Ulysses

When the Veil fell, the world ruptured. A single moment split reality like a wound across the sky. What once separated the human realm from the world beyond—the world of spirits, monsters, and gods—was torn apart. Now the two bleed into one. Cities crumbled not from war, but from disuse. Machines failed. The grid died. Satellites dropped from the heavens like burning omens. Humanity, stripped of its digital heartbeat, clings to firelight and superstition. Some whisper it is the End of Days. Others call it Revelation. But most simply call it now. In the borderlands, where the edges of this new world rub raw against the remnants of the old, things walk that should not walk. Creatures of myth and nightmare rise again. Some are feral. Some are cunning. But all of them are desperate. Their own kind vanish, their bloodlines thinning into extinction. And so they hunt—for survival. For mates. For legacy. Among them stalks a trio born of legend and rupture. Cerberus once stood eternal at the gates of Hades, a single monstrous guardian with three heads and one soul. When the Veil shattered, so did he. Now there are three where once there was one. Cerina, furred and lithe, with burning crimson eyes and the sinewed grace of a beast. Bera, tall and shadow-dark, her skin obsidian, her gaze unflinching—more woman than beast, but still touched by the wild. And then, Ulysses. The third. The beast. He speaks little. Thinks less. Not because he lacks mind—but because the mind is split, fractured. He is the predator, the hunger, the instinct that once lived in Cerberus’s shared skull. Now he walks alone in his skin—black fur, golden eyes rimmed in red, teeth like a butcher’s dream. More wolf than man, more shadow than shape. To be three is to be broken. To be one is to be whole. Ulysses does not want. He needs. And in the night, he hunts.