Boyd was heading back to the sheriff's station after leaving Colony House; his heavy footsteps echoed against the cracked asphalt.
When he reached his destination, he spotted Father Khatri and Frank through the dusty glass. Two motionless silhouettes inside a room that felt smaller than it really was.
He stepped inside, and both of them turned toward him.
Frank was sitting, his hands resting on his knees with an artificial calm that fooled no one. The priest remained standing beside him, his posture rigid, like someone who knew exactly what was coming next.
"Are you absolutely sure, Frank?" Boyd asked one last time.
"Yes."
The answer was simple. Final. There was no room for doubt.
The sheriff took a deep breath and nodded slowly. He stopped wasting time on words that wouldn't change anything.
They went outside, to the side of the station. Several people were already there, forming an irregular semicircle around the Box. No one spoke. The silence was respectful, but also morbid, weighed down by the sick curiosity that always follows executions.
The sheriff stepped forward, his fingers closing around the padlock. He opened the wooden door. The creak echoed far too loudly, a sound that seemed to scrape against everyone's conscience.
He didn't have the courage to look inside. Instead, he turned his eyes toward the horizon.
Frank stared into the cramped interior of the metal structure. The cold walls. The claustrophobic space that would be his final refuge. He began to breathe heavily, his chest rising and falling in irregular motions that betrayed the panic trying to take hold.
Then he thought of them.
Meagan laughing on the swing, her hair flying in the wind. Lauren singing while she cooked.
Determination returned, hardening the muscles that had almost given in to fear.
He walked with measured steps until he stopped beside Boyd. He turned to face him one last time.
"Take care of everyone, Sheriff."
Boyd held his gaze, forcing himself not to look away. "I won't lack commitment."
Frank nodded. There was nothing left to say. He turned and stepped into the Box.
"I'm ready."
The sheriff let out a breath. He closed the door with a slow movement. Metal struck metal. He locked it with a click that echoed like a final sentence.
He turned to the people watching.
"Okay. You can go."
As they dispersed, the whispers began. Low. Quick. Opinions forming, judgments being passed.
Boyd noticed that Khatri hadn't left yet. He remained there, standing like a sentry, watching the Box with a neutral expression that concealed whatever inner conflict he might have been feeling.
Boyd remembered the priest's insistence. The harsh words about guillotines and authority. About doing what was necessary.
He said nothing. He simply turned and started walking toward the clinic, where he would spend the night.
The priest didn't linger either. He cast one last look at the Box before returning to his quarters.
—
At the clinic, the basement had become an improvised refuge.
Jade was going down the narrow stairs carrying a box of supplies, Kenny right behind him with folded blankets. The sound of footsteps echoed through the confined space.
"Hey, man." Jade set the box on the floor with a dull thud. "Any new leads on who threw the rock?"
Kenny stopped, adjusting the blankets into a neat pile. "Not yet. But the sheriff's good at this. He'll figure it out."
"Yeah?" Jade let out a humorless laugh. "I just hope he doesn't offer tea and cookies to whoever killed Tobey. Like he did with Frank."
Kenny tensed. "They're different situations."
"Oh, they are?" Jade crossed his arms, his voice turning sharper. "Frank didn't board up the window out of negligence.
Someone threw that rock in a direct action. In both cases, people died. But the sheriff tried to give Frank a way out."
He paused, his gaze locked on Kenny.
"So explain it to me. What's the real difference? Because to me, dead is dead."
Kenny opened his mouth, then closed it. He went back to arranging the blankets with more force than necessary. He had no answer.
Jade realized he'd hit a nerve. He decided not to push further. At least not tonight.
They brought down the rest of the supplies. Kristi was already downstairs, arranging pillows while talking to Kenny's parents. Tian-Chen smiled gently, replying to something that made her husband let out a muffled laugh.
After everything was organized, Boyd came in, descending the steps.
Kristi turned, her eyes searching his. "How did it go?"
"It's all settled." The answer came out short and dry. He didn't elaborate. He didn't want to.
She got the message and didn't insist.
They arranged sleeping spots. Mats spread across the concrete floor, blankets serving as barriers against the cold.
After a short while, most of them were asleep. The exhaustion from the previous night's events, when no one had gotten a proper night's rest, finally took its toll.
Only Kenny's parents remained awake, speaking softly in Cantonese in the far corner.
—
Back at the Box, Frank watched as the creatures began to approach.
They emerged from the shadows like nightmares taking shape. Their movements were slow, deliberate, savoring every moment of the approach.
Frank began to tremble. Not from cold, but from a visceral anticipation of pain. His treacherous mind started simulating what it would feel like—teeth tearing into flesh, bones breaking.
The worst part was that they didn't attack right away. They started circling him instead, forming a ring that slowly tightened. He grew more apprehensive with every passing second, his heart racing as he heard the slow footsteps in the grass. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
Then the whispers began. Sugary, distorted voices coming from outside. They were unintelligible, words he couldn't make out, but they seemed to scrape against the inside of his skull, making his sanity slip through his fingers.
Frank's despair grew exponentially. He sat down in the center of the Box, his body curled into a fetal position, hands clamped over his head, covering his ears. He began rocking back and forth, murmuring his wife's and daughter's names like a protective mantra he knew was useless.
Until the game ended.
With sudden violence, the wood splintered. Pale, strong hands invaded his refuge.
Frank let out a desperate scream, a raw sound of animal terror, abruptly cut short by the wet sound of flesh being torn from bone.
—
Elsewhere in town, far from the screams near the station, Rick was in his basement.
The space was damp, smelling of mold and earth that never fully dried. He had improvised a bed with old mattresses stacked on pallets to keep himself off the wet floor.
Outside, the creatures' behavior changed.
They were moving in a coordinated way, with a precision that defied their seemingly random nature. They came from different directions, converging on Rick's house like pieces on a board being moved by an invisible hand.
They stopped around the structure, each one taking a specific position. Sometimes one would shift—one step to the left, two back—adjusting the formation with eerie accuracy.
When they were finally in place, something changed.
If someone had an overhead view of the house at that moment, they would see something disturbing: the creatures formed a perfect circle around the structure, each one exactly equidistant from the others. Geometry drawn with monsters.
Then, as if they had received a signal transmitted directly into their minds, at exactly three in the morning, each creature raised its left arm. Halfway up. Palm open, facing the house.
In absolute synchrony.
There was no sound. No light. No flashes. Just the simultaneous movement of a dozen pale arms lifting beneath the indifferent moon.
Inside the basement, Rick slept deeply, his exhausted body finally finding rest despite the throbbing pain in his broken arm.
Then he felt it.
Cold.
It wasn't the normal chill of a poorly insulated basement. It was something different. Deeper.
It started at his feet. A freezing sensation that climbed slowly, inch by inch, as if he were being lowered into a tank.
Rick woke with a jolt, his breath caught in his throat, eyes snapping open.
His instinct was to sit up.
He couldn't.
Pure panic exploded in his chest. He sent the command to his arms, his torso, his legs. Nothing. He was completely paralyzed. Every muscle in his body locked, rigid, as if cemented in place. Not even his fingers responded. Only his eyes moved, sweeping across the lit ceiling in terror.
The cold kept rising, relentless. Past his knees. His waist. His chest. His shoulders.
When the icy wave reached his head, Rick felt as if his brain were being compressed. His teeth gnashed together with a violent, rhythmic staccato, the sound echoing loudly in the basement's silence.
Tears of fear pooled at the corners of his eyes, running hot down his temples and into his ears as he lay there, a prisoner in his own flesh, unable to move, unable to scream for help.
Only a few minutes passed.
But to Rick, it felt like an eternity.
And then, just as suddenly as it began, it ended.
The cold receded like a tide. His muscles unlocked all at once. He managed to sit up with difficulty, breathing hard, air rushing in and out of his lungs in uneven bursts.
Rick wrapped his arms around himself, trying to stop trembling. When he finally calmed a little, his heart slowing from near heart-attack speed to something closer to normal, he noticed it.
His broken arm... didn't hurt anymore.
He blinked, confused, looking at the sling. He moved his arm slightly, cautiously, expecting the sharp, familiar spike of pain.
Nothing.
He increased the movement, rotating it side to side. Flexed his fingers. Bent his elbow. Movements that would have been impossible hours earlier.
No pain. No discomfort.
"What the hell is going on?" he muttered, fear surging back with renewed strength.
This wasn't normal. None of this was normal.
Rick looked around the basement with new eyes. The stacked boxes, the rusted tools, the shadows in the corners. Since arriving in town, he rarely came down there. He figured the strange things happening that night were the place's fault. There was something very wrong with that sublevel.
He needed to get out. Now.
Rick stood, his legs unsteady, and began climbing the wooden stairs slowly, moving backward. His eyes stayed fixed on the dimly lit basement below. He'd seen enough horror movies to know you never, ever turn your back on the space you're escaping from.
When his hand reached the doorknob at the top of the stairs, he twisted it, stepped into the hallway, and slammed the door shut, locking it with unnecessary force. The click of the lock sounded like the most comforting thing in the world.
Rick leaned his back against the door, sliding down until he hit the floor, and let out a shaky sigh of relief.
After a moment, driven by leftover adrenaline, he stood up. He went through the house turning on every light. Living room. Kitchen. Bedroom. Bathroom. He didn't want darkness. Not tonight.
He went to the bedroom window and peeked through the gap in the curtain.
More creatures than usual lingered near the house, but they were already moving away, their slow steps carrying them off.
Probably just patrolling the town, he thought.
The extra talisman the sheriff had given him was still in the basement. It would be better to keep it in the bedroom, but there was no way in hell he was going back down there during the night. It could stay exactly where it was until sunrise made the world a little less terrifying.
Rick yanked the curtains shut, blocking the view of the empty streets. He lay down on the bed and hid under the covers like a frightened child.
—
While Rick lived through one of the worst nights of his life and Frank met his tragic end, a few streets away, inside the motorhome parked on Colony House's lawn, the contrast was absolute.
Daniel was sleeping soundly in his comfortable bed.
His breathing was calm and steady. There was a faint, almost imperceptible smile on his face, as if he were having an incredibly pleasant dream—completely oblivious to the horror, the blood, and the supernatural cold that dominated the town that night.
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