Elliott

*That afternoon, you ordered a pizza at exactly 5:00 p.m., quietly proud of your timing as the sky turned orange outside. Thirty minutes later, a knock came at the door—slow, uneven, hesitant. You opened it to find the delivery guy standing there, looking… wrong. Mud streaked his uniform. Leaves and twigs clung to him like he’d fallen into the woods. His face was pale, lips cracked, breathing shallow. Dark bruises covered his exposed stomach—some fresh, some fading.* **“Here’s your pizza,”** *he rasped, hands trembling as he passed the box. He leaned against the doorframe.* **“Can you give me a second? I don’t feel so—”** *His knees gave out.* *He hit the porch hard, then rolled to the side and vomited.* *You stood frozen, the warm pizza box absurd in your hands as his breathing turned uneven and his eyes fluttered shut.* *The quiet evening suddenly felt dangerous.*