Todd, the busboy, floated at the head of the banquet table, arms stretched and toes pointed like a ballerina, hovering inches above the well-worn, muted blue rug. His eyes, glassed over in obsidian, shimmered with specks and dots of far-off nebulas. His jaw stretched unnaturally away from the rest of his face, testing the tensile strength of his anatomy, threatening to tear free from its hinges.

From the young man’s throat emanated a sound, one that, according to scientists, should have been imperceptible at 300 microhertz. It was a vibration so low, so impossibly deep, that it felt like the heartbeat of a dying universe rather than a melody that could be made by vocal chords.

Men and women, ranging in age from sixteen to mid-fifties, bustled around the room like a swarm of ants descending on a dropped pixie stick. Women in black slacks, crisp white shirts, and loosely knotted black ties wove between tables, placing pitchers of water, carafes of wine, and gleaming serving trays. Men in chef jackets and black skull caps unloaded chafing pans brimming with delicacies, steam curling around their arms. Boys dressed in black with half-aprons scurried about, setting up and breaking down sections of the hall. They were busboys, just like Todd.

Despite all the commotion, it was impossible for eyes not to drift back to Todd. His apron fluttered gently, though the air was still, and a mirage-like aura pulsed around him, shimmering faintly. From just the right angle, the distortion gave way to fractals of iridescent, rainbow-like sheens that seemed to spiral off into infinity. But staring for too long came at a cost.

Amber, a bubblegum-blonde teenager, had locked eyes with Todd earlier in the evening. Now, she sat in a corner, rocking back and forth, her lips moving in frantic, incoherent murmurs, her jeans soiled. Jost, one of the chefs, had tried speaking to Todd— an act of hubris. What he saw had driven him to madness so sharp it felt logical. He had calmly snapped the stem off a champagne flute and pressed it into his neck, hot spurts of blood arcing from the wound, painting jagged streaks across the rug where his body now lay.

Camera crews jostled for position, lenses trained on Todd, their operators elbowing each other in a desperate bid for the perfect shot. Field reporters, flushed with adrenaline, rehearsed their lines in low murmurs, each hoping that their coverage of this moment would catapult them into stardom.

Outside, the scene was no less frenzied, though the cameras were pointed skyward. There, in the cold expanse of space, the source of it all loomed.

It took the shape of a man, draped in a flowing shawl that whipped and curled in the invisible winds of the cosmos. Its form, though shaped like flesh, was anything but. It lacked solidity, a being of pure void, reflecting not the nearby stars but far-off galaxies—an impossible depth, an eternal emptiness. To gaze at it was to feel the crushing weight of time and distance, a reminder of how insignificant everything below truly was.

Those who had stared too long at the man-shaped void hanging in the sky met fates disturbingly similar to those who had ventured too close to Todd inside. At first, it was just minor scuffles, with shoving matches and heated arguments breaking out in the crowds. But the tension metastasized. Within hours, the scene dissolved into complete mayhem. There was rioting without cause, looting without purpose, and killing with no discernible end in sight.

Eventually, the authorities made the only announcement they could: “Do not look up.” The order was broadcast across every channel, blasted through radios, and spread through word of mouth. Police and National Guard units swept through the chaos, quelling most of the unrest with batons, tear gas, and orders barked through bullhorns. Slowly, the violence ebbed to a trickle, replaced by an eerie, uncertain silence.

#

All of these shenanigans began in an unlikely place: the observatory at the University of New Hampshire. Two grad students, who would never admit to having indulged in a few beers, snack food, and perhaps another mind-altering substance while on watch, were messing around and joking about their professor.

“In all chaos, there is a cosmos, in all disorder a secret order!” Tom mocked, scrunching his mouth up and deepening his voice.

“You’d think Dr. Robinson came up with that quote himself, the amount of times he’s shouted it at us,” Ross said, taking a sip from his IPA before shoveling more chips into his mouth.

“I wonder how Jung would feel about having his quote carry an entire semester of Planetary Science.”

“I don’t know that he’d care too much. Dude’s been dead for, what, a hundred years?”

A machine beeped violently. Charts and figures scrawled across the screen, while a nearby printer chunked and clunked its way through half a ream of continuous feed paper.

Tom leapt from his seat to analyze the data on the computer screen while Ross unfolded the ever-growing scroll of paper to examine the readout.

“Uhhhhh …” Ross said, sifting through the printout.

“Yeah, dude, not looking good,” Tom muttered, his fingers clicking furiously through data visualizations. He sliced the data in different ways, filtering for outliers so the regression algorithm would provide a level of precision they could trust.

What they saw on the readouts, to the best of their understanding, was a massive increase in radiation, a sudden spike in radio waves, and a shift in gravitational readings.

“It’s like a black hole and a satellite communication appeared out of nowhere,” Tom said.

“Call Dr. Robinson.”

And so, they called Dr. Robinson, who confirmed the readings were not just unusual but alarming. He reached out to NASA, which had also detected the anomaly. NASA, with its advanced instrumentation, was able to paint a more complete picture. Within hours, the White House was briefed, and the Department of Defense decoded the radio waves.

The message was clear as day: “I am the last of the Star-Eaters, and I am here to have my final meal.”

As if the message wasn’t ominous enough, by morning, the giant void-being hovered in the sky, visible to all in the Northern Hemisphere.

Per the usual order of things, the United States assured the world that they would handle the Star-Eater, promising to sate its hunger and send it on its way. It would be wonderful to say the rest of the world was on board with the plan, but frankly, much of the international community doubted the administration’s ability to do anything short of lobbing a nuke at the cosmic entity.

Still, the fear of having that same nuke lobbed in their direction eventually saw most world leaders acquiesce.

The solution, as determined by the U.S. government, their allies, and a panel of the world’s brightest minds—from eccentric tech billionaires to Nobel Prize-winning physicists—was to feed the so-called Star-Eater a banquet of terrestrial delicacies as its final meal. With a swiftness rarely seen from the many layers of government bureaucracy, a banquet hall was secured in a small town in the Hudson Valley region of New York.

Government contractors moved with reckless abandon, cashing in on the blank check handed to them, staffing up and building out the hall in record time. With the help of the military, the world’s best chefs were flown in on cargo planes, helicopters, and whatever other means of transportation could get them there quickly.

#

And so, after all that effort, the world had arrived at this moment, with Todd possessed by the Star-Eater, his biological form serving as its voice to those preparing the last meal.

A bell chimed from somewhere unseen.

Steam curled into the air. The scent of roasted meats, fresh herbs, and rich sauces filled the hall. The finest dishes ever assembled lay in front of the floating busboy, a grotesque centerpiece to the banquet. No one reached for their utensils.

Todd, or whatever was inside Todd, tilted his head as if appraising the spread. His limbs hung loose, weightless, his fingers twitching as though tasting the air itself.

“The generosity of this offering is noted,” the Star-Eater spoke through him. Todd’s lips moved in slow, deliberate motion. The sound was wrong, layered with something beneath it, something ancient and vast, a voice that should not have fit inside a human throat.

No one spoke.

Todd’s gaze drifted to the center of the table, to the first course—a delicate foie gras terrine, encased in gold leaf, glistening under the chandeliers. His wrist bent in a way no human joint should allow, hovering over the dish. It trembled, then vanished, not eaten, not consumed, just … gone. A void where it had been.

The Star-Eater sighed. “The first taste reminds me of the birth-cries of a star.”

A ripple passed through the room. The sommelier stood at attention, gripping a bottle of wine that predated the United States itself. He hesitated. The liquid inside sloshed and curdled. Something in the glass moved, pulsing like an embryonic thing. He poured anyway.

Todd lifted the glass. The wine darkened, taking on a depth that was impossible, as though the glass had become a window into deep space.

“Aged well,” the Star-Eater mused, swirling the void in the glass. “It tastes of ancient regrets.”

Somewhere at the far end of the hall, someone started crying. A soft, broken sound.

The main course was brought out next. Chateaubriand, seared to perfection, plated beside wild mushrooms foraged from the French countryside. One of the sous chefs vomited into a linen napkin as it was set down, his body rejecting some unknown terror. No one acknowledged it.

Todd’s fingers hovered over the steak, inches away, as if absorbing its essence.

“I have eaten the marrow of worlds,” the Star-Eater said. “This is close.”

One by one, the dishes continued. Every bite, every sip, accompanied by a quiet, cosmic judgment.

Todd’s feet touched the ground for the first time since the meal began. His body sagged, limbs unspooling from their unnatural tension. His fingers twitched, uncertain, as if he had only just remembered they existed.

“The meal was … sufficient,” the Star-Eater said, though the weight of its voice had changed. The air didn’t thrum with the same unbearable frequency. Something was receding, unraveling.

A ripple of movement passed through the hall as people dared to exhale. Some slumped in their chairs, eyes hollow, hands shaking too much to lift their glasses. Others sat in stunned silence, utensils still clenched between white-knuckled fingers.

Todd’s head lolled to the side. His jaw, which had hung slack and distended for so long, began to realign with quiet pops and cracks. He blinked once, then again, his obsidian eyes shifting, the far-off galaxies within them beginning to fade.

“I am grateful,” the Star-Eater said.

The words were simple, but they spread through the room like a physical force. Some flinched. Others wept.

Todd gasped, his body spasming as if something had just peeled itself out of his skin. Then he collapsed onto the floor, motionless.

Above the banquet hall, in the sky beyond the glass-paneled ceiling, the void-being stirred.

It had begun to ascend, pulling away from the earth’s atmosphere with a slow, deliberate drift. Its form, still man-shaped, became harder to define, its edges dissolving into something less solid, less real. The last glimmers of far-off galaxies faded into the folds of its flowing shawl.

All over the world, televisions broadcast the moment. The headlines would say humanity had survived. That the crisis had been averted. That, against all odds, the people of Earth had satisfied a cosmic god.

Todd gasped. A sharp, rattling inhale, as if he had surfaced from deep water. His fingers twitched against the floor.

A chair scraped back. Someone whispered his name.

He coughed, shuddered, then rolled onto his side. His eyes, no longer glassy and infinite, blinked rapidly. He looked small now, just a busboy in a crumpled uniform, dazed and hollowed out.

His lips parted. “What … happened?”

No one answered.

The sun still shone.

For eight minutes, the light pressed on, and those below basked in its warmth, unaware that the sun had already been swallowed.