July, 7:23 PM — San Juan Airport, Puerto Rico.
Swish!
The soulless automatic door slid open, giving way to the silhouette of an old man dragging a battered suitcase. Beneath his thick prescription glasses, a pair of cloudy eyes slowly swept across the bustling terminal.
Despite his age, the man carried an oddly vigorous presence. His short-cropped hair, white as snow, peeked from under a worn fedora. A wrinkled checkered shirt hung loosely over a frayed V-neck sweater. His steps were slow, yet his back remained straight, showing none of the frailty one might expect of someone nearing life’s twilight.
Clack... clack...
The sound of his worn leather shoes echoed on the polished floor, oddly out of place amid the rush of human traffic. Each heavy step struck like a hammer against the silence, before fading into the hurried flow of life.
He stopped in front of the flight information board, narrowing his eyes at the flickering text. San Juan to Miami, 20:10. On time. A faint, toothless smile crossed his lips.
Miami — paradise of white sands and blue seas, where the crashing waves promised to soothe a weary soul. An ideal resting place for a solitary traveler.
Solitary… Yes, this old man had lived alone for nearly a century. His parents perished early in the war, leaving him to face a cruel world alone. Loneliness had long become a faithful companion.
But the truth was far darker than anyone could imagine.
In reality, this man had died decades ago. A sudden heart attack had claimed his life.
So who — or what — was the figure standing before us?
Merely a hollow shell, a lifeless husk animated by something else. A borrowed body, inhabited by a foreign being. A parasite of the soul, dwelling inside a rotting frame.
This creature was an Undead, hailing from an era when colossal beasts still ruled the Earth. A relic of the past, disguised as a gentle old man, now walking unnoticed through the modern world.
And no one knew its true purpose.
For now, let us call this creature “he.”
For he, in his grotesque undead form, was incapable of emotion. No flesh, no organs, no heart — immune to pain, untouched by morality. Concepts like empathy and ethics meant nothing to him.
He possessed a “self,” but that self was void of identity. He existed, but could not feel the fact of his existence.
In the brutal prehistoric age, death had been the only release he longed for.
But cruelly, all his attempts at self-destruction had failed.
He dove into the ocean's abyss, leapt into erupting volcanoes... He even allowed a T-Rex to crush him in its mighty jaws, then pass his remains through its digestive tract.
Madness. Even molten lava proved useless. What hope was there in the stomach acid of a dinosaur? Perhaps it was merely the desperation of a creature clinging to the last thread of hopelessness.
All of it — meaningless.
And just when hope had all but vanished, a spark lit up the eternal night. He witnessed a colossal meteor, larger than anything he had ever seen, plummeting toward Earth.
At last, salvation! The annihilation he had long desired!
But no — not yet.
Though the cataclysm surpassed every expectation, turning all life into fossilized husks, for him it was merely an endless slumber beneath layers of sediment.
An eternal clinical death?
Disappointed — but not surprised. The world had changed beyond recognition. A new species, “humankind,” had risen and spread across the planet. The meteor, instead of ending it all, paved the way for their dominion.
The age of dinosaurs had ended. His golden age, long gone.
He no longer sought power or conquest. Instead, he retreated into the shadows — a nameless fossil, quietly observing the birth of a new world.
Humanity.
Fragile, weak creatures — yet possessed of astonishing potential. Towering skyscrapers pierced the skies, flying machines ripped through clouds, massive vessels carved paths across oceans.
A future of wonder and convenience stirred his ancient curiosity.
The meteor, though it failed to destroy him, had granted a different gift — the chance to awaken billions of years later, just in time to witness humanity’s rise.
This was the age of indulgence.
A foreign concept to an Undead like him.
Thus, he needed a vessel — a means of experience. And what better choice than a human body, brimming with chaotic emotion and sensation?
He didn’t simply possess the corpse. He merged with it, assimilated, became it. Memories, emotions, personality — all inherited, restructured, and wielded to perform a flawless imitation.
For example, this old man.
Now, in his frail and trembling form, he made his way toward the airport check-in counter. Plane ticket, ID, passport — all presented without issue. After passing security and its tedious protocols, he was guided toward the passenger lounge.
Perhaps due to his elderly appearance, he received more kindness than most.
The lounge — a plush oasis amid the airport chaos. High-speed internet, a business center, complimentary snacks and drinks — everything designed for maximum comfort. Soft couches, quiet space, and easy access to information.
Stepping inside, his eyes immediately scanned for the drink counter.
To everyone else, he was merely a senile old man — slow, perhaps a bit pitiful.
But inside that frail shell, an ancient being watched, learned, and prepared for a new journey.
Walking straight to the bar, he spoke firmly:
“Talisker.”
Not a polite request, but a veiled command — a signal of refined taste, a mark of someone far from ordinary. Talisker — a smoky symphony of pepper and oak — meant for connoisseurs or those pretending to be.
Sitting down, he rubbed his thin hands together, feigning exhaustion. A perfect act, enough to draw sympathy.
The bartender, a stylish Frenchman, approached with a courteous smile.
“Sir, I’m afraid Talisker might not be the best choice for someone your age.”
A warning, or a challenge?
“Oh, young man...” he chuckled. “Don’t tell me you’re a doctor too?”
A lame joke — but enough to break the ice.
“I only mean well, sir.”
“Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
“But you still have a long flight ahead. Alcohol may tire you further.”
“That’s exactly why I need it,” he shrugged. “Old age is no picnic. The noise on planes, cramped seats... A bit of Talisker helps me sleep better. Besides...” He gently massaged his knuckles.
“This damned arthritis... It tortures me night and day. A little alcohol takes the edge off.”
A convincing excuse, woven from millennia of experience.
The bartender hesitated, then asked, “Would you prefer the Talisker 10 or 18?”
“Ten,” he replied, eyes gleaming. “That bold, smoky bite — I need it to awaken my senses.”
“Excellent choice,” the young man nodded, retrieving the bottle. “Classic, strong, and just the right kick.”
He watched as the bartender uncorked the bottle and poured the amber liquid into a glass. The aroma drifted upward — rich, alluring.
“How much?”
“Sixty-seven euros.”
He dug through his pockets, pulling out a crumpled wad of paper currency — dollars, euros, rubles — a messy mix, unordered and unwalleted. All that remained after selling his last house.
A homeless man, cloaked in the image of a gentleman.
Lifting the glass, he took a small sip. The fiery liquid spread through his body like a flame, stirring long-buried memories.
He leaned back, gazing out the window. The crowd outside moved with purpose, unaware that beside them, an ancient being was enjoying a moment of peace in this modern world.
The future. Humanity.
All of it — fresh and fascinating.
And he, a relic of an age long gone, was ready to explore.
He turned, resting his back against the polished bar counter, eyes locked on the TV screen hanging from the pillar.
The airport lounge — a miniature world of luxury and impermanence. White ceilings, pristine wooden floors, ash-gray sofas lined up like pawns on a chessboard. Everything designed to ease the worries of weary travelers.
All around him, countless passengers carried stories and destinations of their own. Rushed, anxious, excited — or simply indifferent. He belonged to none of them. He was an outsider. A ghost of the past, lost in the present.
Before arriving at the airport, he had nearly missed his flight — one of the last to reach the lounge. The check-in desk was about to close when he arrived. One misstep could have cost him the trip, but he wasn’t worried. He had calculated every possibility and always had a backup plan.
The delay wasn’t due to forgetfulness. On the contrary, he had left long before dawn.
He wanted to walk — to feel the city’s rhythm, to blend into the chaotic crowd.
Besides, he had another goal: collecting a trophy.
Puerto Rico — a beautiful island, but to him, it was a hunting ground.
A place that hid a secret.
A creature he had tracked for years.
A mermaid.
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