What Happened Tomorrow

Feel the Time

"This is something new..." the elderly officer muttered, raising an eyebrow as he studied the mangled remains of a young woman. Identifying her wouldn't be easy — her body was a grotesque puzzle that tested even the toughest stomachs. The brutality suggested a monster was behind it. Perhaps. But one thing was certain: whoever did this had left their mark in ways that would horrify even seasoned investigators. The forensics team was en route, ready to unravel the mysteries, though the scene itself offered little comfort.

Murders like that didn't happen in such places — not in broad daylight, surrounded by the constant buzz of people, cameras, and curious eyes. Corpses were usually discovered in secluded, forgotten corners beyond the city's reach, decomposed and hidden. But not this one. Despite the horrific state of the body, there wasn't a single visible wound. No cuts. No scratches. It was as though her entire body had been turned inside out and then crudely reassembled. Her face was unrecognizable, reduced to a pulpy blur devoid of features — no nose, no eyes, no mouth, just an inhuman smear. Bones weren't merely broken; they'd been obliterated. Her chest seemed as if it had been crushed into itself, then grotesquely expanded again. Nobody had seen anything like this before. It didn't fit the pattern of a serial killer, though it could have been the work of someone—or something—making their debut.

That didn't explain the destruction around her.

It was a crisp, sunny September morning when a young woman on her way to work stumbled upon the scene. The park, known for its newly planted trees and a striking sculpture installation, looked as if it had been bombed. The saplings were nothing but charred stumps protruding from the ground. The once-beautiful sculptures had melted into steaming puddles of molten metal, blackening the soil. Curious, the woman approached with her phone in hand, ready to capture what she assumed was just another urban disaster for social media. But what she found made her forget all about Instagram, Twitter, and any intention of going viral.

A body. Naked. Mutilated.

Shock gripped her. The bile rising in her throat made it clear she was in over her head. Fighting panic, she ran to find the nearest police officers. In a city like Moscow, there were always a few on duty nearby. She worked as a barista and knew the local patrols well; they often stopped by for a caffeine fix during their rounds.

It didn't take long to spot two weary officers, clearly counting down the minutes to the end of their shift. Little did they know their night was far from over. Stumbling over her words, she explained what she'd seen—or tried to. The horror of it all made coherence impossible. She led them back to the site, where their grim expressions confirmed what she already knew: this wasn't just a crime scene; it was a nightmare. They told her to wait for a detective. Great. Now she'd miss work, and her weekend was ruined.

***

Ninety minutes later, the wailing orchestra of police sirens shattered the morning quiet as squad cars pulled into the park. The investigative team had arrived, and they meant business. Officers moved swiftly, setting up a perimeter to keep out onlookers, particularly the ever-persistent amateur bloggers, armed with cameras and an endless supply of entitlement. They were always the hardest to deal with — shouting, pushing, desperate for a shot they had no right to take.
Inside the perimeter, the real work began. Forensic experts photographed the area, collected soil and tissue samples, and meticulously documented every inch of the scene. They worked with the precision of surgeons, piecing together the timeline of what had happened. But despite their efforts, the analysis offered no answers. The machines found nothing — no fingerprints, no footprints, no trace of human activity. It was as if the crime had never happened.