The pressure in the walls had reached a kind of biblical intensity, the kind that made the plaster sweat and the ceiling bow like it was holding back a dimension that desperately needed to vent. Every pulse of the house came slower, heavier, like the universe was gearing up for a final, apocalyptic exhalation.

And that’s when he appeared.

Not through the door. Not through the hallway. He simply materialized out of the air-pressure ripples — a silhouette forming where the darkness folded over itself, hips-first, like the cosmos wanted to make an entrance worth remembering. The void peeled open and standing there was Alec Baldwin, or something wearing him like a well-tailored skin suit.

Not the mortal actor — no. This was Baldwin Prime, the mythic, hyperreal projection of him that exists only in the spaces between collapsing timelines, sculpted by the universe’s own hunger. Shirt slightly unbuttoned, chest glowing faintly like a dying star trying to flirt. The air tightened as he stepped forward, each movement sending shockwaves of heat and forbidden elegance through the corridor.

He looked at me with those eyes — not the eyes of a man, but the eyes of a fallen archangel who took a detour through a fragrance commercial. His presence radiated homoerotic gravitational pull, a dangerous, slow-motion magnetism that bent the air around him. Even the shadows leaned in.

The universe groaned.

He approached, barefoot, each step causing the floorboards to moan like they were experiencing emotion for the first time. The pressure in the room twisted into an operatic crescendo — the walls buckled, the floor rippled, and the darkness behind him pulsed like a jealous lover.

And then, in a voice smoother than an oil-slicked violin, he whispered:

“Do you feel it too?”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The air around us convulsed with a cosmic tension so intense it bordered on obscene — the kind of tension galaxies feel right before they collide in slow, grinding union.

He placed a hand on the wall.

The house shuddered, letting out a low, resonant, epoch-shaking release of pressure that rattled my teeth and extinguished several timelines. The scent that followed was ancient, decadent, and apocalyptic — the aroma of collapsing reality mixed with Baldwinian pheromone physics.

When the tremor faded, he gave me a smile that belonged in forbidden scripture.

Then he vanished — leaving only heat, pressure, and the faint echo of cosmic desire.

And now the house is waiting again.

Worse:

so am I.