On a gray and gloomy day, the sky seemed to press down on the city. In a quiet residential area, one house stood out — surrounded by isolation tapes of different colors fluttering in the cold wind.

All around it, sleek modern vehicles — their metallic surfaces glinting under the faint light — were strategically parked. Men and women in various outfits, some tactical, others more formal, moved around the perimeter, carrying weapons of advanced design and devices that gave off faint blue glows.

From time to time, onlookers passed by on the sidewalk. They’d stop for a few seconds, exchange glances, and whisper uncertain comments about what might have happened there... but eventually moved on, as if the heavy air around that house repelled them.

Rupert stood on the sidewalk, his gaze lost among the heavy clouds that blanketed the night sky. A light drizzle fell steadily, dampening his hair and darkening his coat with moisture.

Between his fingers, the cigarette trembled slightly, flaring in brief orange flashes every time he brought it to his lips. The bitter taste of smoke seemed to be the only thing keeping him grounded.

His eyes were empty — a dull abyss where there might once have been life. There was no anger, no sadness, no fear; only the quiet exhaustion of someone who’s seen too much.

His mind, worn out, refused to dwell on the latest events — on the images that still forced their way back since the moment he’d stepped through that house’s door.

For a while, Rupert kept his eyes fixed on the gray horizon above, expressionless, his thoughts blank. He wasn’t even sure when that numbness had taken hold — perhaps since he’d witnessed the anomalous scene inside.

Since then, he’d simply waited, motionless on the cold pavement, awaiting the next orders that would pull him out of his automatic stillness.

Some time later — maybe just a few minutes — another car appeared in the distance, approaching slowly. Its dark paint and the silver emblem on the door made it clear: reinforcements from the organization. The very ones Rupert had been waiting for since the beginning.

He stayed silent, unmoving, watching as the vehicle drew near, his eyes settling on the figure seated beside the driver. Without hurry, he took one last drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke fill his lungs before releasing it in a long, heavy sigh that vanished into the cold air.

Then, Rupert simply let the cigarette fall and crushed it under his shoe. The ember died with a dry crack, but his eyes remained expressionless, betraying no hint of emotion.

With slow, heavy steps, he approached the car, watching closely as the passenger door opened and a man stepped out, straightening his vest before meeting Rupert’s gaze.

“Hey, you took your time” Rupert said flatly, closing the distance between them.

The man who’d stepped out — Victor, recently arrived — studied Rupert for a moment. He examined his face, his eyes, the way his usual posture seemed to have dissolved into a cold mask of indifference. That alone was enough for Victor to understand, at least partly, how serious the situation was — or at the very least, that everything had gone to hell.

“How bad is it?” Victor asked, keeping his eyes down, his tone detached, masking any trace of emotion.

Rupert shrugged at the question, his expression unchanged, eyes half-closed as if weighing his own words. Then, in a rough, weary voice, he muttered: “Pretty bad... but I’ve seen worse”

Victor didn’t respond. He didn’t ask for details either. That was already part of the organization’s silent routine — a kind of unspoken ritual. Cases like this weren’t rare, but familiarity never made them easier.

“Pretty bad” already carried enough weight among them to mean something far worse than it sounded.

And “I’ve seen worse”... well, that was just a comforting lie — a bit of self-hypnosis to keep moving forward.

Victor said nothing else. He simply tightened his grip on his weapon and crossed the yard of the two-story house, the steady rhythm of his steps blending with the soft rustle of the leaves. When he neared the doorway, something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye — a little girl.

She was surrounded by several members of the organization, her dress stained with dried blood. She held a cup in her trembling hands, but her eyes... her eyes were completely empty — two still, lifeless voids.

The men around her tried speaking, murmuring confused words, searching for any response. But the girl remained motionless, perfectly silent, her gaze fixed on whatever was inside the cup.

“That her?” Victor asked, narrowing his eyes toward the girl surrounded by agents.

Rupert glanced sideways, following Victor’s line of sight. He stayed silent for a few seconds, just studying the scene, then turned his eyes forward again.

“The youngest daughter” Rupert answered calmly, pulling another cigarette from his coat pocket and lighting it with a brief flick of the lighter. A thin spiral of smoke rose between them.

“The only survivor. The parents — or what’s left of them — are in the living room. The older brother’s upstairs. We haven’t touched anything yet” he added, exhaling slowly: “We waited for you to decide how to proceed”

Victor watched Rupert for a moment as he took another drag. With each breath, his features seemed to ease, the tension in his face slowly fading.

At first glance, it looked like just an ordinary cigarette — but Victor knew better. It was one of the organization’s special issue components, meant for moments of crisis.

Its main ingredient came from a peculiar anomaly — a kind of living plant that, when fed with salt water, secreted a dark, viscous substance.

That essence, once inhaled, had the power to cloud the mind and dull emotions, plunging both body and spirit into an artificial calm—almost hypnotic. In short, it was a manufactured peace—and sometimes, the only one left.

“What did the organization decide?” Victor asked, turning his gaze toward the house’s front façade, his expression tense and focused.

He hadn’t realized it right away, but from the very moment his eyes landed on the house, Victor felt an unease that was hard to put into words—a kind of dark premonition.

The anomalous power he had received from the [Angel of Death] whispered within him, warning that something about this place was wrong. Unfortunately, he still didn’t know what it was.

“This place is giving me the creeps” Victor muttered, his voice thick with discomfort as a faint shiver ran down his shoulders.

Rupert, who hadn’t caught Victor’s last words, simply answered the previous question about the organization’s decision: “They’re... still deciding. From what I’ve heard, no one knows what the right move is here. Everything just feels... off. Even if we wipe her memories, everyone’s got this feeling that the guilt will only get heavier afterward”

For the first time, Rupert’s voice faltered. There was a barely perceptible trace of hesitation in it—and hidden beneath the calm tone, a rare hint of genuine emotion.

Victor understood perfectly why the organization was still undecided. Depending on how they acted, public opinion could turn completely against them—and this time, it wouldn’t be so easy to sweep everything under the rug like they had before.

Still, that indecision wasn’t what truly bothered him. What puzzled him was the fact that the little girl was still alive. Why? Whatever that anomaly had been—a force, a creature, or something beyond human understanding—it had left everyone else dead except her.

Why only her? Why her, of all people? There had to be something behind it, Victor was certain. No event that selective could ever be mere coincidence.

For a moment, he pushed aside the storm of thoughts building in his mind and moved forward, crossing the threshold of the house. With every step, the air grew heavier, and that uneasy feeling—the sense that something terrible would happen if he dared go any further—tightened its grip on him like a whisper in the back of his mind.

When he reached the door, Rupert right beside him, Victor placed his hand on the doorknob. For a brief second, he hesitated—the silence around them felt thicker than air. Then, with a slow turn, the door creaked open.

The hallway beyond was narrow and plain, a few shoes scattered near the wall and jackets hung up in a hurry.

Victor stepped inside, and with every movement, a strange smell—something between mold and iron—grew stronger. The feeling that something was wrong swelled inside him, as if the house itself were watching.

He kept ignoring that creeping sensation as he made his way toward the living room. But as soon as he crossed the doorway, his eyes flickered for an instant, and the indifference on his face shifted into a faint grimace.

The scene before him was a vivid nightmare—a full-blown crime scene. Thick, black blood bubbled across the floor, splattering walls and furniture, while fragments of human bodies were scattered and stuck throughout the room.

The air carried a nauseating metallic stench, too heavy to breathe. At that point, it was impossible to tell what had belonged to the father and what was left of the mother.

“Like I said...” Rupert muttered, pausing briefly as he stared at the scene: “Pretty bad”

Victor didn’t answer. He just stood there, heart pounding fast, overwhelmed by that same gnawing sense that something was deeply, fundamentally wrong. He couldn’t pinpoint what bothered him, nor explain the strange unease crawling beneath his skin.

He stayed still for a few moments, scanning the room in silence. That’s when he noticed: the lights were still on, casting their warm glow across the walls—but something about the shadows didn’t add up.

The corners of the room looked darker than they should have been, and even where the light reached, there was a subtle distortion—as if the shadows refused to obey the laws of the place. Victor couldn’t explain it. He could only feel it.

The sense that something was wrong grew stronger—subtle at first, then sharper, heavier, almost suffocating. Every step echoed too loudly. Every sound felt out of place.

Victor tightened his grip around the handle of the weapon strapped to his back, muscles tense, ready to draw at any second.

But even the cold touch of metal brought no comfort. The unease lingered, thickening in the air, as if something unseen was watching him—waiting for the right moment to reveal itself.

Seconds later, a sharp chill ran down Victor’s spine, as though the air itself had turned to ice. The sudden cold made sweat bead on his forehead, sliding down in thin lines as his fingers clenched tighter around the weapon’s steel frame.

“Damn it... I hate when I get this feeling” he muttered under his breath, so quietly that even Rupert, standing right beside him, couldn’t hear.

Victor took a deep breath, trying to hide the nervousness that made him tremble inside: “Things never end peacefully when I get these feelings” he finally said, this time loud enough for Rupert to hear.

Rupert, who was standing nearby, cast a quick glance in Victor’s direction. Noticing it, Victor tried to play it off — a nervous smile flickered at the corner of his lips, weak and forced, a futile attempt to hide the anxiety tightening his chest like an invisible fist.