Elloysa's bedroom was submerged in an uncomfortable dimness, lit only by the faint glow of the desk lamp on her desk. The digital clock, resting beside a few schoolbooks and video game controllers, read 03:58 in red numbers that seemed to pulse slowly, like a silent warning.
Six hours.
Six hours since Mary had left, saying she wouldn't take long.
Six hours of silence.
Six hours in which every minute felt heavier than the last.
Elloysa sat on the edge of the bed, hugging her legs to her chest. The wrinkled pajamas and messy hair made it clear she hadn't slept for even a second. Her gaze was fixed on the bedroom door, as if she expected the doorknob to turn at any moment and everything to go back to normal.
Davincci leaned against the opposite wall, sitting on the floor with his back resting against the bed. He fiddled with his phone without really paying attention to the screen, scrolling automatically, trying to distract his mind. From time to time, he glanced at Elloysa, clearly noticing that something inside her was slowly breaking.
— She should've been back by now… — Elloysa murmured, her voice low, almost hoarse.
Davincci took a deep breath before answering.
— Your mom has stayed out late before, remember? Sometimes events run long… or she decided to talk to someone afterward…
Elloysa let out a short, humorless laugh.
— Not like this. Not without texting. Not without calling. — She shook her head nervously. — This isn't right, Davincci. It's not.
She stood up suddenly, as if she had finally made a decision she'd been postponing for hours. She began pacing back and forth across the room, running her hands through her hair repeatedly.
— I can't just sit here anymore. — She stopped abruptly and looked at him. — I'm going out. I'm going to look for her.
Davincci stood up almost instantly.
— Elloysa, no. — His voice came out firmer than he intended. — You heard what the principal said today. The government, the disappearances… going out now is basically asking for trouble.
— I can't just stay here waiting! — she snapped, her eyes shining with anger and fear. — What if something happened to her? What if—
— And what if something happens to you? — Davincci cut in, stepping forward. — Do you think your mom would want that?
Elloysa looked away for a second, swallowing hard. But the hesitation didn't last long. She went to the bedroom door and grabbed the jacket draped over the chair.
— I'm going out, Davincci. With or without you.
She opened the bedroom door and walked down the dark hallway of the house. The silence inside felt heavier than ever, broken only by the distant sound of a car passing on the street.
Davincci stood still for two seconds, his heart racing, his mind screaming at him to stay. But his body moved on its own.
— Wait. — He grabbed his sneakers in a hurry. — I'm going with you.
Elloysa stopped at the front door, surprised for a moment, then nodded silently. She didn't thank him. She didn't say anything. She simply opened the door and stepped outside.
The street was strangely empty.
Streetlights cast yellowish circles onto the asphalt, creating long shadows that seemed to stretch too far. The cold dawn wind made the trees sway gently, producing a constant rustling that made everything feel even more unsettling.
Elloysa walked quickly, determined, looking to both sides of the street as if expecting her mother to appear from any corner at any moment.
— We should go back — Davincci insisted, walking beside her. — At least wait until morning. Or call the police.
— The police are probably busy with worse things — she replied without slowing down. — And waiting won't bring my mother back.
They turned a corner. With every block, Davincci felt a tighter knot in his chest. It wasn't just normal fear — it was that strange sensation he'd had ever since the first news reports on TV, as if the air itself was different, heavier, more… wrong.
— Elloysa, please… — he tried again. — If anything shows up, if we hear anything strange, we run. Promise?
She took a deep breath, finally slowing her pace.
— I promise. — she said, without looking at him.
But Davincci didn't feel relieved.
The laboratory was far from silent.
The constant hum of machines, the rhythmic blinking of artificial lights, and the distant sound of automatic doors opening and closing created a clinical, almost suffocating environment. It was early morning, but inside those walls, time seemed not to exist.
Commander Hamilton stood alone in the main research room.
In front of him, separated by a thick wall of reinforced glass, lay the body of the creature designated Y119. The entity rested on a metal gurney, restrained by mounts and containment straps. Its dark, uneven skin looked rigid, almost like burned leather. No visible breathing. No movement.
Hamilton held a tablet in one hand and a printed report in the other. His eyes moved back and forth between the data and the body, his expression growing increasingly tense.
— It doesn't make sense… — he murmured.
He scanned the records: residual energy levels, absence of conventional vital signs, internal structures incompatible with any known organism.
But something else bothered him more than anything.
— Multiple perforations… — he read quietly. — Extreme trauma… partial removal of neural tissue… and still…
Hamilton raised his gaze to the creature.
— No immediate death.
He stepped closer to the glass, studying the neck area where the stab wound had been inflicted. A dark crust covered the spot, something between dried blood and an unknown substance.
— Michael was right… — he whispered.
He placed a hand against the glass, serious.
— It's not like a human. It's not like an animal. — His eyes narrowed. — The only thing that actually stopped it… was blood loss.
Hamilton took a deep breath, a chill running up his spine.
— If tearing off the head doesn't kill it… — he murmured to himself. — Then what else doesn't work?
For a moment, the silence seemed to deepen. The commander stood there, staring at the motionless creature, as an unsettling idea formed in his mind.
He took a step back, jaw clenched, and spoke almost in a whisper, as if afraid of being heard:
— This thing… — his eyes never left Y119's body — is it really dead?
The camera would slowly pull away, leaving Hamilton small before the reinforced glass… while the creature remained motionless, silent… and dangerously ambiguous.
The laboratory stayed awake, even as the rest of the city slept, unaware of what was beginning to move beneath its surface.
The cold ceiling lights illuminated the main research hall with an almost overly artificial brightness, leaving everything pale, clinical, impersonal. Y119's body remained motionless behind the reinforced glass, lying on the metal gurney like a research object… but the feeling it inspired was anything but harmless.
Hamilton was still staring at the creature when he pressed the communicator attached to his shoulder.
— Michael. Main room. Now.
There was no immediate response, just a brief burst of static. Seconds later, the automatic door slid open with a soft pneumatic hiss, and Michael entered, adjusting his glasses as he walked in hurriedly. The exhaustion was evident on his face: deep dark circles, a slightly wrinkled shirt, the expression of someone who had been operating beyond his limit for hours.
— Commander — he said, approaching. — I got your call.
Hamilton didn't take his eyes off the body.
— I want answers. — His voice was low but firm. — Clear answers. This thing… — he nodded toward Y119 — didn't die the way it should have.
Michael took a deep breath, crossing his arms as he also studied the creature.
— Because it isn't just physical — he replied. — In fact, that's only a small part of what it is.
Hamilton finally turned to face him.
— Explain.
Michael hesitated for a moment, as if organizing his thoughts.
— Based on what we've analyzed so far, these entities possess an extremely active spiritual core. The body… — he gestured vaguely — is just an anchor. A vessel. They don't follow normal biological rules.
Hamilton frowned.
— So gunshots, fractures, decapitation…
— Don't guarantee immediate death — Michael finished. — In some cases, they have no effect at all.
He walked over to a nearby screen and activated it. Graphs, thermal images, and non-human anatomical diagrams appeared.
— The only constant we've found so far is blood loss. When the body loses enough fluid, the bond between the physical and the spiritual breaks temporarily… or permanently.
— Temporarily? — Hamilton repeated, grim.
— It depends on the injury — Michael replied. — Some wounds cause the blood to simply… not flow. Others trigger regeneration so fast that bleeding stops within seconds.
Hamilton slowly clenched his fists.
— So we're dealing with something that can adapt to damage.
— Exactly.
The silence that followed was heavy.
Hamilton paced a few steps, rubbing his face.
— And weaknesses? — he asked. — Every living thing has one.
Michael nodded slowly.
— There's a possibility. — He tapped a few commands on the screen. — Carbon.
Hamilton stopped.
— Carbon?
— Yes. — Michael pointed to the data. — But not just any carbon. The research suggests the material only causes real damage when it reaches an extremely specific density.
He zoomed in on a graph, showing a precise curve.
— The closer it gets to this value… — he explained — the more effective the damage to the creature's structure. Outside that range, the effect drops drastically.
— So conventional ammunition won't work — Hamilton concluded.
— Not reliably — Michael confirmed. — We'd need alloys or projectiles with near-surgical control of density.
Hamilton let out a heavy sigh.
— Great… we're at war with something that requires precision math just to die.
Before Michael could respond, the door to the room burst open.
A third man rushed in, visibly out of breath. Mark, another scientist on the project, held a tablet with trembling hands. His face was pale, eyes wide.
— Commander — he said, barely catching his breath. — Something happened. Something big.
Hamilton turned immediately.
— Talk.
Mark swallowed hard.
— A… massacre. Literal. — He swiped across the screen, and images appeared: ambulances, red and blue lights, bodies covered with thermal blankets outside a building. — A concert venue. Full audience.
The air seemed to grow heavier.
— How many victims? — Hamilton asked, already knowing the answer wouldn't be good.
— We don't have an exact number yet — Mark replied. — But it's… high. Very high. And the injuries…
He hesitated.
— They match the pattern we saw in Y119.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Hamilton closed his eyes for a second. Not from exhaustion, but from understanding.
When he opened them again, his expression had changed. There was no more doubt. Only resolve.
— Michael — he said, his voice firm and authoritative — activate all available forces.
Michael's eyes widened slightly.
— All of them?
— All of them. — Hamilton didn't blink. — Tactical police, armed forces, special units… and SWAT.
Michael nodded quickly and left the room almost running, already speaking into his communicator.
Hamilton turned back toward the reinforced glass, staring at Y119's motionless body one last time.
— So it's begun… — he murmured.
Behind the glass, the creature remained still, without a single movement.
But for the first time, no one there was sure that meant safety.