You can't sleep. It's that kind of night — the kind where the walls breathe and the ceiling has too many patterns. You reach for your phone. Scroll. Doom-scroll. And then — an ad. No, not an ad. A summons.

Black screen. Crimson text. Two words. No price, no reviews, no influencer holding it at a flattering angle. Just a button that says ORDER. And a line underneath:

“Deliveries arrive when you're ready. You won't choose the time.”

You tap it. Obviously. Credit card. Confirm. The screen flashes once — crimson — then goes dark. No confirmation email. No order number. Just silence.

You put the phone down and forget about it.

Three knocks. Your front door. At 3:33 AM.

No one delivers at 3 AM. No one. But you open the door anyway, and there it is — a matte black box on the ground. No label, no courier, no footsteps retreating down the hall. Just the box. And inside:

Crimson label. Black can. Cold — impossibly cold, like it's been waiting in a freezer that doesn't exist. You look down the corridor both ways.

Empty. Of course.

The hiss isn't carbonation. It's a whisper. And it knows your name.

First sip. It tastes like copper and night air and something you forgot you were looking for. Cold — colder than the can should be. The streetlight above you flickers.

Second sip. The shadows on the wall behind you are moving. Not with the wind. Against it. Your reflection in the window blinks after you do.

Third sip. The QR code on the can — you'd barely noticed it — is pulsing. Faint crimson light, like a heartbeat. Your phone's camera activates on its own.

Your phone buzzes. An app you never installed. BLOODVERSE. One notification:

You look up. At the end of the street, where the light doesn't reach, someone is standing. Tall. Still. The streetlight between you and them dies.

Three knocks. Not on a door. On something inside your chest.

You finish the can. It's empty. But when you shake it, something rattles inside. A sound like teeth. Or keys.

You look at the can one last time. The QR code has changed. New symbol. New coordinates. A date 72 hours from now.