The Carnivore

A lone survivor awakens in a dim hospital room to find a strange delegation of extraterrestrials gathered around his bed. Their sleek suits and glass‑like helmets give them the appearance of a cosmic masquerade, each creature a blend of feathers, fur, and alien anatomy. The visitors speak in soft, filtered tones, their polite gestures hinting at a civilization far beyond humanity’s own. As the last human left on a world blanketed in radioactive dust, he becomes the reluctant representative of a species that has already vanished.

Caught between grief for his lost companion and a desperate need for answers, he presses the visitors about why they arrived too late. Their uneasy glances and hesitant replies reveal a fragile mix of fear, bureaucracy, and perhaps a hidden secret. The narrative unfolds as a tense, introspective dialogue, exploring what it means to confront an indifferent universe while clinging to the hope that understanding might still be possible.