Rumble. Rumble.
Thunder roared like a beast unleashed, and lightning flashed violently, illuminating the room in jagged bursts of white.
"No… no… nnnno…"
Isaac murmured, tossing and turning on the bed. Sweat glistened on his face, his breath shallow and erratic.
"No… noo…"
"Doomar…"
A voice echoed in his mind—low, ancient, and full of warning.
"No… no…"
DOOMAR!!!
"NO!!"
Isaac's eyes snapped open. He shot upright, gasping for breath.
Rumble. Rumble.
The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamps. Shadows danced across the walls.
He looked down at his hands—and froze.
Blue, grizzly veins pulsed beneath his skin, glowing faintly like something alive. Something wrong.
He turned to the side—and his breath hitched.
Patricia stood frozen, a towel clutched in her hand, her eyes locked on his glowing veins. Her face was pale, stunned into silence.
Isaac tried to speak—but the words wouldn't come.
Rumble.
"Aaah…"
Isaac yelped as a skull-splitting pain surged through his head.
Patricia rushed to his side, gently cradling him.
"Hey… hey… easy… easy…" she whispered, easing his head back onto the pillow.
"It's okay. Just breathe. Easy…"
She dipped the towel into the bowl, squeezed it, and began dabbing his forehead with slow, soothing strokes.
"Sweeches… I…" Isaac tried to speak, his voice strained.
"Shhh… don't say it. Don't say anything."
Her voice was soft but firm.
"At least not now."
She dipped the towel again, continuing to cool his fevered skin.
Isaac reached for her hand, gripping it weakly.
"No… no… we… need to talk… we…"
His breath came in gasps.
"Please… not now."
She leaned closer.
"I promise we'll talk. Just rest. Sleep. We'll talk soon, okay?"
Isaac stared at her for a long moment. Then his breathing slowed, and the darkness pulled him under.
Patricia waited, watching his chest rise and fall. When she was sure he'd drifted off, she gently lifted his hand.
The grizzly blue veins were gone.
Only his pale, creamy skin remained.
She tucked his hand back beneath the blankets, gave his forehead one last dab, and placed the towel back in the bowl.
Then she stood, quiet and deliberate, and walked to the desk. She picked up her phone and moved to the window.
She dialed a number.
"We need to talk."
....
Later, in Patricia's study…
The room felt suffocating, as if the air itself had thickened with tension. And not just any tension—volatile, pressurized, ready to ignite.
Davis rubbed the backs of his palms, trying to steady himself as he stared at the lioness across from him. When he got her call, he knew something was wrong. But he hadn't expected this.
He cleared his throat, trying to cut through the silence.
"I'm here. You said you wanted to talk. So… what's up?"
Patricia leaned forward, locking eyes with him.
Davis flinched. There was fire behind her gaze—controlled, but burning hot enough to scorch him alive.
"Agent Hammock," she began, voice low and lethal,
"there are two things I hate most in this world. One: secrets that involve me or the people I love. Two: lying scum who spit nonsense in my face without shame."
She leaned in further, her voice sharpening.
"I don't tolerate either. Not even a little. If you want to see my bad side—really want to see it—try me. Just once."
Davis swallowed hard. The fire in her eyes wasn't just anger—it was grief, fear, and rage all braided together, threatening to consume him if he said the wrong thing.
"So this is your first and final warning."
She paused.
"I'm going to ask you a question. I won't ask it again. So you'd better tell me the truth."
She leaned in, her voice trembling now—not with weakness, but with urgency.
"What happened in Costa Rica? What the hell did you find there? Tell me."
Tears pooled in her eyes, threatening to fall.
"Please…"
Davis felt the weight of her plea. The pain in her voice. The desperation in her eyes. He wanted to tell her. God, he wanted to. But he was under strict orders. The Costa Rica mission was a ghost op—classified beyond top secret. No one was supposed to know the WFAB had even been there. The risk of exposure was too high.
And Isaac… Isaac would roast him alive if he said a word.
Still, Patricia wasn't just anyone. She was an ally. A friend. And right now, she was a woman trying to save someone she loved.
He was trapped.
Patricia read the conflict on his face. She knew he was bound by protocol. But after what she'd seen—after what Isaac was going through—she needed answers. Answers that might save his life.
She exhaled sharply, then stood.
"Follow me."
Without another word, she turned and walked out of the room.
Davis hesitated… then sighed and followed.
They reached Isaac's room.
Patricia paused at the door, steadying her breath, her emotions coiled tight beneath her skin. Then she opened it.
The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamps.
Davis's eyes widened at the sight of the pale figure beneath the sheets. He rushed to Isaac's side. Sweat glistened on his face, his breathing shallow. He murmured incoherently, tears slipping from closed eyes onto the pillow.
Davis turned to Patricia, his gaze questioning. She stood silently, her expression solemn.
"He collapsed. A couple of hours ago," Patricia said softly.
"The doctor said… he hasn't been sleeping well. Something's keeping him awake. Something they can't identify."
She moved closer, took the towel from the bowl, squeezed it, and gently dabbed his forehead.
"Without a traceable cause… his brain will develop a tumor…"
Her voice cracked.
"He's going to… to… he's going to die."
Tears slid down her cheeks.
Davis exhaled sharply, gripping the headboard for support as his strength faltered.
"No… it can't be… it can't…" he muttered.
Patricia turned to him, her voice firm despite the tears.
"Well...it is happening, Davis. Isaac is dying. He's suffering—and no one knows why. Unless you tell me what happened in Costa Rica. What did you find? Please… help me save him. I don't want to lose him. I know you don't want to lose him either."
Davis looked at her tear-streaked face, then at Isaac—pale, trembling, lost in pain. Lightning flashed outside the window.
He knew what he was about to do broke every protocol. But for Isaac. His best friend… he had to.
He sighed and met Patricia's gaze.
"We found a box. In Blake's mansion."
His voice was low.
"It was locked in a hidden safe."
Patricia frowned.
"A box? What kind of box?"
"In truth...something we've never seen before. Isaac was the first to touch it. Ever since then…"
He glanced at Isaac.
"He complained about having skull-splitting headaches. Sleepless nights. At first, I thought it was from the blow to the head—when the goons slammed him into the jeep door. The same ones who set the place on fire and nearly killed us. But now… I think it was something else."
Patricia ran a hand through her hair, frustration mounting.
"Oh my god…"
She turned toward the window, hands on her hips, then faced him again.
"Where's the box now?"
"At the lab. Experts are examining it. But… we still don't know how to open it. Or what's inside. We're guessing…"
He hesitated.
"Guessing what?" Patricia demanded.
Davis swallowed choosing his words carefully.
"That it is...extraterrestrial. Alien. Something not of this world."
Patricia gasped, the image of Isaac's glowing blue veins flashing in her mind.
"Something from out of this world…" she murmured, eyes locked on Isaac.
Davis saw the horror on her face.
"Don't worry, Patricia. We'll find answers. We'll get to the bottom of this. We'll save him. I promise."
Patricia's voice was barely a whisper.
"Chronalis…"
"What?" Davis asked, startled by the word.
"Chronalis…" Patricia repeated, her voice low and haunted. She turned to face him.
"I got a strange call… a few hours ago, while I was with Alisha in the kitchen. The voice was eerie—creepy. It spoke in a language I couldn't understand. But one word stood out. Chronalis."
Davis frowned, processing.
"Chronalis… I've never heard of it." He sighed.
"You said the person spoke in a strange language. Did you see a caller ID? Or record the call?"
Patricia shook her head.
"No. There was no ID. No record of the call. Alisha even tried hacking into the system to trace it—but nothing. It's like it never happened."
Davis rubbed his temples.
"That's… unsettling. Do you remember what the voice said? Can you repeat it?"
Patricia closed her eyes, recalling the words.
"Yes. It said:
Vireth'ka naruun. Thal'esh vorran. Esh'kai ul'veth. Thal'esh vorran. Chronalis'ven drak'tor, vel'ash doomar… doomar… doomar!
It sounded like a warning."
Davis repeated the chant slowly.
"Chronalis'ven drak'tor… vel'ash doomar… That last part—doomar—it sounds like 'doom.'"
He exhaled.
"Okay. I'll look into it. If I find anything, I'll contact you."
Patricia nodded.
"Thank you, Davis. I truly appreciate it."
"It's okay, Patricia. I'd do anything for Isaac. He's saved my life more than once. I'll get to the bottom of this. I promise."
"Thank you."
Davis nodded.
"Let me head out. Please take care of him—and keep me updated."
"I will. Don't worry. Goodbye."
Davis gave a final nod and left the room.
Patricia turned back to Isaac, his face pale and still. She sat beside him, dipped the towel into the bowl, and gently dabbed his forehead.
Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Chronalis…"
...
Clank!
The sound of something breaking jolted Jonathan from sleep.
He blinked, groggy, and glanced at the clock.
2:30 a.m.
"What the hell…" he muttered, flipping on the bedside lamp.
This was the house in Brussels—the one his father and aunt had bought. He'd been staying here with Tulip for over a week now.
Yawning, he climbed out of bed and shuffled toward the door.
He opened it slowly.
Thick blackness greeted him.
A cold chill ran down his spine.
He flipped the hallway light switch and made his way to the kitchen.
There, he found a shattered plate on the floor. The drawer of the kitchen unit was wide open.
He knelt to inspect the broken pieces.
Then—a shadow whisked by behind him.
Jonathan froze.
Goosebumps prickled his skin. The chill deepened.
He rose slowly and turned around.
Nothing.
He exhaled in relief.
Then turned only to stumble back as Tulip suddenly was standing right in front of him.
"Aaah!" he yelped, clutching his chest.
"Tulip! My goodness, you scared me."
She said nothing.
Just stood there.
Jonathan sighed.
"What are you doing up so late? I told you not to sneak down for midnight snacks. Look at this mess. Go back upstairs—we'll talk in the morning."
Still, Tulip remained silent.
Jonathan's nerves began to fray. Something felt… wrong.
"O-okay. Tulip, come on now. Let's go back to bed, huh? Sweetie, it's too early to be up. I promise I'll make your favorite snack when you wake up in the morning, okay?"
He turned to walk away.
"Vorran'kai ul'dren." ("My blood…")
Jonathan froze.
The words were foreign. Ancient. Wrong.
The voice—eerie, ancient—echoed in the dark. He turned slowly.
He gasped and collapsed in shock.
Tulip stood before him, her eyes glowing an unnatural blue.
"T-T-Tulip…" he stammered.
"Vorran'kai ul'dren…" she whispered, stepping toward him.
Jonathan whimpered, backing away.
"Vorran'kai ul'dren…" she repeated, her voice hollow and inhuman.
"Okay… Tulip. Calm down. Calm down, honey. Let's not be hasty. Okay? Just… calm down…" Jonathan stammered, inching backward.
"Vorran'kai ul'dren… thal'esh ven'tar."
(My blood… give it back.)
Jonathan's breath hitched.
"What? What do you mean? I don't understand… Who are you?"
"Thal'esh ven'tar…" she said again—and produced a knife from behind her back.
Jonathan's blood ran cold.
"T-T-Tulip…"
"Thal'esh ven'tar… esh'kai naruun… thal'esh ven'tar… vorrak'sul… vorrak'sul."
(Give it back… want to be whole again… give it back… murderer… murderer.)
Jonathan scrambled to his feet, desperate to flee.
But in a blink—Tulip was in front of him, knife raised.
"Vorrak'sul… drak'ven Chronalis… ul'kai… vorran'kai… vorrak'sul… thal'esh ven'tar… esh'kai naruun!"
(Murderer… killed Chronalis… took blood… murderer… give it back… want to be whole again!)
Jonathan whimpered.
"Tulip… listen to me. You don't have to do this. It's me. Uncle Jonny. Please…"
"Vorrak'sul… vorrak'sul."
(Murderer… murderer.)
Jonathan's voice cracked.
"Tulip… please… it's me. Mommy. Don't do this… it's me… Mommy…"
At the word Mommy, Tulip froze.
Slowly, she lowered the knife.
"That's it. It's Mommy, okay? It's me. Now put the knife down. Easy…"
Jonathan stepped forward, gently reaching for the blade.
"Easy…"
He took the knife from her hand. "Good girl.."
But—
"Aaah!" he cried out as Tulip gripped his wrist with unnatural strength, nearly crushing it. "Aaah!"
Her voice shifted—no longer hers, but something else. Speaking in a language he now understood.
"Thou must bring me to the man who gave thee my blood before the Race comes. Then shall I spare thee and thy offspring. If not… I shall drain thy blood until the final drop and unleash hell upon this world. I. Will. Be. Watching. Thee…"
RUMBLE!!!
Thunder roared. Lightning flashed.
"Aaah!!" Jonathan screamed as his wrist burned. A glowing blue tulip-shaped mark branded itself into his skin.
He gasped, clutching Tulip as she collapsed.
He held her close, checked her face—her eyes were normal.
He carried her upstairs, laid her gently on the bed.
Her tiny chest rose and fell in steady breaths.
Jonathan looked down at his wrist. The tulip mark glowed eerily blue.
"What the fuck was that…"
He turned to the window.
The sky was clear. Stars shimmered peacefully.
So where had the thunder and lightning come from?
He squeezed Tulip's hand, his stomach churning with unease.
Something was awakening.
And it was not good.