When the second breakout happened, the creatures that slipped through didn't roar, rampage, or maim. They whispered. They bore no grotesque distortions like the first wave. To the eye, they could have been mistaken for humans—two arms, two legs, a head, a torso, a familiar frame. The only thing setting them apart were the wings of light, stretching as if into another plane of existence.
They walked among the ruins of a battered world and spoke in voices that made even the wind pause.
They called themselves protectors.
Messengers of peace.
Guardians of light.
They offered safety in exchange for faith. Humanity—fragile, desperate—clung to their promises like drowning men to driftwood.
People called them Angels.
Altars rose overnight across the broken world, carved from stone and metal, shadowing collapsed churches. Thousands knelt, whispering prayers, tears in their eyes. The Angels listened. They healed the sick with a touch. Banished lesser creatures with a glance. Miracles were real. Power undeniable.
But not everyone bowed.
Some looked into those radiant eyes and saw something beneath the glow—ancient. Hungry. Manipulative.
They remembered the first invasion. The death of loved ones. The helpless cries. The faces of children who lost their parents, and parents who lost their children. Limbs reaped. Pain etched into memory.
These few—scattered across continents—formed a silent resistance. They called themselves the Awakened. To them, the Angels weren't saviors. They were serpents with silver tongues and perfect smiles.
The world split in two:
—The Faithful, worshiping the Angels as divine emissaries.
—The Awakened, preparing for the day the masks would fall.
Then… he stirred.
When the white being took control of Angelo's body, the sky itself recoiled. A shiver rolled across existence—quiet, invisible, inescapable. Birds dropped mid-flight. Wolves whimpered and vanished into shadows. Oceans calmed. And the Angels… froze.
People trembled before this presence. They cried for help, begged to be saved. But the Angels did nothing. They couldn't. For the first time, the Angels felt fear. Eyes widened. Hands trembled. Even their wings of light seemed to dim.
The Watchers, however, did not falter. They moved toward the epicenter with cold purpose.
The shift was subtle at first. The Awakened were hunted, falling one by one under the Angels' wrath. Whispers turned to warnings.
Then, the Angels gave the command:
"Find the source."
When the Faithful asked how they would recognize it, the Angels smiled.
"You'll feel it. When you are close, your soul will tremble."
And so the hunt began.
Not with armies.
But with sermons.
With zealots.
And with shadows.
In a quiet city, nestled against a vast mountain range, life went on as usual. It had survived the stampede. People walked their dogs, children played in parks, joggers ran along streets—peaceful, ordinary. It was as if the monster stampede had spared them completely. Perhaps by divine grace. Perhaps by luck. Whatever it was, it had run out.
This quiet city would be the meeting point for the Watchers. The stage for a massacre.
As the sun's dying rays stretched thin across the skyline, the Watchers arrived, descending from all directions. Then—it began.
Lights flickered, then went out. Dogs howled, then went silent. The police fired, but their bullets passed harmlessly through the intruders. Screams filled the streets, and then—silence.
By the time the military arrived, the sun had vanished completely. Streetlamps remained dark. Soldiers stepped from their vehicles, boots crunching over gravel and glass. The city appeared… intact. No collapsed buildings, no craters, no smoke, no fire. But the smell—thick, sweet rot—clung to the air.
And then they saw them. Bodies. Hundreds of them. Lying across streets and sidewalks, slumped in cars, dangling from stairwells. Eyes wide. Mouths frozen open. Flesh gray, unnatural. No wounds. No blood. Just… death. Still. Silent. Cold.
One soldier gagged and turned away. "God… what the hell happened here?" he whispered, bile burning the back of his throat.
"Eyes forward," barked the team leader, voice tight with tension. "There might be enemies hiding in the shadows. Don't let your guard down."
The unit advanced with weapons raised, breaths shallow, forming small clouds in the unnatural chill.
Then—a voice over the radio, hushed. "I see someone!"
A young soldier, barely twenty, pointed to a rusted car. A girl—maybe twelve—cowered behind it, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes wide with terror. He broke formation, creeping forward.
"Hey," he whispered gently, lowering his rifle. "It's okay. You're safe. I'm here to help you."
The girl whimpered, trembling violently. Then… something moved.
Beyond the car, in the gathering shadows, a tall figure stood—still as a tombstone. It wore a cloak of darkness, threadless and weightless, fluttering in a breeze that did not exist. A Watcher. Its faceless head tilted slightly, as if curious.
The soldier's breath caught in his throat. "Watcher spotted," he stammered into the radio.
He raised his rifle, finger on the trigger. "Stay back!"
The Watcher glided forward, more than walked. Limbs unnaturally long, joints bending wrong. He fired—but the radio buzzed with a command: "Do not engage. I repeat. David. Do. Not. Engage."
He saw the Watcher reach for the girl and acted on instinct. "Sorry, Lieutenant. Engaging the enemy."
One shot. Twice. Bullets passed through the creature like mist. No resistance. No reaction. Slowly, the holes sealed—flesh knitting shut as if never torn.
The girl screamed. She bolted—but the Watcher moved faster than thought. One elongated arm whipped forward, snatching her into the air.
"No!" David shouted, firing again—uselessly.
The Watcher lifted her with deliberate, cruel grace. Then it pulled back its hood. Its face: horror incarnate. No eyes—only yawning, pulsing sockets. No nose, no ears. A vertical chasm of serrated teeth, shifting and writhing with every breath.
The girl shrieked, kicking, thrashing—but she could not escape.
"Help me! Anyone! Please! I don't want to die! Mommy! Someone save me!"
A faint light—her soul—began leaking from her chest, drawn toward the Watcher like smoke to a vacuum. She choked, foam at her lips, body convulsing. Skin pale as ash, limbs twisting as if drained from within. Then, with a final shudder, her light vanished.
The Watcher dropped her lifeless body—a paper doll in the wind.
David's rifle slipped from his hands, clattering to the asphalt. Frozen, trembling, too terrified to reload.
The Watcher turned, empty sockets locking on him. Then—it walked. One step. Another. Each slow, deliberate, echoing like a ticking clock.
David couldn't move. Muscles refused. Heart slammed against ribs, thudding painfully in his chest. Commands on the radio faded into nothing.
Only one thought remained:
Run.
RUN.
But his legs stayed rooted.
The Watcher drew closer. Ten meters. Eight.
His breath became ragged. Tears welled in his eyes.
Five meters.
He fell to his knees.
Three.
The air around the creature hummed, low and resonant, rattling bones.
Two.
He closed his eyes.
And then—
One…