

  Karma let out another laugh — a little louder this time.

  "Nah, nah. Never. Not possible."

  He shook his head with exaggerated disbelief and smiled again.

  His father smirked faintly. "Focus on studies first."

  The topic dissolved.

  Spoons against plates. Steam rising from food. The television glow reflecting faintly on the wall.

  On the surface, everything was normal.

  Karma kept smiling for a few seconds longer than necessary.

  Then he lowered his gaze to his plate and began to eat.

  the atmosphere had already shifted.

  Then the lights flickered. A sudden pause, a small crackle, then they returned.

  The room looked slightly dimmer. Not night dim, not a shadow — but a softer, deeper light.

  He felt his chest tighten. Slightly at first. Then heavier. A weight pressing downward with every bite.

  He looked up.

  And froze.

  His father's neck was long. Not like a bend in posture. Long. Zig-zagged. Impossible.

  The head twisted, angles sharper than any human neck could hold. His jaw moved slightly, smiling, but the smile was wrong.

  His mother's head followed. Same. Long, bent, twisting like branches of a distorted tree. Lips stretched in the same unnatural way. Eyes glinting too brightly.

  His sister. His brother. All twisted. All smiling. Faces he knew, rearranged in ways no one should have.

  Karma's heart rate picked up. Fast, irregular. His hands gripped the edge of the table. Sweat slicked the back of his neck.

  He didn't scream. His throat refused the sound. He didn't move. Not yet.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  He only felt the tightening of his chest grow, spreading down to his stomach, coiling like an invisible chain around him.

  His eyes darted. The zig-zagged necks, the elongated faces, the smiles.

  They remained static. Smiling. Watching. Waiting.

  The plate in front of him, the spoon in his hand — all melted into background. The sound of chewing and spoons clinking became muted, distant.

  He closed his eyes.

  Not fully. Not to sleep. But to cut the vision.

  He pressed his palms to his ears. The echoes, the laughter, the impossible smiles — he tried to shut them out.

  His heartbeat thundered inside him. Every pulse louder than the last.

  He felt small. Contained. Nothing else moved in the room except the distortions of those faces.

  No words. No dialogue. Just his body responding to something unnameable.

  He tried to swallow. Food remained in his mouth. Bite after bite. His throat tightened.

  He said nothing.

  He made no noise.

  The only movement was his hands, gripping and releasing the edge of the table.

  "I am done for today," he whispered softly to himself. Not aloud. Not really a thought — just a surrender.

  He let his shoulders slump slightly, his back curling inward.

  The world didn't answer.

  The lights continued to flicker gently, but the shadows no longer moved.

  He did not look again.

  He did not attempt to speak.

  He finished what he could of the meal, each bite mechanical, his body still tense.

  Then he pushed the plate aside. Slowly. Very carefully.

  The voices of his family continued — normal, human — but he no longer listened.

  He did not move from his seat immediately.

  He did not think of what was real.

  All he knew was the tightness.

  And that he had survived this moment.

  He pushed the plate aside. Slowly. Very carefully.

  Then he stood, carrying a book in his hand, and walked toward his room. Once inside, he closed the door, fell onto the bed, and turned off the lights. Holding the book loosely, he whispered in a low, murmured voice, "Is it me… or those around me? I just can't understand."

  ---

  The next morning arrived wrapped in fog.

  It wasn't the soft kind that lifted quickly with sunlight. It was thick, low, and stubborn. The streets looked unfinished, buildings fading into pale grey outlines. Even the air felt heavier — damp and cold enough to sting the inside of the nose.

  Karma walked through it quietly.

  His breath appeared in faint white clouds. His hands were tucked into the sleeves of his sweater. His bag rested evenly on his shoulders.

  The world still wasn't normal.

  Every person he passed had the same distortion — necks stretched long and bent at unnatural angles, zig-zagging as if their bones were made of loose hinges. Heads tilted slightly too far. Smiles pulled wider than they should.

  No one else reacted.

  They walked, talked, checked their phones.

  Only he noticed.

  Only he saw.

  He didn't flinch anymore.

  At the corner near the bus stop stood a vending machine. Its light glowed weakly through the fog. Karma stepped toward it, inserted a coin, and pressed the coffee button.

  The machine whirred. A paper cup dropped. Dark liquid filled it halfway.

  He picked it up carefully.

  The warmth seeped into his fingers. Steam rose slowly, dissolving into the mist around him.

  He took a sip.

  It was bitter. Too bitter. But he didn't react.

  He just stood there for a few seconds, staring ahead at people with crooked, elongated necks moving through the fog like misplaced mannequins.

  He looked tired.

  Not sleepy.

  Just worn.

  After finishing half the cup, he threw it into a nearby bin and continued walking.

  A little ahead, near a damaged section of the road, he noticed someone crouched beside an open hole. The municipal cover had been removed, exposing dark earth beneath. A boy around his age was tying a rope around a metal rod to lower it inside.

  The boy's skin was dark from sun exposure. His clothes were faded and dusty. His face was sharper than Karma remembered — leaner. Rougher.

  Karma slowed down.

  He recognized him.

  Estan.

  Middle school.

  Karma stopped a few feet away.

  "Hello," he said, forcing a small smile. "How's it going?"

  Estan looked up.

  For a brief second, there was confusion in his eyes. Then recognition.

  He stood up slowly, wiping his hands on his pants.

  "Nice, bro," Estan said flatly. "How's your life?"

  The fog swirled slightly between them.

  Karma shifted his weight. "Why are you working here? In this condition?"

  Estan let out a dry laugh.

  "Because of you. Rey. Arya."

  Karma blinked.

  Estan's expression hardened.

  "If you hadn't bullied me in middle school… beaten me… it wouldn't have happened."

  Karma didn't interrupt.

  The fog seemed thicker now.

  "I was good in studies," Estan continued. "Better than most of you. But yeah, I stole some money. A mistake. I returned it. Still, you treated me like a criminal."

  His jaw tightened.

  "You made sure everyone saw me that way."

  Karma's fingers twitched slightly at his sides.

  "Then my father died," Estan said. "After that, I had to drop out. Someone had to earn."

  He gestured toward the hole in the road.

  "You're lucky. You're going to school. Topping classes probably."

  His eyes held something sharp.

  "I still hate you for that."

  There was no shouting. No dramatic anger.

  Just quiet accusation.

  The distorted world around them felt distant.

  Karma looked at him carefully.

  The zig-zag neck was still there. Bent. Unnatural.

  But Estan's eyes looked real.

  Very real.

  Karma inhaled slowly.

  "Yes," he said calmly. "You're right."

  Estan frowned slightly, as if expecting denial.

  "It was our fault."

  No excuses.

  No defense.

  The fog moved between them again.

  For a moment, neither spoke.

  Cars passed behind Karma, their sounds muted by mist.

  Estan looked away first.

  "Whatever," he muttered, bending down to grab the rope again.

  Karma stood there a few seconds longer.

  Then he nodded once.

  "Take care."

  Estan didn't respond.

  Karma turned and continued walking toward school.

  The fog swallowed him gradually.

  People with long, crooked necks passed by.

  He didn't look back.

  ---

  The fog did not lift.

  It thickened.

  At first it had only blurred the edges of buildings and softened the shapes of passing people. Now it swallowed depth itself. The road ahead dissolved into white. The air grew heavier with every step Karma took toward school.

  His shoes made faint sounds against damp pavement, but even that noise felt distant — as if someone else were walking.

  People passed him.

  Or maybe they didn't.

  He could no longer tell.

  The zig-zag necks were still there. Long. Bent at impossible angles. Faces stretched too far from shoulders, smiles suspended unnaturally in the haze.

  He tried to focus on the rhythm of his breathing.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  The fog moved closer.

  It felt wrong.

  Not outside him.

  Inside.

  His vision tightened, like the world was narrowing into a tunnel. The white around him grew denser until even the distorted figures vanished.

  There was nothing left.

  No road.

  No buildings.

  No sound.

  Just white.

  He stopped walking.

  His chest felt heavy, but his body did not move.

  Then—

  A word appeared.

  It did not float like smoke. It did not shimmer.

  It simply existed in front of him, carved sharply into the blankness.

  Loser.

  The letters were elegant. Stylish. Almost beautiful. Black against white.

  He stared at it.

  His heart skipped once.

  Then the word faded, dissolving into the fog.

  Another formed.

  Hypocrite.

  His chest tightened.

  He felt it physically this time — a dull pressure beneath his ribs. His pulse quickened. Warmth rushed through his veins too fast.

  Sweat gathered at the back of his neck despite the cold.

  The word vanished.

  A third emerged.

  Disappointment.

  It appeared closer than the others.

  His throat felt dry.

  He tried to swallow.

  Nothing.

  The fog pressed inward.

  Worthless.

  His fingers twitched.

  He could feel adrenaline flooding his body now — sharp and electric — but his legs did not respond. They felt anchored to nothing.

  He wanted to step back.

  He couldn't.

  The next word struck harder.

  Bully.

  For a moment, Estan's face flickered behind the letters. Dark. Lean. Expression hard.

  The fog pulsed.

  Not human.

  This one lingered longer than the others.

  His breathing became shallow. Quick. His heart pounded violently against his ribs.

  He was sweating now.

  Cold sweat.

  But beneath the fear, something else remained.

  Numbness.

  He did not scream.

  He did not run.

  He stood there, trapped between panic and emptiness, watching the accusation hang in front of him like a verdict.

  The word grew slightly larger.

  Not human.

  The letters blurred—

  And everything snapped.

  Karma jolted upright.

  The classroom ceiling came into focus first — white paint with a faint crack near the fan. The hum of fluorescent lights returned. The faint scratch of pens on paper.

  Self-study period.

  His desk.

  His book open in front of him.

  His breathing was still uneven.

  Sweat clung to his temples.

  Behind him, a chair scraped.

  "Bro?"

  Rey's voice.

  Karma turned slightly.

  Rey's face hovered above him — and the neck was still wrong.

  Long.

  Bent.

  Zig-zagging subtly beneath his jaw.

  "What happened?" Rey asked. "Some problem? You're sweating."

  Karma wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

  "Bad dream?"

  Karma nodded once. "Yeah."

  Arya leaned back in his chair. His own neck twisted unnaturally in Karma's vision, though he seemed unaware of it.

  "It's because he's a Martian," Arya said lightly. "Aliens don't adapt well to Earth climate."

  Rey laughed.

  Karma let out a small giggle.

  It sounded normal.

  Controlled.

  Arya nudged Rey and tilted his chin toward the front row.

  "See that girl? Rinka. She's looking at you again, Karma. I bet she likes you."

  Karma's eyes shifted automatically.

  Rinka sat two rows ahead, near the window. Her hair fell neatly over one shoulder. She wasn't smiling — just glancing back occasionally, then pretending to focus on her notebook.

  Even her neck.

  Zig-zag.

  Longer than it should be.

  He held her gaze for a second before looking away.

  "Probably jealous," he said casually.

  Rey smirked. "Jealous of what? Your alien technology?"

  Arya grinned. "Topper aura."

  Karma shrugged lightly and turned a page in his book.

  He needed to redirect.

  "Do you remember Estan?" he asked, voice even.

  Arya snorted immediately. "The thief?"

  Rey's expression shifted slightly. "Why?"

  "I saw him," Karma said. "He's working roadside."

  Arya leaned back, crossing his arms. "Well, we bullied him enough in middle school. He had to drop out. We did right."

  Rey nodded faintly. "I heard his father died. That part's sad. His father was decent."

  He paused.

  "But Estan got what he deserved."

  The words settled heavily in the space between them.

  Karma stared at the open page in front of him.

  The letters on it looked normal.

  Not stylish.

  Not accusatory.

  Just printed ink.

  Around him, students studied quietly. Pages turned. Pens scratched.

  Everything appeared ordinary.

  Yet the zig-zag necks remained.

  He listened to Rey and Arya talk casually about something else — a game, a teacher, homework.

  Their laughter blended into the classroom hum.

  Karma leaned back slightly in his chair.

  His heart had slowed.

  The sweat cooled against his skin.

  But the echo of the word remained.

  Bully.

  He glanced at Rey.

  Then Arya.

  Their distorted necks bent subtly as they laughed.

  He tried to imagine them normal.

  Straight.

  Human.

  The image refused to form.

  Self-study period continued.

  Outside the window, the fog had thinned slightly, revealing faint outlines of trees beyond the school boundary.

  But inside his mind, it had not cleared.

  Not even a little.

  He lowered his gaze again.

  On the surface, nothing had changed.

  He was in class.

  With friends.

  Alive.

  Functioning.

  But somewhere beneath the ordinary rhythm of school life, something was still whispering.

  Not loudly.

  Not dramatically.

  Just present.

  Waiting.