Blairwood, Three Years Later
The town of Blairwood was small, quiet, and unassuming—a place where everyone knew everyone, and strangers were met with cautious stares. But no one was more feared than John Booker.
It wasn't just the bandages that wrapped his face, hiding whatever scars lay beneath. It wasn't just the way his trench coat hung heavy over his broad frame, or the way his gloves concealed his hands, as if shielding the world from something unspeakable. No, what truly unsettled the people of Blairwood were his eyes.
Black. Empty. Void-like.
People swore that when they met his gaze, they felt something gnawing at their souls, as if staring too long would drag them into a place where light dared not exist. Even those who had seen death up close—the war veterans, the funeral home workers, the hardened criminals—felt an unease settle deep in their bones when John Booker looked their way.
And yet, he was a police officer.
The sheriff had vouched for him, said he had "experience," that he was "capable." No one dared question it. No one wanted to know what kind of experience made a man like John Booker.
Blairwood was an ordinary town. Rows of houses lined the streets, each with its neatly trimmed lawns and welcoming porches. Families lived here, people who worked regular jobs, who worried about bills and school and weekend barbecues. But within this quiet residential neighborhood, one house stood out—not because of its size or design, but because of the way it made people feel.
John Booker lived there.
At a glance, his home was just like the others—a modest, two-story house with a driveway and a small front yard. But something about it was… wrong. The colors seemed drained, the paint muted as if the house itself had given up trying to fit in. The windows were clean, yet somehow darker than the others on the street. There were no decorations, no signs of life beyond the bare necessities.
Inside, his house was unnervingly clean. Everything had its place. The furniture was simple, purely functional. The floors were spotless, the counters bare. There were no pictures, no personal touches. Just order.
John sat in his chair, a glass of whiskey in hand. Not for pleasure. Not to forget. Just a habit, a ritual to remind himself he was still here. The dim light from a single lamp barely touched the room's corners, leaving shadows long and deep. The only sound was the distant crackle of an old record player, playing slow, mournful blues.
He exhaled through his nose, then stood. Moving with the same quiet precision he always did, he walked across the living room, past the kitchen, and down the hall to a door that led to the basement.
The wooden steps creaked slightly under his weight as he descended, the air growing cooler with each step. The basement was empty—at least, to anyone who didn't know better.
John walked to the far wall, where an old wooden cabinet stood against the concrete. He reached behind it, pressing a hidden switch. A faint click, and the wall shifted slightly. He grabbed the edge and pulled, revealing a heavy steel door behind it.
His workshop.
Inside, the air smelled of oil, gunpowder, and metal. Workbenches lined the walls, covered in neatly arranged tools and blueprints. Gun parts were meticulously laid out, each piece cleaned and ready for assembly. Racks of weapons stood against the far wall—modernized versions of the Colt, each crafted with precision.
An AR-15. An M16. A custom 1911. A Glock.
Each one modified, perfected.
John ran a gloved hand over the workbench, his fingers brushing against the cold steel of a disassembled rifle. He didn't just collect weapons. He built them. Improved them. This was his craft, his preparation.
Even though the fire of vengeance had faded from his eyes, he still prepared for the day it might return.
Because deep down, he knew—peace was a lie.
And men like him didn't get to rest.
The Dream
The night sky stretched endlessly above them, speckled with stars barely visible against the bright, flashing lights of the amusement park. The air was thick with the scent of caramel popcorn, fried dough, and the distant tinge of engine grease from the rides that creaked and rumbled in the background.
John stood still for a moment, letting the chaotic, lively energy of the place settle around him. The distant hum of people talking, children laughing, and game attendants calling out to passersby felt oddly comforting.
Then he heard her laugh.
His gaze shifted to Yori, who was smiling as she held onto his sleeve, tugging him forward. She was bathed in the warm golden glow of the carousel lights, her auburn hair catching the artificial radiance like strands of silk. The sight of her—carefree, happy—was enough to soften the usual tension in his chest.
"Come on, John!" she said, eyes gleaming with excitement. "You can't just stand there looking like you're plotting world domination."
A smirk tugged at his lips. "I am having fun."
Yori raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? You don't look like it."
"This is my fun face."
She gave him a playful shove. "Liar."
Her fingers slipped down to his hand, warm and delicate, before she pulled him toward a row of carnival games.
John let himself be dragged along, not that he'd ever resist. When she stopped in front of a ring toss booth, she turned to him with a mischievous smile. "Alright, hotshot. Win me something."
He followed her gaze to the top shelf of the prize rack. A stuffed fox sat there, its large beady eyes staring back at them.
John rolled his shoulders, taking one of the rings. "Easy."
The first ring missed.
Yori covered her mouth, stifling a giggle. "Oh no…"
The second bounced off the bottle.
John exhaled through his nose, narrowing his eyes. This time, he took his time, adjusting his grip before letting the ring fly. It arched through the air, spinning gracefully—then landed with a perfect, satisfying clink around the target.
The game attendant whistled. "Nice shot."
John barely reacted. Instead, he reached up and grabbed the stuffed fox before placing it in Yori's arms. "Told you."
She hugged the prize to her chest, her expression softening. She tilted her head slightly, looking up at him through her lashes. "You really are something, John."
For a moment, he let himself believe in this.
This life. This warmth. This happiness.
But then—
Something shifted.
The sounds around them dulled. The laughter turned hollow. The vibrant colors of the amusement park bled into something muted and lifeless.
A chill crept up John's spine.
His body tensed, instincts kicking in. He turned, and his stomach twisted into a knot.
Osamu Yūreimoto stood a few feet away, his dark eyes shadowed, his expression unreadable. The very air around him seemed suffocating, pressing down like an unseen force.
The moment John locked eyes with him, the world around them burned.
The flickering lights shattered. The scent of sugar and fried food was replaced with smoke and burning flesh. The air was thick, suffocating, wrong.
Yori was gone.
John's pulse hammered in his ears.
Then—fire.
It erupted from the ground, devouring his legs, his torso, climbing hungrily up his arms. The heat was unbearable, blistering his skin, peeling it away in layers of agony.
He screamed.
The pain wasn't distant. It wasn't dulled like a dream. It was real. Searing. Consuming.
Then came the fall.
The ground beneath him gave way, and he plummeted into darkness. The wind howled past his ears, the flames still clinging to his body, eating away at him even as he fell.
He saw Osamu watching him from the cliff's edge. Cold. Unforgiving.
And then—
Impact.
Reality
John's eyes shot open.
His breath came in short, ragged gasps, his chest rising and falling rapidly as if he had actually been burning, actually been falling. His fingers clenched the sheets beneath him, damp with sweat. His throat was dry, raw, like he had been screaming.
The red glow of his alarm clock read:
12:00 AM.
Then came the mechanical beep of his alarm.
He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. His fingertips brushed against the rough bandages wrapped around his skin. Beneath them, the old burns throbbed with phantom pain, as if the fire in his dream had reached through time to remind him it was still there.
The dream was always the same.
It had been three years since he left Japan. Three years since he last saw Yori. Three years since he had walked away from vengeance.
But Osamu still haunted him.
John let out a slow breath, standing from the bed. His body moved mechanically, like a machine going through a programmed routine. He stripped off his sweat-drenched shirt, replacing it with the crisp fabric of his uniform. Belt. Holster. Badge.
His black eyes flickered to the mirror.
A familiar, haunting sight stared back at him—a figure wrapped in bandages, a ghost of who he once was. But it wasn't the bandages that unsettled people. It was his eyes.
Black. Dead. Empty.
They weren't the eyes of a man.
They were the eyes of something that had crawled out of a grave and never truly left.
John turned away.
He made his way to the basement, his boots thudding softly against the hardwood floors. The house was eerily quiet, its walls bathed in cold artificial light. It was a normal house—plain, well-kept, lifeless.
Just like him.
Reaching the basement door, he pressed his palm against the concealed panel, triggering the hidden mechanism. The door slid open, revealing a darkened stairway.
He descended into his workshop.
Rows of weapons lined the walls, meticulously organized. His personal recreation of The Colt sat on a workbench, its modifications gleaming under the dim lighting. Alongside it were variations—an AR-15, an M16, a 1911, and a modified Glock, each crafted to be as lethal as possible.
John reached out, his fingers grazing the grip of the 1911. He closed his eyes for a brief second.
The old fire—the rage, the hunger for vengeance—had died that day in Japan.
But deep down, he knew.
The flames had never really gone out.
His alarm had woken him from the nightmare, but in many ways, he had never truly woken up at all.
With a heavy breath, John turned, heading upstairs.
The streets of Blairwood stretched ahead, bathed in the dull glow of streetlights, their yellowish hue barely cutting through the thick darkness. It was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that pressed down on you, heavy and suffocating, like a weight on your chest.
John sat in his patrol car, one hand on the wheel, the other resting against the cool metal of the door. The radio crackled softly in the background, but otherwise, there was nothing. No movement. No late-night wanderers. Just the emptiness of the town, mirroring the emptiness inside him.
It had been three years since he came to Blairwood. Three years since he left Japan behind. And still, nothing changed.
Everyone feared him.
The residents avoided him, crossing the street when they saw him coming, lowering their voices in hushed whispers as he passed. They never said anything to his face, but he could see it in their eyes—the way they lingered too long on the bandages wrapped around his skin, the way they shuddered when they met his gaze.
His colleagues were no different.
He had seen the way they flinched when he entered a room. The way their conversations died when he stepped into the station. Some officers were better at hiding it than others, forcing smiles, nodding in forced acknowledgment—but he knew.
They didn't trust him.
They didn't want him here.
And he understood why.
It wasn't just the bandages, or the scars hidden beneath them. It wasn't even the rumors about his past, the whispers of what he had done, what he was.
It was his eyes.
They were the one thing the bandages couldn't hide. Those black, lifeless voids that stared back at people like they weren't even human. Like they weren't alive.
He had seen it before—the way a man looked at something right before pulling the trigger, the way a predator locked eyes with its prey before the kill.
And in those rare moments when he caught his own reflection… he realized he had the same stare.
Maybe that's why he took the night shift.
Not just to avoid them. Not just to stay away from their judgment.
But to protect them.
From himself.
His thoughts were cut short when the police radio came to life with a burst of static.
"Unit 47, we've got a reported break-in at Blairwood Elementary. Multiple suspects. Possible vandalism in progress. Any units available?"
John's grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly. His eyes flicked to the digital clock on the dashboard.
12:46 AM.
Blairwood Elementary wasn't far.
He picked up the radio.
"This is Unit 47. I'm closest to the scene. Responding now."
He set the radio back into its holder, flipping on the cruiser's lights. The red and blue strobes reflected off the empty streets, casting eerie flashes of color against the buildings as he pressed down on the gas.
As the car roared forward, his grip on the wheel remained steady, his expression unreadable.
A school break-in.
Just another night in Blairwood.
Just another night alone in the dark.
The Hidden Depths of Blairwood Elementary
John pulled into the parking lot of Blairwood Elementary, the red and blue lights from his cruiser reflecting off the rain-slick pavement. The school loomed ahead, its windows dark, its halls silent. It was the middle of the night—no reason anyone should be here.
Yet, someone was.
Stepping out of the car, he adjusted his gloves and shut the door behind him, his boots making a dull thud against the pavement as he walked toward the front entrance. His presence alone was enough to unsettle people—he could see it in the way the night security guard stiffened at the sight of him, his grip tightening on his flashlight.
The guard wasn't young, probably in his late forties, but the way he looked at John now… it was the same way a rookie cop looked at a corpse for the first time.
Fear.
John didn't blame him.
"Officer…" The man swallowed hard, his eyes flickering to the bandages wrapped around John's face before quickly looking away. "Uh… I, uh, already checked everything. Didn't see anything."
John narrowed his eyes. "Then why was a break-in reported?"
"I—I don't know. Maybe a false alarm?" The guard chuckled nervously. "These old buildings, y'know? Sometimes doors creak open, wind messes with stuff. Maybe a raccoon got in or—"
John wasn't in the mood for excuses.
"I want to see the security footage."
The guard hesitated. "Uh… are you sure that's necessary? I mean, if there was someone here, I would have seen them."
John took a step forward. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to.
"That wasn't a request."
The guard swallowed again and nodded quickly. "R-Right. This way."
He led John inside, down a dimly lit hall to a small security office. The room smelled of stale coffee and old paper. Multiple monitors flickered, showing various parts of the school—hallways, classrooms, the entrance.
John crossed his arms as the guard rewound the footage.
At first, nothing. Just stillness. An empty school.
Then, one of the entrance doors… opened.
By itself.
No one was there.
John leaned forward, his eyes narrowing.
A few seconds later, the door slowly closed again.
The guard let out a nervous chuckle. "See? Just the wind, r-right?"
John didn't answer.
He was already looking at the next part of the footage.
There—Mr. Phibes, the principal, walking through the halls. But he wasn't alone.
A little girl walked beside him.
John's brows furrowed.
What the hell is a kid doing here this late?
The footage showed them stopping at a closet. Mr. Phibes looked around, as if checking if anyone was watching, then guided the girl inside.
The door closed.
They never came out.
John clenched his jaw.
Red flag.
Without a word, he turned and marched out of the office, his boots echoing through the hallway.
The Closet
The air in the school felt heavier now.
John made his way through the dimly lit halls, each step calculated, purposeful.
He reached the closet, his hand hovering over the doorknob for a second before he yanked it open.
Nothing.
Just shelves of cleaning supplies and old cardboard boxes.
John frowned. He had been a marine, a hunter, and law enforcement long enough to trust his instincts—and right now, they were screaming at him. Something wasn't right.
His eyes swept the room.
Then he saw it.
Behind the stacked boxes, a crack in the wall. It wasn't just a small crack—it was wide, jagged, like something had pushed the wall from the other side john entered the crak and then walked for couple of minutes
John stopped and than ran his gloved fingers along the floor. The texture was different here.
Then, feeling along the floor. It was uneven. As if something was beneath it.
His fingers caught on a small groove.
A hatch.
John didn't hesitate.
With a firm pull, the hidden door creaked open, revealing a dark tunnel leading downward. A cold draft wafted up from the depths below.
His grip tightened.
What the hell is this?
Without a second thought, he stepped inside, descending into the unknown.
And as he ventured deeper, the truth revealed itself.
A whole village.
Buried beneath the school.
The Underground Village
John moved like a shadow, his steps light and silent as he navigated the strange underground settlement. His training kicked in—every sense sharpened, every instinct whispering caution. He kept close to the walls, avoiding the lantern light that flickered in the cavernous tunnels. The air was damp, filled with the scent of earth and something else… something old.
His hand twitched.
He cursed himself for not bringing his revolver.
Hell, even his custom Colt would have been better than nothing. What kind of hunter walks into the unknown unarmed?
Idiot.
He let out a slow breath, forcing himself to focus. He had survived worse with less. His eyes swept the area, noting every possible exit, every possible ambush point.
That's when he saw them.
Mr. Phibes.
The little girl—Sidney.
Surrounded.
A dozen—no, more—of those… things. Humanoid rodents, moving unnaturally, their forms blending between human-like shapes and full vermin. The kind of creatures you don't find in textbooks, but the kind he had seen before, in the dark corners of the world where nightmares walked freely.
John's jaw clenched.
Then, one of them stepped forward.
A larger rat-like creature, its form shifting as it moved. Its voice was unnervingly calm, as if this was nothing more than an old conversation.
"Hello, Phibes."
John's hands curled into fists.
The way the rodent spoke… it wasn't just a greeting. It was familiarity. Recognition.
Phibes knows these things.
John stayed hidden, watching. Calculating.
What the hell is going on here?
John's Internal Monologue
This is bad.
I've seen a lot of things in my time—demons, spirits, things that shouldn't exist.
But this? A whole damn village of humanoid rats living under a school? That's new.
Phibes knows them. That's clear enough. But the real question is—what the hell are they doing with the kid?
Sidney doesn't look scared. That's the part that doesn't sit right with me. A child, standing in the middle of a pack of monsters, and she's completely calm? Either she's too young to understand what's happening, or… she's been here before.
Shit.
I should've brought the Colt. Even one silver bullet could—
No.
Now wasn't the time to think about what he should've done.
Focus.
He needed to hear more.
John shifted slightly, pressing himself closer against the cavern wall, listening.
John remained hidden in the shadows, his black, bandaged eyes watching the scene unfold before him. The underground village was eerily silent, save for the murmurs of the humanoid rodents gathered around.
Then, a voice cut through the tension.
"Hello, Phibes."
John stiffened. The voice belonged to one of the larger rats—this one had an air of authority, its beady eyes locked onto the blind principal.
Phibes, standing beside Sidney, remained as unreadable as ever. He tilted his head slightly before responding.
"Delapore, old friend! How are you doing? It's been a while."
Delapore, the rat, gave a slight nod before cutting to the chase.
"Unfortunately, we have to skip the salutations. We've heard about your troubles up above."
Phibes adjusted his glasses. "Hmm, so we do. Yes, it's becoming quite worrying."
Delapore's tone shifted, carrying a weight of importance.
"Which means that it'll soon become quite the problem for you and your people if we don't settle it."
John narrowed his eyes. He had no idea what they were talking about, but the way they spoke—it was clear this was a long-standing issue.
Phibes sighed. "Hopefully, though, things should calm down." He then turned slightly toward Sidney. "Isn't that right, Sidney?"
Before Sidney could answer, another rat suddenly stepped forward, its voice filled with outrage.
"HERESY!!"
The murmurs among the rodents grew louder, tension rising.
"We should've known she'd be responsible for this mess!" another rat hissed.
John's grip on his knife tightened. They're talking about the kid. That's never a good sign.
A third rat, standing beside Delapore, turned to him. "What does this mean for our plan, Delap—"
Before he could finish, another rodent erupted in anger.
"This is pointless! We should do what our ancestors should've done years ago!"
The crowd was turning restless. John could feel it—the shift, the growing hostility. If this went on, it wouldn't be long before things got violent.
Then, Delapore's voice boomed.
"Calm down, everyone! We can't be so rash about this. Especially on that thought alone, dear elder."
The commotion quieted slightly, though tension still lingered in the air.
Delapore then turned his gaze back to Sidney. "As for you, Sidney… what have I told you about using your gift like this? You have to keep it in the dark from those above."
Sidney looked down, hesitant.
"You do remember what we have been trying to do down here, right?" Delapore pressed.
Sidney hesitated before answering. "Yeah… I know."
Delapore's tone grew more serious. "Then you know that what you are doing is putting that plan at risk."
Sidney clenched her fists, her voice barely above a whisper. "I know… I just…"
She looked up, eyes filled with determination.
"I just don't think it's right, Dad!"
John's mind reeled. Dad?
This just got a whole lot more complicated.
Delapore's :"Sidney...
Sidney : I'm sorry! It's just... I just don't see why we still have to hide down here from everyone. And I know you've let me go up to school to make happy and all... but I'm just tired of lying to everyone. We should be living with them, not running."
(A tense atmosphere fills the air as the other rodent-like villagers listen in.)
Angry Rodent:
"Well, aren't you a special little flower?"
"Just because you're the daughter of our leader doesn't mean we're leaving our future to a child!"
(Delapore, showing authority, steps in to de-escalate the situation.)
Delapore:
"I suggest you back off."
"Or what? Y'know, for being our noble leader, you seem to show a lot of weakness!"
John remained hidden in the shadows, his instincts sharp as ever. His years of hunting had trained him to observe, to listen, and most importantly, to wait for the right moment. He cursed himself again for not bringing his revolver or the Colt. Not that a bullet would do much against an entire village of humanoid rodents, but it would've been reassuring to have.
As he watched, the conversation between the rat-like creatures escalated.
Delapore: "What I show is what's keeping us alive!"
One of the more aggressive rodents bared his teeth, stepping forward.
Angry Rat: "We oughta be taking the upper world like we should've done generations ago! They're the ones who built this school on top of our home, after all, and it's only a matter of time before they discover our existence anyway!"
Delapore: "What you're suggesting is that we go to war and betray the upper worlders that have been there for us!"
A new voice chimed in, calm but serious—Phibes.
Phibes: "He does have a point about one thing. I think both you and I know that our races will eventually cross paths. It's inevitable. And we should prepare for when that happens."
John's grip tightened. He had heard speeches like this before. Conflict between different groups, leaders trying to balance fear and survival. He had seen too many fights, too many wars start this way.
Phibes turned slightly, his eyes narrowing.
Phibes: "In fact, we might be doing that sooner than we think."
Then he turned fully, his gaze locking onto something—or someone—behind him.
Phibes: "Isn't that right, children?"
John followed his line of sight and saw them—Erma, Amy, Terry, and Connor. The kids tensed up, realizing they had been spotted.
John, still concealed in the shadows, furrowed his brow. There are more kids down here? He hadn't expected this.
As soon as the rodents close in on the children, their sharp teeth bared and claws poised to strike, John springs into action. His instincts take over—years of hunting the supernatural make his movements fluid, calculated, and merciless.
With a roar, he charges forward, baton in one hand, brass knuckles on the other.
"POLICE! EVERYBODY ON THE GROUND, NOW!"
His voice echoes through the underground chamber like a war cry. The rats freeze for a split second, confused—this was not in their plan. That moment of hesitation is all John needs.
CRACK!
John's baton slams into the skull of the nearest rat, sending it sprawling across the ground, unconscious before it even lands. Another lunges at him—John sidesteps, driving his brass-knuckled fist into its jaw with a sickening crunch. It crumples to the ground, twitching in pain.
The rodents try to swarm him, but John fights like a cornered beast. Bones break under his blows. Sharp claws swipe at him, but his heavy clothing and bandages protect him from most of the damage. He doesn't stop, doesn't hesitate—just keeps fighting his way toward the kids.
Finally, he reaches them, shoving all four behind him with one swift motion.
"Stay behind me. Don't move."
The rats pull back slightly, eyes wide with shock and fear. To them, John isn't just a human—he looks like something else. His entire head is wrapped in bandages, his arms covered as well. His cold, dark eyes stare at them like endless voids. In the dim light, his presence is monstrous.
For the first time, the rodents hesitate.
John tightens his grip on his baton, his voice low and dangerous.
"Alright. Who's next?"