Sophia had managed to suppress Angelo's powers—but not completely. His strength and regeneration remained, dulled, like a blade sheathed in cloth. Days passed, and Angelo recovered slowly, adjusting to the strange quiet within himself. The whispers that once clawed at his mind had quieted, though they had not vanished entirely.
A week later, Sophia returned. She moved with purpose, silent and composed, like someone walking a tightrope stretched between fear and determination. She examined the seal etched onto his chest and the shifting marks coiling along his back.
"It's stable," she murmured. "For now." She added another layer atop the first, each motion deliberate, each word careful, like part of a ritual. Their conversation was brief; her presence spoke more than speech. Then she left.
The next week, the pattern repeated. Sophia's visits became part of their lives, steady and unintrusive. And gradually, something unexpected happened: Angelo began to open up.
At first, it was small—comments, questions, quiet reflections. But slowly, the dam broke. He spoke of dreams bleeding into waking life, of whispers that no longer screamed but sang—soft lullabies in a language that should not exist. He described shadowed figures at the edges of sleep, watching him with eyes that bled. Sophia listened with a stillness that unnerved the room.
Then she asked, "Have any of your family members ever experienced anything like this?"
Angelo thought for a long moment, then shook his head. "No. I never heard anything."
Sophia noted it carefully, her brow furrowed. "If it wasn't inherited… then where did it come from?"
Angelo hesitated, scratching the back of his head. Then, as though a puzzle piece had slid into place, he answered: "I'm actually not blood-related to any of my family."
A pause hung at the doorway. Olivia, holding a trembling cup of tea, stepped into the room, her expression unreadable at first. "We didn't plan on telling you this," she said softly. Sophia looked up, silent. Olivia placed the tea near Sophia and sat beside Angelo. "Do you want to know how we found you?" she asked gently.
Angelo glanced at her uncertainly. Sophia spoke, her voice careful: "I shouldn't come between this, but it might give me pieces to solving this mystery."
Still hesitant, Angelo nodded. "Alright. If this can help in any way, I'll listen."
Olivia inhaled deeply. "It was a normal day, like any other. Alex, James, and I were returning from visiting a relative outside of town. Suddenly, everything went dark, like nightfall. The sky swelled with clouds that appeared from nowhere."
She looked at Sophia, her voice trembling, quiet but sharp. "Alex claimed he heard a cry. I didn't. James didn't. Only Alex. When we reached the old rundown park, the car broke down. Its doors unlocked on their own, and Alex ran straight into the park. We followed… and there he was. Angelo. A baby. Alone on a park bench in the middle of a thunderstorm. Crying."
Tears threatened to fall. Olivia's voice softened. "When we found you and brought you into the car, you stopped crying—and the rain eased. Then James managed to fix the car."
She smiled, a fragile mix of pain and love. "Even if you're not my blood… you're still my son. I've never loved you any less. Never."
Angelo blinked, a warmth stirring in his chest, fragile but insistent. He leaned into her embrace, and she held him as if afraid letting go might break him.
He glanced at Sophia. "Did you learn anything? Anything that might help?"
Sophia paused, thinking carefully. "I have some theories… but I can't draw conclusions with just this information." She remained silent a moment, then added, "I'll keep searching—for what it is, and for a way to fully seal it. There has to be something. Somewhere."
Her words were a quiet torch in the dark. As she gathered her tools, Angelo found himself observing her—the way she moved, the quiet strength she carried like armor. He had never noticed before, but now he did: she was beautiful. Not just her face. Her presence. Her purpose.
Not everyone in the room shared his admiration. Alex stood in the hallway, arms crossed, silent. He said nothing, but his eyes—sharp and guarded—never left Angelo. He had seen the blood in Angelo's room. The marks on his skin pulsed like breathing wounds.
He didn't hate him.
But now… he was starting to fear him.
Fear, what his brother might become.
And it grew silently, like a seed in darkness.
Beyond the Walker household, beyond the quiet borders of Silverton, the world had ceased to be the world it once knew.
The first breakout had shattered the fragile illusion of safety.
Creatures born from nightmare now slithered through the cracks of reality, crawling into every corner humanity had once called home. Cities burned. Towns fell silent. The old order collapsed beneath the weight of the impossible.
Governments stumbled, fractured, and vanished into radio static.
What remained of humanity learned the truth — the world had changed its rules.
But humanity did not die quietly.
Soldiers fought. Scientists worked without sleep. Engineers rebuilt weapons once meant for war into tools for survival.
And at first — they won.
The early monsters bled and died like anything mortal. Fire tore through their hides. Steel and lead tore them apart. Humanity rallied behind the first victories, believing it had found a way to fight back.
Then, some of the fallen began to rise again.
Changed.
Smarter.
Faster.
Their bodies hardened against the very weapons that once tore them down.
Not all of them — only a fraction. But that fraction was enough.
The balance shifted.
What followed was not extinction, but a stalemate painted in blood and smoke.
Every battle was won at a cost too steep to celebrate.
Every victory bled into another loss.
Desperate, nations unleashed their most powerful weapons — bombs meant to end wars, not save the world. The skies turned white, the ground peeled apart, and the air itself screamed. The monsters caught in those blasts were erased completely… but so were entire cities.
For the first time, humanity realized it could kill them.
But at a price too unbearable to pay again.
So the great weapons were locked away, guarded like relics of a sin that could never be repeated.
And the world descended into a brutal rhythm of survival — cities turned to fortresses, borders turned to walls, and every child born learned the sound of distant gunfire before their first words.
The monsters adapted slowly. So did humanity.
They watched each other, learned, adjusted.
The line between hunter and hunted blurred into the endless gray of endurance.
Yet, in the chaos, something began to shift — quiet, unspoken, unnoticed.
Across continents, reports whispered of creatures moving in strange patterns.
Groups that once roamed freely were now traveling in a single direction.
No one could explain it.
No one could see the pattern for what it was.
But all of them, cautiously, were converging — slowly, inexorably — toward one place.
Silverton.
And amid the ruin, others appeared.
The Watchers.
They stood atop the wreckage of civilization — motionless, imposing, their presence suffocating. Some perched on the remains of skyscrapers; others sat in the middle of abandoned highways, heads tilted toward the horizon.
Even the creatures of nightmare kept their distance, slithering and prowling around the Watchers but never approaching.
They never attacked.
They never interfered.
They only watched.
Their eyes glowed like dying stars — infinite, patient, and cold.
Scientists called them anomalies.
Soldiers called them omens.
Everyone else just whispered one truth:
"If the Watchers act, no one could predict what would happen."
No one knew if they would ever move.
If they were judges, predators, or something beyond all reason.
And so the world waited.
Fought.
Survived.
Rebuilt where it could.
And prepared.
Because in a world where even death learned to adapt, hope was fragile —
but it was all that remained.