I never expected that one strange night would follow me for the rest of my life. I wasn’t searching for anything unusual. I just wanted to go home, take off my tired shoes, and forget the world for a while. But life has a habit of shaking us awake when we least expect it. 
Cold wind rushed between the tall buildings, carrying late-night whispers and sharp chills. I was crossing the old bridge, steps slow, thoughts heavy. Then — the sound. It was small, trembling, almost afraid to exist. That whisper of pain cut right through my exhaustion. I stopped. My heart thumped louder than the passing traffic.
Instinct pulled me toward the source. I crouched and lifted a rusty metal crate leaning against a parked car. There, curled like a hopeless secret, was the tiny creature. Its body was weak, skin pale, fur barely visible. I couldn’t recognize what animal it was. And then its head lifted — one enormous eye blinking directly at me. No nose. No mouth. Just that one heartbreaking eye. 
Fear made me freeze for a moment. Yet something deeper — compassion, or maybe curiosity — pushed me forward. I wrapped the creature in my scarf and ran home like fate was chasing behind me.
Inside, I placed it gently on a blanket. It shivered, the single eye following my every move. The room felt too silent, too fragile for such a moment. I spoke to it softly even though it had no mouth to reply. And in its lonely eye, I saw a kind of trust that terrified me.
Morning came too quickly. I hurried to the veterinary clinic. The vet examined the creature for a long, heavy minute, then wiped his glasses as if he wished he could erase what he saw.
“This is a cyclops puppy,” he said quietly. “A rare genetic defect. It won’t live long. Its organs aren’t fully… compatible with life.”
He suggested euthanasia. But my heart rebelled against the idea.
“No,” I whispered. “Let me take care of it. Even if it’s just for a moment.”
He sighed, filled a small bottle for hydration, and wished me luck. I carried the little creature home again, feeling like I was holding the last spark of a dying star. 
I named him Cyclops. I held him close to feel his faint warmth against my chest. I talked to him about things that didn’t matter — traffic, work, coffee — just so silence wouldn’t swallow him. Hours passed like slow raindrops. And then… the trembling stopped. His single eye softened. And Cyclops was gone. 
I buried him under a lonely oak near the bridge, wrapped in my scarf so he wouldn’t feel cold. I placed a stone above the grave to mark that a little life existed and mattered.
But the story didn’t end there.
In the weeks after Cyclops’ passing, the bridge never felt the same. Every time I walked by, the air thickened. Sometimes I thought I heard faint scratching beneath the ground. Sometimes I felt watched — as if one large eye was peering straight into my soul. 
One snowy evening, as I passed the bridge again, I stopped. The stone I placed on the grave was gone. The dirt looked disturbed. But there were no paw prints. No wind strong enough to move a heavy stone.
Something inside me said: come closer.
So, with trembling hands, I brushed away a thin layer of soil. My heart nearly split in two — the scarf was gone.
I stepped back, pulse racing. “This can’t be,” I muttered to myself. I scanned the surrounding darkness. Nothing moved… but everything felt alive.
That night I barely slept. My chest felt heavy, like truth was sitting on top of my lungs. Days passed, but my thoughts always returned to the bridge. Had someone found him? Had an animal taken the scarf? My mind tried to be logical — but my heart knew better.
One night, I forced myself to return with a flashlight and courage that already wanted to run home. The river below churned with icy rage. The wind howled like warning. 
Then I saw it.
On the railing of the bridge, wrapped tightly as if gently placed there, was my scarf. Perfectly intact. Not dirty. Not torn. Just waiting. That single detail was horrifying in its tenderness.
My breath froze inside me. I lifted the scarf — and something fell from inside. A small plastic tag. The kind used for tracking pets or wildlife.
There were three words printed on it:
“Prototype Zero – Escaped.”
My fingers shook uncontrollably. Prototype? Escaped? Someone — or something — had been searching for Cyclops. He wasn’t simply a rare defect of nature.
My thoughts were spinning when headlights appeared behind me. A black van rolled to a stop. The door slid open. Three figures in white suits stepped out, carrying metal cases and long scanning devices.
One of them aimed a scanner toward the railing. Red lights flickered. A robotic voice emitted:
“Life signature detected recently. Continue search.” 
I ducked behind a pillar, barely holding my breath. They moved with terrifying precision, scanning every inch of the area. Then one of them spoke, calm but cold:
“If the subject bonded with a human, it may attempt contact again. We’ll wait. He’ll come back.”
They weren’t talking about Cyclops.
They were talking about me.
The wind smashed against my back, urging me to run. I didn’t hesitate. I sprinted into the city, heart exploding with terror, scarf clutched in my fist. I didn’t stop until every sound of the river disappeared behind me.
Now, weeks later, I still feel like I’m being watched. Every time I close my eyes, I see that blinking scanner searching the darkness… searching for me. 
And sometimes, late at night, when the world is asleep — I hear that tiny sound again.
Like a single, trembling heartbeat calling from the shadows.
Cyclops isn’t gone.
And whoever created him…
…isn’t finished.