Winner's Curse

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The Winner's Curse
Rajan Verma had spent his entire life dreaming of this moment. The results were in. He had won the election by a landslide. The people had chosen him, chanted his name, and now he stood on the stage, bathed in the golden glow of victory.

As he raised his hand to wave, a sudden chill prickled his spine. The crowd—thousands of them—stood frozen, their eyes empty, their smiles too wide. The applause continued, but their hands never moved.

A whisper slithered through his ears. You are ours now.

He turned to his campaign manager, but the man’s face had twisted into something inhuman—his eyes hollow, his mouth stretched into a grotesque grin.

Rajan stumbled back. The stage beneath him felt sticky. Looking down, he saw the floor coated in a dark, pulsing substance—like veins, like roots, snaking toward his feet.

The crowd’s faces began to melt, warping into one shifting, grotesque entity, their voices blending into a singular, guttural chant. "Lead us. Feed us. Be one with us." The crowd merging into a nightmarish, fleshy mass, with twisted faces forming and disappearing within its surface. A dark, pulsing stage engulfs the terrified politician. As the darkness swallowed him whole, Rajan realized his victory had never been real. He wasn’t chosen to lead. He was chosen to replace. He had no chose and said, I WILL FEED YOU.
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