The Pink Smoke

It started with a rumor, just like all stupid things do. A new drug hit the streets, something called Pink Smoke. Said to unlock your “true self.” Dealers whispered it wasn’t made in labs, but “gifted from elsewhere.” That alone should’ve been enough to walk away.

But of course, they didn’t.

Dylan, Marc, and Tyler had been best friends since grade school. They smoked, drank, and dared each other through childhood dares turned teenage thrills. The abandoned warehouse at the edge of town had been their haunt for years. Broken windows, rusted beams, moldy corners—no one came out there. Perfect.

They sat in a circle under the shattered skylight, the three pink capsules glinting in a beam of moonlight. Dylan, always the instigator, grinned wide as he tossed one into his mouth and swallowed.

Marc followed with a nervous laugh.

Tyler hesitated. “Maybe we should wait, see what it does to you guys first.”

“Come on, man,” Dylan said. “You afraid of your own brain?”

Tyler rolled his eyes and took the pill.

At first, it was... beautiful.

The warehouse peeled back in layers of color and warmth. Vines grew from cracks in the concrete, flowers blooming in seconds. Marc swore he could hear music coming from the walls—his childhood lullaby played on a distant piano. Dylan was laughing, arms stretched to the sky as golden light poured down like rain.

Tyler sat still, watching it all with glazed eyes.

But then the light changed.

The vines turned black, pulsing. The walls bled. The piano twisted into a grinding, shrieking dirge. Marc clutched his ears, but the sound came from inside.

“Make it stop,” he muttered.

Dylan turned to him. His eyes weren’t right—too wide, pupils pinpricks swimming in yellow.

“They see us now,” Dylan whispered. “They want to know what we really are.”

Marc’s nose began bleeding. He fell forward, vomiting something dark and thick onto the ground. Tyler scrambled toward him, hands shaking.

“We need to get out of here,” he said. “We need help—”

A scream cut him off.

Dylan had sunk a piece of jagged rebar into Marc’s neck.

Marc gurgled, eyes wide in disbelief, mouth opening and closing like a fish pulled from water. Blood gushed. Dylan dropped the rebar and took a step back, breathing heavily, then started laughing.

“I did it,” he whispered. “I did it before they made me. I was first.”

Tyler froze. “What the hell did you do?!”

Dylan looked at him, eyes glassy and wild. “They told me, Ty. I get to stay. I get to be free. But I have to eat. I have to finish.”

Tyler turned and ran.

But the warehouse warped around him. Doors became walls. Walls became faces, screaming. The air turned thick, like smoke made of flesh. He tripped, fell, and felt something strike the back of his head. Sparks exploded behind his eyes.

When he woke, he was tied with wire, bleeding from the scalp. Dylan sat nearby, humming. Marc’s body lay beside them—open and emptied, ribs cracked wide like a mouth. Dylan chewed on something. Strings of meat dangled from his lips.

“I’m sorry, man,” Dylan said, his voice calm. “You’re the last piece.”

Tyler screamed, thrashed, and begged. None of it mattered. The hallucinations had twisted Dylan’s mind beyond repair. The last thing Tyler saw was Dylan raising a rusted pipe and whispering, “You’ll taste like home.”

Morning came softly and silently.

Dylan walked through the quiet town barefoot, leaving a trail of red footprints on the pavement. His hoodie was soaked with blood, his hands sticky and trembling. He giggled to himself, mumbling words no one could understand.

The sun was rising as he reached his house. The front door was unlocked, just like always. Inside, everything felt too real—the worn carpet, the ticking clock, the smell of burnt toast from the neighbor’s open window.

He drifted to the kitchen and opened the drawer. The largest knife gleamed back at him. He took it, still smiling.

His footsteps were slow on the stairs. Each creak of the wood matched the beat in his head—a low, rhythmic thud. He passed his parents’ room. They were still asleep. Oblivious.

He stopped outside his sister’s door. Nine years old. Blonde hair. Always wanted to tag along with the boys.

He twisted the knob and stepped inside.

She slept curled up, teddy bear clutched tight. Moonlight painted soft shapes across her blanket.

Dylan stood there for a moment, head tilted.

Then his smile faltered.

The light shifted.

Her eyes opened.

“Dylan?”

He blinked. The blood. The knife. The voice in his head… fading.

He took a step back.

But it was too late.

Something in him had snapped.

He raised the blade.

And the pink smoke whispered:

“Finish the circle.”