The Obarto Central Mega-Mall was a leviathan of chrome and glass, a shimmering beast that snored softly in the dead of night. Banto Silar, a man whose uniform felt two sizes too big and ten sizes too heavy, patrolled its empty, echoing corridors. His medical debt, a digital phantom, followed him like a second shadow, each click of his worn security boots a tick closer to another bill he couldn’t afford. His nightly rounds were a monotonous routine of quiet security checks and the low hum of the mall’s ductwork. He passed the gleaming storefronts, their mannequins frozen in perpetual smiles, oblivious to the fact that their weary watchman was barely holding himself together. Banto’s gaze snagged, as it always did, on ‘The Petal & The Pot’, Nisra’s flower shop. Even in the gloom, the delicate shapes of her blooms, arranged with an artist’s touch, shimmered faintly behind the glass. He imagined her slender fingers tending to them, her kind eyes crinkling at the corners when she smiled. A familiar warmth, quickly followed by a flush of inadequacy, spread through him. Asking her out felt like trying to defuse a bomb with a toothpick; one wrong move, and he’d probably evaporate. He continued his circuit into the grand atrium, a cavernous space usually teeming with a thousand chattering voices. Tonight, it was a deserted monument to commerce, save for one glaring anomaly. In the exact center, under the colossal digital art display, sat a wooden crate. It wasn’t a standard delivery pallet. This one pulsed with a soft, sickly green light, leaking from the rough-hewn gaps in its planks. A faint, almost imperceptible scratching noise emanated from within. “Not on my watch, pal,” Banto muttered, his voice swallowed by the vastness. He approached cautiously, his cheap flashlight beam dancing over the radiant wood. It looked old, almost ancient, a stark contrast to the hyper-modernity of the mall. The scratching intensified, a frantic rustle now, like something small and desperate trying to escape. “Security protocol dictates… investigate suspicious packages,” he recited to himself, a mantra against the growing unease. He knelt, peering through a knot-hole. Nothing but pulsing green light. “Probably just… faulty wiring in a prop display,” he tried to convince himself, though his gut clenched tighter than a fist. The crate was too heavy, too odd. He gripped the edge, intending to heave it away, to push it to the service elevator where the daytime crew could deal with it. As his fingers clamped down, a sharp, searing pain exploded on his forearm. Something had erupted from a crack in the crate, a quick, almost invisible blur of teeth and matted fur, clamping down with impossible force. Banto yelped, stumbling back, clutching his arm. Blood welled immediately, thick and dark against his pale skin, sour bile climbing his throat. He looked at the crate, but whatever had bitten him had retreated, leaving only the frantic scratching. His vision swam, the mall’s lights blurring. He was going to pass out. Right here. In front of a glowing box. How embarrassing. Just as the edges of his sight began to dim, a chime, impossibly bright and cheerful, reverberated not through the mall, but directly inside his skull. [Beast Caretaker System Activated! Congratulations! You have inherited a Menagerie!] The infomercial voice, smooth as silk and utterly devoid of irony, boomed in his mind. A brilliant, almost blinding flash of emerald green light erupted from the crate, enveloping Banto. The searing pain in his arm vanished instantly, replaced by a tingling warmth. He stared at his forearm. The deep bite mark, moments ago gushing blood, was gone. Not even a scar. Just pristine, unblemished skin. [Welcome, Banto Silar, to your new calling! Your first companion, a delightful little Gobbler-Grumble, is eager to meet you! Current objective: Provide adequate sustenance for your newly acquired companion!] A tiny, pathetic squeak emanated from the crate. Banto, still reeling, felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to provide. He stared at the glowing box, then at his own arm, then back at the box. A Gobbler-Grumble? He had barely caught a flash of fur. “What in the— I need to call this in! This is not— I can’t have a… a thing in here!” [Negative! System Violation Detected: Attempting to abandon a companion!] His stomach growled, a mundane reminder of his own hunger. He’d packed a sad, lukewarm cheese sandwich for his lunch, nestled in his bag. And then the squeak came again, louder, more insistent, vibrating with a desperate, heartbreaking need. Banto felt a familiar knot tighten in his chest. He couldn’t. He just *couldn’t* say no to that sound. It was the same sensation he got when a stranger asked for directions to a place five blocks out of his way, or when a colleague ‘forgot’ their wallet at lunch. With a weary, resigned sigh, Banto unzipped his bag. “Alright, alright, fine. But this is just for now. We’re figuring this out. And you owe me for the sandwich, mister Gobbler-Grumble.” He unwrapped the cheese sandwich, the bland aroma drifting through the cavernous atrium. He hesitantly pushed it through a wider crack in the crate. There was a flurry of eager, crunching sounds, followed by a contented, almost purring gurgle. The green glow from the crate intensified slightly, then dimmed to a soft, reassuring pulse. [Mission Complete! Companion fed! Reward: Designer Watch!] A small, sleek package materialized on the top of the crate. It was black, with minimalist silver lettering. Banto picked it up, skeptical. A watch? Was this intrusive interface trying to mock his current lack of disposable income? As he opened the box, a thin, wiry coil shot out, wrapping itself around his left wrist with alarming speed and clamping shut with a sharp *click*. It was a watch, certainly, but unlike any he’d ever seen. It was a band of polished, obsidian-dark metal, with no face, only a single, luminous red dot that pulsed rhythmically. It felt… alive. “Hey! Get off! That’s not a watch, that’s… that’s a manacle!” Banto tugged at it, but it held fast, unyielding. He considered reaching for his own cheap, plastic wristwatch on his right arm, a relic from a forgotten birthday. But as his fingers brushed the plastic, the dark band on his left wrist vibrated violently, the red dot on it flaring to an angry crimson. A high-pitched, almost inaudible whine emanated from it, a sound that grated on his teeth. He recoiled, pulling his hand away from his own watch. The dark band instantly calmed, the red dot returning to its steady pulse. “Oh, you’re a jealous little… tick, aren’t you?” Banto muttered, staring at the strange device, which now felt less like a watch and more like a permanent, possessive parasite. He had a biting goblin and a tantrum-throwing wrist-tick. This was truly going to be a long night. As if on cue, a faint but distinct rumbling started from the mall’s main entrance. The first rays of dawn were just beginning to filter through the skylights. The digital art display flickered, showing the mall’s opening hours. The red dot on Banto’s new ‘Designer Watch’ flared brighter, pulsing faster, and then, a piercing, high-pitched siren, barely audible but incredibly irritating, began to shriek from the metal band. Simultaneously, the massive glass doors of the Obarto Central Mega-Mall slid open with a soft hiss, revealing the first wave of eager, oblivious shoppers streaming in, their chatter already beginning to fill the vast space. He was trapped, between a crying cryptid, a screaming watch, and a rapidly approaching public.

The Misdelivered Bite