So it begins

Snow crunched beneath Kris Minikan's boots as he trudged home from school, hands buried in his pockets. The town was already settling into the dull gray haze of early evening, and his breath curled like smoke in the air.

He walked alone, like always. No friends. No real reason to linger. By the time he reached the house, the streetlights were flickering on, casting long shadows across the snow.

Inside, the house was still and dim, save for the glow of the kitchen light. Amber was finishing her night shift preparations. She always left around six.

"You want me to heat something up before I go?" she called, pulling her jacket over her shoulders.

"I'll grab snacks. I'm good," Kris replied, already digging through the pantry.

Amber gave him a gentle smile, the kind that said she cared even if she didn't fully understand him. "Alright. Be good, alright?"

"Always am," he muttered.

She left with a jingle of keys and the thump of the front door. Just like that, he was alone.

Kris microwaved some pizza rolls, grabbed a softdrink, and retreated to his room. He dropped into his desk chair and booted up his computer. As the screen flickered to life, he sighed, already dreading what was next.

Undertale Yellow. He was still stuck on the Genocide Route, fighting that damn Ceroba boss. The game over theme Justice replaying in his mind over and over. He leaned forward, fingers tightening on the keyboard.

Time passed in quiet, broken only by clicking keys, the occasional groan of frustration, and distant winter wind rattling the window. The house creaked. The heater hummed. Nothing unusual.

Until it all went still.

A soft click echoed through the hallway. Not the front door. Not Amber's keys.

Kris paused. Headphones slid off his ears.

Another sound. The creak of a floorboard. Near the stairs.

He crept out of his room and peeked around the corner.

That's when he saw them.

Three figures, tall and motionless, dressed in matte black bodysuits with pale, featureless masks. Their eyes glowed faintly red, and their movements were too smooth—too calculated.

Vessels.

Kris had never seen them before, not in person, but something inside him recognized them. Like a whisper in the back of his mind.

He turned to run, but one was already behind him.

A cold metal clamp locked around his neck. He gasped, clawing at the device. It was a collar—smooth, seamless, and already glowing with internal circuitry. His body locked up.

Paralyzed.

He couldn't even scream.

As darkness closed in, Kris watched one of the Vessels produce something from a small compartment—a strange pod filled with swirling liquid. They dropped it beside his frozen body.

The pod pulsed. The liquid shifted. It grew… another him.

A clone.

His vision flickered. The last thing he heard was the dull, electric hum of the collar, and the hiss of the pod cracking open.

Charles Minikan stepped into the house just after eleven, his shoulders heavy with the weariness of another long shift. The kitchen light was on. The microwave clock blinked.

"Kris?" he called.

No answer.

Then he saw the body.

Slumped at the bottom of the stairs, unmoving. Pale skin. White hair. Still in the same hoodie he wore that morning.

Charles dropped everything.

"Kris? KRIS!"

His shaking hands checked for a pulse. Cold. Too cold. He staggered back, fumbled for his phone, and dialed emergency services with trembling fingers.

The night filled with sirens.

He never knew the boy on the floor wasn't his son.