Reykjavík, Iceland – 3 Days Later
The snow fell gently outside the small cottage hospital, muffling the world in silence. Inside, the newborn girl slept peacefully, unaware the gods had already written her into a prophecy older than time.
Her parents, ordinary and exhausted, beamed with joy.
They named her Lína — Icelandic for "gentle line" — never knowing how sharp her thread would cut through fate itself.
She looked just like any other child.
But machines said otherwise.
---
Dr. Sofía Aegisdóttir stood in the monitoring room, frowning at the baby's medical charts. Her eyes scanned numbers that made no sense — heart rate too steady, temperature too balanced, brainwave patterns too synchronized. Not abnormal. Not sick. Just… wrong in a way that screamed not human.
And then there was the anomaly:
Every piece of electronic equipment within ten feet of the infant experienced intermittent surges — but only for a moment. It was as if the world around her was trying to adjust.
> She doesn't disturb the world, Sofía thought uneasily. She bends it.
---
Outside, unseen by all, a man in a black coat leaned against a lamppost, sipping coffee that had long gone cold. His presence was quiet, but his gaze was not. It never left the hospital's top floor.
> Alec Virell had arrived.