Chapter 31 – The First Scream
The hours had dissolved into a pleasant haze of laughter and movement, leaving them a sweet but exhausting memory in their muscles. A couple of fleeting and intense hours.
Now, fatigued, skin sticky with sweat and legs trembling with the ache of effort, the decision was unanimous: it was time to surrender and seek the comfort of warmth.
They headed to the bench, an improvised sanctuary for rest. Walter, who couldn't use skates, was already comfortably seated in his wheelchair. The others set about freeing their feet from the metal and leather that now seemed like dead weights.
While Titus, the apostle of caffeine, mentally savored the bitter and concentrated kick of his espresso, the twins chatted with the enthusiasm of their hot almond milk lattes, a magical potion whose flavor, they swore, was unmatched by anything they had found in Chile. Walter, always on the opposite end, only longed for the steaming peace of his chamomile tea, and Sarah, the freestyle, leaned toward the spiced and exotic mystery of a chai latte.
Between laughs and the final hiss of untied skates, everyone agreed they should repeat this, immersed in the bubble of a perfect moment.
But under the artificial light of the place, another truth was cooking.
Even in Sarah's lightness, Cristal watched her. Seated on the bench, her fingers methodically toyed with a bracelet, her eyes fixed on Sarah. She was dying of jealousy, a feeling that ate away at her seeing the ease with which she fit in. She didn't hate Sarah yet; on the contrary, she looked at her as a true friend, but she knew she was an undesirable obstacle in her plans.
Sarah was the only piece that didn't fit in the future Cristal had designed.
The First Scream
The first scream did not sound human.
It rose from a throat that had already surrendered to something far older than language—a primal terror that stripped identity, dignity, and reason in the span of a heartbeat. It cut through the vibrant air of the ice rink like a blade dragged across metal.
Pop music sputtered mid‑beat. Laughter died in half‑formed echoes. Skates scraping against ice stuttered to a halt.
The world didn't end in silence; it ended in confusion.
People turned. Heads snapped. Eyes widened. And then the second scream hit.
This one deeper. Wet. Broken from the inside. It vibrated through the steel beams overhead, crawled along the bright banners of smiling cartoon penguins, and sank claws into the hearts of every person present.
Something inside the crowd instinctively recognized: this is not the kind of sound you hear and survive.
Across the rink, a mother's hand froze around her daughter's mitten. A teenage boy's smile collapsed into a trembling question. A concession worker dropped a tray of nachos; cheese splattered across his shoes in a trembling pattern. A security guard who thought he had "seen it all" suddenly felt the urge to vomit.
Fear traveled faster than any monster. People didn't understand what they were afraid of yet… but their bodies already knew.
Bruno felt it before understanding it, too. The sensation slithered through the air—sour, metallic, vibrating like a struck bone. He lifted his head sharply, muscles tightening, instincts rising faster than thought. He didn't look toward the screams. He didn't need to.
His golden eyes, half‑lidded, pulled in every scent, every vibration, every shift in the atmosphere. There it was. The rot. The blood. The wildness. A threat moving like a storm.
Titus felt it too—but not with the nuance of a predator. He felt it as a boy who had never known real danger until recently. A cold wave spilled down his spine. His lungs tightened, refusing to expand fully. A single question flashed through his mind with brutal clarity: How many are dying right now?
He didn't want the answer.
Then came the third scream—sharper, closer, cracking at the peak as if the throat that produced it physically tore.
A woman skated into the boards, slamming so hard her knee twisted sideways. She didn't even notice. Pain was nothing compared to fear.
Someone shouted, "WHAT IS THAT?!" But the words were immediately swallowed by chaos.
The screams multiplied. Not gradually—violently. What had started as a single voice fractured into dozens, then hundreds. A wave of panic surged through the crowd so fast it looked choreographed.
People stumbled over each other. A teenage couple holding hands was ripped apart when the boy instinctively shoved the girl behind him and ran. A father abandoned his fallen toddler. A woman slapped another out of sheer terror, mistaking her for something else.
Horror makes animals of everyone.
The ice rink, once brightly lit and echoing with cheerful music, transformed into a trap—a white, polished hunting ground.
Something moved in the far shadows beyond the last row of lights. Not running. Not walking. Gliding. Silent. Patient.
Walter saw it first. Not clearly—his vision blurred from adrenaline—but enough to understand that it was wrong. A shape too tall, too bent, too fast. His breath caught in his throat as a tremor rippled through his hands on the wheelchair armrests.
Sarah felt her own heart begin to race. Her mind tried to rationalize it—maybe a person fell, maybe it was an accident, maybe—
Then the lights flickered. Just once. But long enough for everyone to see the silhouette standing at the far edge of the rink.
A hunched mass of muscle. Arms too long. Fingers too clawed. Eyes gleaming with a feral intelligence that did not belong to any earthly creature.
A sound erupted from it—
Not a roar. Not a growl. Something worse. A guttural, ripping screech that quivered between frequencies, as if two different animals screamed through one throat.
The entire crowd reacted simultaneously. Children screamed. Adults shoved. People fell. Bodies collided. Teeth clattered. Someone prayed out loud, voice trembling so hard the words broke mid‑sentence.
Fear became a physical presence, thick as smoke.
And the omega took its first step toward them.
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Hook: And that silence hid a danger that would soon come to light…