End of the World Influencer [PT5]: The Space Closet, the Space Witch, and the Audacity of This Space B*tch

Adam meets (another) mysterious stranger, Alex vanishes into witch territory, and the closet he’s shoved into might be the least traumatic thing that happens today.

Apr 03, 2025

Cosmic confrontations, uncomfortable truths, and way too many spiders: Your custom curated “Honey, I Harbingered the Apocalypse" playlist.

Part 5 on Spotify

Previously in End of the World Influencer

Part One – The world ended quietly.

Part Two – Something in the closet started watching back.

Part Three – Thalia, the cosmic space witch, entered the chat.

Part Four – Elliot appeared, beautiful, mysterious, and unsettlingly chill.

Where we left off:

“Don’t worry, Adam. You’ll remember who you are soon enough.”

The Space Closet, the Space Witch, and the Audacity of This Space B*tch

My brow furrows, but before I can speak, Alex beats me to it—wearing her signature smirk, the one that says I’m about to get verbally bodied.

“Wow, baby, you just have so many friends I’ve never even heard of. First creepy-beautiful space witch,” she gestures toward Thalia, “no offense,” then swings back to me, “and now scary-beautiful…?”

All eyes shift back to the frighteningly beautiful dude with weird yellow eyes.

“Elliot,” the mystery man offers again with a polite nod. Not smug. Not threatening. Just... chill.

Alright, who the hell is this guy?

Alex throws the first punch. “Okay, Elliot—if that even is your real name,”

“Actually, it’s not,” he replies calmly.

It whiffs.

“My real name is impossible for mortals to pronounce without combusting.”

I blink. “…You can’t be serious.”

The words are out before I can stop them. Of everything we’ve heard—hell, seen—a name that causes spontaneous human combustion really shouldn’t faze me. And yet.

“Deadly,” Thalia chimes in.

Honestly forgot she was still here.

Whatever my face is doing, Elliot clocks it.

“Thalia, darling, why don’t you give Alex a tour of the Crucible?”

My neck whips around so fast I practically sprain it. I go to shoot Alex a look that screams: See? I’m not the only one the hot space witches know by name. So. Ha.

Too late. Thalia and Alex are already gone.

Didn’t even get to finish my expression-gloating. Rude.

When I turn back to Elliot, something tugs at me. A weird, slippery familiarity.

“Come,” he says, voice still dripping in sin. His outstretched arm signaling a direction, and we start walking.

“There’s much for us to catch up on. I feel like it was just yesterday you and I were taking on the galaxy together. But decades don’t pass the same for you as a human, do they? I’ve always wondered…”

I throw up a hand.

“Wait, wait, wait. There is so goddamn much to unpack there.”

Before I can even get to ‘what the fuck do you mean we,’ the ground shudders beneath us. Again. But this time it’s not the Void. It’s... heavier. Hungrier.

Elliot freezes mid-step.

His expression changes—just for a second. Not smug. Not smooth. Something behind his eyes flickers.

Fear.

“They’re here,” he says.

I hate how my stomach drops at those words. Like some part of me understands exactly who they are, even if my brain’s still buffering.

“Who’s here?” I demand. “What do you mean they’re here? Who is they, where is here, what the hell is going on?”

Elliot doesn’t answer. His hand twitches like he wants to grab mine but thinks better of it.

“There’s no time,” he says, already moving. “They must’ve set a trigger—something woven into the stars. You left Earth, and now they know. We need to get you and Alex somewhere safe.”

“Wait—Alex? Where the hell is Alex?”

“She’ll be fine—for now. You, on the other hand…”

His eyes scan the shifting walls, like he’s reading the architecture itself. Then he grabs my wrist—cool, firm, surprisingly soft—and yanks me down a hallway that looks like it was built by someone drunk on geometry and dark matter.

“You’re being super cryptic right now,” I pant as we run, “How about less of that and more answering my question, yeah?”

Still nothing from Elliot. No smile, no snark. Just that same tight, locked-in stare like he’s solving a problem no one else can see.

The hallway twists behind us, warping like it’s trying to rewrite itself around our footsteps. The air thickens. Denser. More electric.

Then I hear it.

A nasty ripping sound, like thick, wet canvas tearing, immediately followed by a low, clicking growl that does not belong in any sane universe.

Elliot jerks to a stop in front of a door that definitely didn’t exist two seconds ago.

“In,” he says.

I look at the door. Then at him.

It’s a closet.

Guess there really is no such thing as being 100 percent straight. Even if you think you are, your post-apocalyptic journey of self-discovery might actually end with you being shoved unceremoniously into a literal goddamn closet.

Fantastic character arc, 10/10, no notes.

“You cannot be serious,” I whine—much like a toddler.

“They’re not here for me,” Elliot says, already yanking the door open like it’s perfectly normal. “They’re here for you. Hide. Now.”

And then—blink—reality outside does something funky. The corridor behind us goes dead silent, unnaturally still. Like someone hit the mute button on the universe.

Elliot shoves me inside – seriously, dude, boundaries – and slams the door just as the temperature plummets. Like, instantly Arctic-levels of cold.

Hey guys, waddup, it’s ya boy. Adam. Currently sweating it out in what I think is a closet but honestly feels more like a potentially sentient, very cramped dimension. Standard Tuesday, right?
Anyway, feels like a perfect time for you to catch your breath before things inevitably get even weirder (and probably louder).
[Click Here] to take a quick detour to the Character Lost & Found while I, uh, continue to contemplate my rapidly diminishing life expectancy. You can peek at:
Alex’s search history. (Hey, don’t look at me like that. Snooping through phones is peak 2018 reddit moderator energy.)
My brilliantly articulated rant typed from this very closet. Turns out, imminent doom is great for sparking creativity. I have things to say, okay?
Elliot’s disturbingly smooth 'personal ad'. Yes, really. Don't ask me why. Or do ask by clicking.
Thalia’s scathing one-star review. (Of what? Or who? The cosmic tea is piping hot, you'll have to see...)
(Don't worry, think of it as hitting pause on the existential dread track! A link at the end of the Lost & Found zaps you right back to this exact spot before the next wave of 'What The Actual Fuck' hits.)

Now, Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Programing.

I flatten myself against the back wall – which feels suspiciously like cheap wood veneer, very anticlimactic – trying not to breathe too loud like some idiot in a slasher flick. My heart's doing a frantic drum solo against my ribs. Through the cheap wooden slats, I see them.

Oh yeah, definitely the ops.

Two figures just… glide in. Like shadows. Creepy shadow…things, moving like they own the damn dimension.

The first one speaks, and her voice… okay, it’s like warm honey mixed with cyanide. Smooth, rich, promising you the world while probably lining up the shot.

“Elliot,” she purrs, like a cat toying with its food. “You are not an easy man to track down, you know.”

Can't quite make out her face, just this slinky silhouette that moves like smoke poured into a corset. And the click-click-click of heels? On what sounds disturbingly like bone? Yeah, that’s fucking creepy.

The second dude? Taller. Angrier. Looks like someone carved him out of a block of obsidian and pure, unadulterated war crimes. Seriously intense energy this dude’s got.

“You know this won’t end well,” he grinds out. His voice sounds like rocks in a blender. An avalanche with a grudge. “Your lust for violence never does.” Apparently, he’s talking to Elliot, not me. Small mercies.

“I’m sure you think you’re clever,” Miss. Smoke-and-Corset—Selene, I think?—purrs again, circling Elliot like a shark. “Hiding him here—and you even brought the girl.”

She really lingers on ‘girl,’ like it’s an insult.

Which, rude. Statistically speaking, if anyone is being dragged around, given an unfair advantage, and protected from the burden of consequence, it’s a man.

“Feeding him crumbs of who he used to be. How romantic.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” Elliot replies, his voice still way too calm, sharp as a razor though. “I’m buying time.”

A beat.

Buying time? For what? For me to improvise something that might slightly inconvenience them before they turn me inside out?

You could cut the ‘someone’s definitely gonna die, probably me’ tension with a knife.

What am I supposed to do, jump out and hit them with a microphone?

Selene lets out that low, musical laugh again. Zero actual humor detected. “Time?” she echoes, like it’s the funniest joke she’s heard all millennium. “Darling Elliot, time is a luxury you’ve just run out of.”

God, I wish Alex were here. She probably has another weapon…and she would absolutely know how to deal with space witch drama.

Before Elliot can fire back with whatever smooth deflection he had queued up, War Crimes McGee—Victor—steps forward, expression pretty readable: pissed the hell off.

He doesn’t say anything; just flicks his wrist, casually ripping a hole in the hallway like tearing open a bag of chips. And the sound that comes spilling out all but instantly makes my skin crawl right off my bones.

Click-click-chitter-click.

Skittering.

Way, way too many legs.

Oh, hell no.

Space spiders.

Not these eight-legged freaks again. And not just one this time. Plural.

They look maybe a bit smaller than the behemoth in the Void, but still got that same charming ‘I want to wear your intestines as a decorative scarf’ vibe.

My breath just stops. Cold, clammy, B-movie panic style. That feeling from the Void—the wrongness, the sheer terror of being prey—slams me against the back wall.

This is some final-boss level shit because what do you mean you’re going to scare me within an inch of my life and then release the goddamn spiders that smell* fear.

*self-correction: attracted to fear. because that makes a difference.

Under the blind panic, something else sparks. Something hot and pissed off.

HOW MANY TIMES ARE WE GOING TO COME BACK TO SPIDERS?! EVERY WHERE. SPIDERS.

THE SHOWER? SPIDERS.

THE VOID? SPACE SPIDERS

THE FUCKING SPACE CLOSET?

Intruders.

Violators.

This stupid, cramped, smells-like-sex closet suddenly feels like my Alamo for whatever reason. All I know?

It's mine.

And then—I don't know how, don't know what I'm doing—something just pushes out from me. No thinking, just pure, protective instinct. It's not like a shove, more like… pure psychic 'GET THE FUCK OFF MY LAWN'. A silent scream of MINE that hits the hallway outside.

Selene and Victor barely twitch, maybe just a flicker of surprise like, 'Did that closet just develop an attitude?'

But the spiders? Oh yeah, they feel it. Big time.

That creepy-ass clicking just stutters. They flinch backward and start doing this weird, jerky leg-twitchy dance like they just licked a nine-volt battery.

Whatever that push was, it’s like I just jammed their 'eat tasty souls' signal or maybe made this particular patch of hallway taste like poison to their freaky spider senses. Like mint.

They hesitate, skittering back, looking genuinely distressed. Huh.

Selene absolutely clocks the spider freak-out. She glances at the closet door, raises one perfect eyebrow.

Victor looks even more pissed off now, probably because his nightmare-fuel got spooked by some random guy hiding in a closet. He takes a step forward—

But Selene puts a hand on his arm. "Enough, Victor," she says, voice cool as ice, but her eyes linger on my closet door for just a second too long.

"The point is made. And… noted." She turns back to Elliot, all business again, that earlier fake amusement totally gone, replaced by something sharp and cold.

"You don't know what horrors you've just unleashed, Elliot," she says, and somehow I feel like she's talking just as much about whatever the hell I just did as she is about Elliot's choices.

"For any of us."

Horrors? You wanna talk horrors, Lady? I'm currently hiding from demon space spiders, summoned by the human embodiment of if the Geneva conventions were a checklist, pretty sure my personal horror bingo card is way more full than yours, thanks.

And poof.

Just like that, they’re gone. Victor vanishes with one last glare that promises pain. Selene dissolves like she was never there. The weird space-rift seals itself shut, sucking the confused, still-twitching spiders back with it. Gone.

Like hitting delete.

Silence slams back in. Feels heavier now, somehow.

The closet door creaks open. Elliot’s gold eyes are gleaming in the dimness like lanterns in a graveyard.

“Are you okay, love?” he asks, maybe just a fraction less casual than before, his gaze kind of sharp, like he’s trying to figure me out.

I practically fall out, stumbling, trying to get my legs working again.

“What the hell was that?” I gasp, trying to get air back into lungs that feel bruised.

Elliot looks at me. Really looks. Like I’m not just some lost mortal he’s babysitting—but something else.

“They weren’t wrong,” he says. “You’ve been asleep for a long time, Adam. But now? You’re starting to wake up. And that’s dangerous. For them. For everyone.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” I snap. And my voice—There’s something new in it. A sharpness. A weight. Elliot actually flinches, just slightly.

I can feel my chest tightening. My skin flushes hot. My hands shake. Time to dial it back.

Breathe, Adam. Reel it in. Don’t get too angry.

Breathe.

I start slow. “What the fuck is going on? Who were those people?”

Elliot exhales slowly. A reluctant truth slipping through clenched teeth. “Our Concord. Bound by sin, severed by betrayal. They’re in charge of making sure you-”

Deep breath, Adam.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice flat. “Did you just say our?”

Elliot doesn’t speak. Just nods.

That same graceful, maddening little nod.

The one that charmed me earlier.

Now it just pisses me off.

“Say something, damn it!”

The words rip out of me—sharp, hot, electric. They don’t feel like words.

They feel like power.

Elliot’s mouth opens almost instantly.

“Humans know us as the Seven Deadly Sins,” he says. “But that’s not entirely accurate.”

Something in the air changes. He isn’t just talking. He’s unveiling.

“All of us,” he continues, “embody sin-based power. But we’re more than that—we’re architects. Forces. Fractured pieces of something ancient. You, Adam, are what they once called Pride.”

The word lands like a bell tolling through my chest.

“You inspire allegiance. Worship. Ego. People fall in line without realizing it—because when you believe something, the world bends to meet it.”

A pause.

“Or it did. Until Envy.”

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