[INT. YOUR LIVING ROOM – NIGHT]
CRASH! The front door bursts open—splinters fly—a trench-coated man collapses face-first onto the floor, reeking of smoke and brimstone.
The Spectre, your cosmic buddy, floats above the body, arms folded, tilting his head with theatrical disdain.
THE SPECTRE: “Well, either he’s the mailman... or the apocalypse just got stylish.”
The man groans, eyes shut—but his eyes, when they twitch open, are black as the void.
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