After the year 2222, the course of existence was abruptly rewritten.
I know that, as I write this to you, it may seem like I’m just narrating a piece of fiction, as if we were trapped inside a book or watching a film. But it ‘s not a lie.
That happened…
— suddenly, from one day to the next, as if the very fabric of the world had been torn, reality changed and diversity took on characteristics not even dreamed of in your “reality”.
I imagine that, in your time, governments already knew something, perhaps long before. Maybe as far back as the 20th century they were aware of these events and potential transformations. Well, if they did, they kept silent. Nothing was explained to ordinary people of that time. Nothing is ever explained to ordinary people in any time. What we experienced emerged from a deep void — the impact of waking up in a world that no longer followed the old rules, without any warning or preparation.
It was like crossing an invisible line, where everything we knew ceased to make sense. Certainties collapsed, and everyday life began to demand new codes, new ways of existing.
No one told us what it would be like.
No one taught us how to breathe in this new time.
And yet, here we are: trying to decipher the present with tools from the past, while the future takes shape before us, unpredictable and urgent — who knows, perhaps by speaking with the past we might change the present. Who knows?
I’ll describe what happened.
The transformations began suddenly, accompanied by intense flashes in the sky. Later, we discovered it was something called “arcane flows” — an invisible force that permeates the cosmos and tore the veil between realities.
From that rupture, magic, once dormant in the depths of time, began to pulse again with intensity.
The world we once knew dissolved in silence, and in its place a new order emerged, where the extraordinary became ordinary. The flows did not merely reveal the invisible — they rewrote the laws of existence, opening the way for the impossible.
I know. I’ve said this before, almost like someone testing their own sanity on paper. For you, there in the 21st century, it must be practically impossible to swallow the idea that what your films treat as effects — light coming out of a hand, a “secret world” opening a door behind a wall, diverse beings walking the streets, events we can’t explain — is not just script decoration.
But here, there’s no soundtrack. No camera saving the angle. There are people shaking afterward, burns where no burns should exist, algorithms trying to label it as a “perception anomaly” so they don’t have to admit the obvious. And even so, the obvious insists: certain energies become visible when they want to. Certain hidden things… have grown tired of hiding.
The mind learns to protect itself, to place these images in the safe space of “make-believe,” where nothing threatens, where everything remains distant and controlled.
But what if that boundary between the imaginary and the real no longer existed? What if what was once only entertainment began to manifest before your eyes — in the streets, in the skies, in your very sensations?
Perhaps what you call fantasy is just an ancient language — not “ancient” like a museum, but ancient as bone, as fire, as people staring into the dark and understanding. A vocabulary that was gradually pushed out of the world, labeled “impossible,” until it became entertainment.
But language never really dies. It sleeps. It hides in the corners: in the myths you find beautiful, in the words you repeat without knowing where they came from, in the dreams that seem like brain trash but are sometimes a map.
And when the right moment arrives — when technology stretches reality too far and tears the thin fabric — that language returns. Not as stage magic. As understanding: the world becoming readable again through a different grammar.
But now imagine: these same scenes are no longer confined to movie theater screens, nor to book stories. They appear, abruptly though still rare, in TV news, on your phone feed, on the banners of the websites you open every day. Not as special effects — but as facts. Fantasy has crossed the glass of the screens and begun to notify the world.
SUNLIGHT CITY // Channel SCL-7 — Urban Alert Network
Extraordinary Bulletin 03:17 // Old-Center, East Shading Sector
We interrupt regular programming. Not on a whim. By protocol.
A few minutes ago, civilian electromagnetic noise sensors — the ones the city pretends don’t exist but quietly charges maintenance for — detected a localized deformation in the Old-Center, in a hidden stretch between decommissioned warehouses and façades still displaying signage from dead businesses. This was not a “blackout.” It was the opposite: an excess. Light without a lamp. Sound without a speaker. A vibration that made concrete remember it was once stone.
Witnesses describe the phenomenon as a narrow vertical portal with unstable edges, “as if the air had been torn and held open by invisible hands.” There is no official confirmation. Official confirmation, as always, arrives late and with anesthetic vocabulary. We do not have that luxury.
Next, a report compiled by private patrol drones circulating outside the public grid — which, curiously, today had telemetry open for twenty-three seconds. Twenty-three seconds are enough for an entire neighborhood to change religion.
From inside the tear emerged a family unit of trolls. Yes: trolls. Not “humans with deformities,” not “performers,” not “biomodified.” Trolls, in the hard sense of the word, as if ancestral imagination had been dragged, grudgingly, into our century. Four individuals. Two adults. Two children. Adult height is over two meters. Body mass compatible with industrial labor, but without contract, without ID, without apologies.
And the clothing.
Here the detail stops being folklore and becomes a sign. They wore pieces assembled with a scavenger logic: thick leather marked by irregular cuts, metal plates fastened with crude rivets, asymmetrical shoulder pads, chains and straps, as if they had crossed an infinite road where fashion is just another name for protection. Desert aesthetic, survival, the elders would say — those who still remember films and how the world liked to predict its own collapse as entertainment.
One adult carried something like a reinforced staff — not exactly a weapon, not exactly a tool. A hybrid, crude object, marked by impacts, as if used to clear paths through debris and people. The female — if the reading is correct — kept the children behind her with silent discipline. This did not feel like an invasion. It felt like an evacuation.
The portal remained open for approximately forty-five seconds. Forty-five seconds in which the air of the Old-Center smelled of hot rust and wet earth, a smell impossible in that sector, a smell that does not match the city’s pipes. Then it closed without explosion. A clean, surgical closure, like an eyelid deciding not to see anymore.
Corporate patrols arrived immediately afterward. The response was too fast to be coincidence. Containment drones hovered high, keeping a calculated distance — as if someone already knew what to watch for and what to fear. No shots were fired at the time of this transmission. There was, however, a siege. There were isolation instructions. And that word that always appears before the worst: “procedure.”
Residents of the Old-Center report interference in auditory implants: a buzzing that is not a technical fault but a pattern. Some describe incomplete phrases in languages they have never studied. Others swear they saw, for a moment, ancient symbols floating in the air, like subtitles without a film.
We repeat: there is no official confirmation. There is enough reality for fear to gain legs.
Recommendation from SCL-7, valid until further notice: avoid the East Shading Sector, keep your neural checkups in local mode, disable automatic synchronizations for one hour, and if you live nearby, do not accept “help” from agents without public identification. Here, even rescue has a sponsor.
And one last observation — not technical, human, perhaps dangerous: if this was a family… then it was not a test. It was a crossing. When families cross, the world is not playing.
SCL-7, Urban Alert Network. We will return as soon as there are more signals. Or too much silence.
