The Stitch Man

I first saw him in the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp, standing alone in the ruins of a city that shouldn't have existed. The air smelled of burning plastic and something metallic, like rusted blood. The edges of this universe frayed like an old film reel, static glitches warping the corners of my vision.

He turned slowly, his mask hissing with each breath. The lenses of his eyes reflected nothing. Just black voids encased in rusted metal, stitched into a scalp that wasn’t entirely human. I recognized the design—an experimental breathing apparatus from this world's wartime projects—but here, it had fused with his skin, grown into him like a parasite.

"You don’t belong here," he rasped, his voice carried through the tubes of his mask. It was less a statement and more a diagnosis.

I wanted to respond, to explain that I had slipped into this reality by mistake while tracking a suspected portal, but my throat was dry. The way he stood, slightly hunched, as if calculating my weaknesses, made it clear—he had been here far too long.

"This place isn't safe," I finally managed.

He let out something that might have been a chuckle. "Neither am I."

And then he moved. Not with speed, but inevitability. The sound of his breathing amplified, merging with the pulse of the multiverse itself. I felt my body distort at the edges, warping as if the reality around me was trying to erase my presence.

I ran.

The city twisted, buildings reforming in impossible angles, forcing me through a maze of cracked streets and rotting billboards written in a language I didn't understand. But he followed, his presence relentless, his mask reflecting flashes of universes I had never seen.

Then, just as my vision began to blur, I reached a doorway—no, a tear. A thin rift between dimensions. Without thinking, I dove through; it didn't matter where this one led. I tumbled back into my own world, the scent of ozone and rot still clinging to my clothes.

The rift sealed behind me with a hiss.

I stood, gasping, in an alley behind a laundromat in D.C., my communicator buzzing with frantic messages. 

I knew I had to quickly figure out what had happened and come up with a plan to fix it.

The stitched man had seen me.

And next time, he wouldn’t let me escape.