Silence.
Thick, heavy, unnatural silence.
In a dimly lit isolation chamber, the soft, steady rhythm of slow breathing was the only sign that life existed inside. A young infant — barely three months old — slept peacefully within a reinforced glass containment crib. His hair was jet-black, fine and slightly curled at the ends, a sharp contrast to his pale, almost luminescent skin. His tiny chest rose and fell in calm intervals. His hands, small and soft, curled faintly as if grasping invisible threads within a dream.
Nothing else in the room moved.
Nothing dared to.
The only illumination came from a single overhead light, flickering weakly as though it feared disturbing whatever resided inside that fragile body. Shadows danced subtly on the metallic walls, and the air carried a strange stillness — unnaturally dense, like something unseen lingered in every corner.
Then, the silence broke.
Click.
The metallic door slid open slowly, releasing a faint hiss of pressure. A man stepped inside — white lab coat, disheveled hair, dark deep-blue eyes with heavy shadows forming beneath them. A mole sat quietly at the side of his left eye, half hidden behind cracked lenses of rectangular glasses. His steps were slow, almost ritualistic, each one echoing softly through the chamber.
Dr. Nathan.
The dim light briefly reflected across his glasses, hiding his expression. But his jaw was clenched, his shoulders rigid. His breathing was too controlled — a sign of a storm inside his mind.
He approached the containment crib, muttering under his breath, a string of words that sounded too calm for the weight they carried.
"Nothing… nothing at all. After all this time, not a single reaction. Not a flicker. Not even the slightest awakening."
His fingers brushed the cold glass of the crib, and with that contact came a different whisper — darker.
"Should I just kill it?" he murmured. "End the experiment here and extract the gene manually? No response means no consciousness… no awareness… no—"
His voice faded into a quiet hum of consideration.
He raised his hand — slow, steady, deliberate — reaching toward the baby's neck.
Just a slight twist. Just a small squeeze. A painless, clinical end. Then he could harvest Calythar's dormant beast gene and begin again, properly this time.
His fingertips neared the glass barrier.
Then—
The air changed.
Instantly, the temperature dropped several degrees. The lights flickered once, then again, before stabilizing with a dim hum. A pressure — invisible, crushing — filled the room like a sudden gravitational shift.
Nathan froze.
His arm stopped mid-air.
Not because of hesitation.
But because he couldn't move.
His eyes widened slightly, the first true emotion leaking through his composed façade. A thrill crawled down his spine — part fear, part excitement.
So it begins.
The pressure intensified, pressing down on his chest, pushing against his lungs, making each breath slightly harder than the last. Nathan's lips curled faintly, almost amused.
"I've been waiting… for this," he whispered hoarsely.
But an uneasiness followed the excitement. A thought he wasn't expecting. A question that didn't belong in the mind of a scientist so certain of his creation.
Did it… hear me?
Does it understand?
Is this… intelligence? Or the will of the Beast manifesting?
His gaze lowered to the sleeping child, whose expression remained peaceful and undisturbed. No movement. No twitch. Not even a flicker of eyelid.
Yet the pressure grew heavier.
Nathan slowly lowered his hand away from the crib, retreating as the invisible force pressed him still. He placed both palms gently on the containment surface, his fingers trembling slightly under the weight of the unseen force.
"What… are you?" he breathed, unable to stop the words from slipping out.
A beat.
Another.
Silence.
Then—
A shift.
Subtle, but undeniable.
The air became thick, almost liquid. The shadows on the walls seemed to stretch unnaturally, bending toward the crib. A faint hum started — low, vibrating through the metal floor, crawling into Nathan's bones.
And then—
The child's eyes snapped open.
Nathan's breath hitched.
One eye was completely white — glowing faintly like the core of a dying star.
The other was black — impossibly dark, like a void collapsing inward.
The sight was wrong.
Unnatural.
Almost divine.
And above the child's head, the air twisted, forming a shape — a jagged, semi-transparent halo. It cracked faintly like broken glass caught in still air, rotating slowly with an eerie hum.
The child lifted its gaze.
And looked directly at Nathan.
No curiosity.
No confusion.
No innocence.
Just a blank, heavy stare.
Ancient. Judging. Incomprehensible.
Nathan felt his throat tighten. A chill ran down his spine. His instincts — the human part of him — screamed to run, to escape, to never look into those eyes again.
But he didn't move.
He couldn't.
The pressure around him shifted — no longer crushing, but analyzing. Like something beyond human understanding was peeling apart his thoughts, memories, intentions.
Then something… else began to occur.
The crib's glass surface fogged lightly around the child's body. The halo sharpened, its jagged edges glinting with faint, ghost-like shimmer. A ripple spread across the air — soft but violent enough to make the overhead lights flicker wildly.
Nathan's heart pounded once, twice—
And then the presence vanished.
Cut cleanly.
Silence returned.
The pressure evaporated all at once, leaving the room cold and hollow. Nathan stumbled a step back, gasping softly as mobility returned to his limbs. His hands trembled faintly — not from fear, but exhilaration twisted with something he wouldn't dare call awe.
The child — Calythar — blinked once.
Then closed his eyes again, drifting back into calm, unnatural sleep.
Nathan stared.
And for the first time since the beginning of the project, he felt truly, thoroughly outmatched.
He swallowed hard.
"…This… is beyond anything the Organization predicted."
His voice was barely audible.
He straightened slowly, adjusting his glasses with a shaky exhale.
"But this… this is the beginning."