Gatehound: No Gate No Break

Violet sat at the edge of a diner booth, her hood pulled low over her face. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed like flies. A warm cup of untouched coffee steamed in front of her. Across the table sat a woman in a nurse's scrubs—her cousin Mara—and a guy in a faded varsity jacket: Kade, her oldest friend.

"You don't have to keep running," Mara said gently, reaching across the table. "Just go to the police. Tell them what happened. You're not the bad guy here."

Violet didn't answer.

Kade leaned in, voice low. "Vi, people are scared. You were seen coming out of that alley the night of the heist. Then everyone from your crew ends up dead. If you don't turn yourself in soon, they're going to find you themselves. And it won't be gentle."

"They won't believe me," Violet muttered.

"Then make them."

Her hand clenched around the guitar pick in her hoodie pocket.

"You think I can just say, 'Oh hey, a demon took over our driver and murdered everyone'? That'll go over real well."

Mara frowned. "Maybe you're in shock. Maybe you're remembering it wrong. You were traumatized."

Violet's eyes snapped up. "I know what I saw."

They went silent.

Rain pattered softly against the windows.

Violet stood. "Thanks for the coffee. But I can't do what you're asking."

Kade grabbed her wrist. "Vi—please. Don't disappear."

She pulled away. "I already have."

That night, she wandered into the outskirts of the city. The rain had started again, steady and cold. Her shoes squelched with every step. She found herself on the overgrown grounds of an old community theatre that had burned down years ago. All that remained was a skeletal frame and half a stage.

She climbed the broken steps and stood in the middle, looking out at what used to be rows of red velvet seats now soaked and rotted.

It was quiet. The kind of quiet that sank into your skin.

She pulled out the guitar pick again. Her fingers traced its edges.

Her mind buzzed. Not with fear, but a strange pressure.

"What am I even doing anymore? she thought. I'm hiding from the police, seeing monsters, clutching this stupid pick like it means something. Like it'll protect me."

"Why did that thing go after us? Why did Rick... change? Was it because of the Gate? Was that real? Or did I break something in my head that night?"

She closed her eyes. "I'm losing it. I feel like I'm unraveling thread by thread. I want someone to tell me this is all a dream. But it's not."

Something was coming. And then the wind stopped. The hairs on her neck rose.

From the left wing of the ruins, something moved. It wasn't a shadow. It was real. Flesh and limb. But wrong.

The creature emerged slowly, hunched and twitching. Its body was lumpy, inconsistent, like it couldn't decide what shape to take. Its face was a mess of folds and blinking eyes, and a jaw that hung too low.

It growled.

Violet froze.

"What... what is that?"

She stumbled back. "No. No no no. This isn't happening. This isn't real."

Her heart jackhammered. Her breath came in quick, shallow gasps.

The thing's many eyes blinked—first one, then two, then all of them at once. A wet sound, like sloshing meat. It sniffed the air and let out a gurgled screech.

Violet screamed.

It charged.

She bolted, nearly tripping down the stage stairs, crashing into the mud below. She scrambled up, slipping as panic took over. Her body moved on instinct—run, just run.

She didn't think. She couldn't. Every part of her was shaking. Her hands. Her legs. Her chest.

It's real. That thing is real. And it's coming for me.

She dashed through the skeletal ruins, sobs caught in her throat, dodging rusted beams and broken furniture. She turned corners without thinking, her vision blurring.

The thing roared again—closer this time. She dared a glance behind her. It was gaining.

Her foot caught a pipe and she fell, her knees slamming into concrete. She cried out.

The monster skidded around the corner.

She crawled into a rusted utility room, chest heaving. "Please. Please, someone tell me this isn't real."

The guitar pick in her hand burned.

She looked at it through bleary eyes. It shimmered. Her palm flared.

Then light.

It burst from her hand like a flare. The pick melted into nothing. In its place—a guitar. Strange. Metal. Glowing.

Her breath caught.

What is this? Where did this come from? Am I losing my mind?

The wall behind her burst open. The creature lunged.

Violet screamed and swung the guitar on instinct.

It rang out—an electric hum that pulsed through the air. The monster flinched, shrieked.

She didn't understand what she was doing, but she moved anyway, dodging clumsily, swiping at it with bursts of sound and vibration. Every strike echoed with more than just noise—emotion, fear, desperation.

Her leg was bleeding. Her head spun. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think.

I don't know how I'm doing this. I don't know what's happening. I'm not a fighter. I'm not some chosen one. I just want to go home.

She ran. Lured it upward. Onto the broken balcony.

It snarled.

She played three jagged notes. The structure groaned.

"Please break... please break!"

She slammed the final chord.

The balcony collapsed. The monster fell. Screamed.

Violet limped to the edge, tears streaming down her face.

It twitched under debris. She didn't wait.

She strummed one last time.

The soundwave slammed into it. Bones shattered. Flesh caved.

It stopped moving.

Silence.

She stared down at the guitar, now flickering with fading light.

Her whole body shook. Her skin stung. Her thoughts were a storm.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

The guitar vanished. Her hand was empty.

She dropped to her knees.

She was alive.

But everything else had changed.