-------------- Third-Person Point of View --------------
In his makeshift office, Aníbal Soto poured himself another finger of liquor.
His career, his legacy, his name: it all came down to this moment.
This catastrophe wasn't the end of the world; it was a crisis. And crises, for men like him, were stepping stones.
If he played his cards right, if he maintained control and followed Morgenstern's protocol, he would come out of this not as a simple mayor, but as a hero. Or at least, that's how he saw it.
The thought warmed his chest more than the whiskey itself. But there was a problem.
[First Wiston and now…] —he muttered under his breath, clenching the glass in his fingers. The more he remembered the insolent brat, the more his jaw tensed.
"Clack."
The glass shattered against the wall. The cheap whiskey splashed across the city map, staining the red circles and hand-scrawled strategy lines with amber.
The liquid trickled down slowly, as if the city itself were bleeding under his rage.
Outside, the bodyguards didn't even flinch; it wasn't the first time the mayor had had an outburst.
[I am the mayor. I am the authority. How dare a brat defy me?] —he whispered through clenched teeth, his voice trembling with an icy fury.
Then, he felt it.
A sudden chill, so violent that he instinctively turned his head, looking for an open window that didn't exist. It wasn't cold. It was an absence of heat.
Out of the corner of his eye, the shadow cast by the filing cabinet seemed to twist, fleetingly taking the shape of a dark bird with folded wings.
But in a blink, everything was back to normal. Still, the feeling of being watched didn't go away.
[…I must be tired.] —he muttered, running a hand over his forehead.
The idea vanished, but something of it remained suspended in the air, clinging to the walls, breathing with him.
(You can't let them walk all over you) —a voice whispered in his head. It sounded like his own, but sharper, firmer—. (They use brute force. You have the real power. The people listen to you, not an animal in a uniform.)
Aníbal nodded without thinking. It was true. Wiston might have the guns, but he had legitimacy.
He stood up, straightened his wrinkled suit, and looked at the soaked map. It was time to remind everyone who was in charge here.
............…..
The first move was subtle. He gathered the civilians in the main lobby, the only space large enough that didn't stink of dried blood. He spoke to them of hope, of reinforcements on the way, of the importance of maintaining calm and structure. His words, rehearsed over years of political campaigns, flowed with a reassuring ease.
But as he spoke, that strange coldness settled into the room again. The shadows in the corners seemed deeper, more attentive. The whispers in his mind were no longer just his own.
(It's not enough) —the voice hissed—. (Hope is fragile. They need an enemy. A nearby enemy. One they can hate.)
Aníbal nodded in agreement. For a fraction of a second, his lips curled into a smile, before his expression sank into feigned pain.
[They, the men who are supposed to protect us… They are harboring monsters.]
The air in the station was cut short. A murmur of disbelief and fear ran through the refugees. Aníbal saw the path before anyone else with a terrifying, lucid clarity.
Instigated by the whisper and his own ambition, he continued his speech, each word rehearsed and adjusted to get exactly the desired reaction.
And in tune with that, the refugees also began to hear the whispers.
(Contamination) —the word resonating with an almost sacred power—. (They bring the plague into your sanctuary. They protect the monster while your children die. Is that Wiston's justice?)
Some whispers were heard generally, but there were also others directed at specific people.
(My son died because of those monsters, and they're just taking them in?)
(Is this how they protect us?)
(I'm hungry. How much more do I have to suffer?)
Slowly, the room filled with a sharp atmosphere. No one was paying attention anymore to the unnatural shadows that seemed to roam the place.
As the people praised and supported him more, Aníbal's hubris grew.
He walked to the center of the crowd, his steps echoing in the tense silence. He raised his hands, not like a politician asking for the floor, but like a pastor about to reveal a terrible truth.
[My friends. Fellow citizens] —he began, his voice laden with an empathy he didn't know he possessed—. [I understand your pain. I have seen your losses. I have mourned with you the fall of this, our beloved city.]
He paused, letting the collective grief fill the space.
[And while we suffer, while we ration our food and pray for our fallen… what are those who swore to protect us doing?] —his tone changed, becoming a conspiratorial whisper that forced everyone to lean in to hear him—. [They open the doors to the enemy! They feed the very beasts that tore our children from us!]
As he spoke, Aníbal felt like he was floating. The words weren't his, but they came out of his mouth with absolute conviction. He felt the people's fear, their anger, their pain… and without realizing it, he had begun to savor it. Behind him, the shadow of his own figure on the wall seemed to deform, lengthening, its shoulders broadening as if wings were growing.
(Yes) —the voice hummed, delighting in it—. (Give them a target. Give them a sacrifice. Become their anger.)
[We cannot allow this betrayal] —Aníbal roared, his voice now a thunderclap that vibrated the air—. [If our guardians have decided to ally with the monsters, then we, the people, must deliver justice!]
The first shout of support came from a woman whose face was streaked with dried tears. Then another. And another. In a matter of seconds, the crowd was no longer a group of victims. They were a mob. A horde with a purpose.
And he, Aníbal Soto, was their king.
................
When he burst into the reception area followed by the enraged mass, he felt invincible. Wiston, Flora… they all seemed small, insignificant before the will of the people that he now embodied. His paranoia had become a divine certainty: he was the only one who saw the truth. Everyone else was a traitor or a heretic.
[I'll ask one more time, Wiston, what is the meaning of this?] —he said, his voice resonating with the borrowed power of the crowd at his back. He pointed at the goblins, the epicenter of all the rot.
The confrontation that followed was music to his ears. Every cry of pain from the refugees, every desperate argument from the police, was a note in the symphony of discord. He just had to conduct it.
He saw the woman with the feverish eyes lunge forward, saw Jhon intercept her. The perfect moment.
[How dare you use force on honest citizens to protect monsters?] —his words were gasoline on the fire. The room exploded.
Aníbal felt drunk with power. The psychic energy of the conflict was a drug, an electric current that made him feel more alive than ever. In the distorted reflection of a turned-off monitor, his figure was not reflected. There was a terrifying creature, with the head of a dark owl, eyes that burned like embers, and a sword made of pure shadow in its hand. The image returned to normal in a blink, but the feeling of power remained.
Aníbal was about to savor his victory, about to see Wiston either bend or be consumed by the chaos.
And then, from the hallway, a click of the tongue was heard.
A sound so simple, so laden with disdain, that it cut through the roar of the crowd like lightning.
Astrad's brutal intervention was an icy slap in the face. He saw how the boy stopped the momentum of his pawns cold, not just with blows, but with words that were pure poison. He saw how the mob's anger turned to fear. His army, his power, was vanishing before a single, unhinged teenager.
(He has stolen your power) —the voice hissed in his head, this time full of venom—. (He has humiliated you. He is the real monster. He is the real threat. You cannot control him. And what you cannot control... you must destroy.)
The humiliation was a metallic taste in Aníbal's mouth. The divine charisma, the intoxicating power of the mob, had all evaporated in the face of the raw, unadorned violence of a single, unhinged teenager. The crowd, his army, now recoiled, their gazes no longer filled with righteous anger, but with the primitive fear of a superior predator. Astrad hadn't just hit a man; he had broken the spell.
................
[Shit, shit, shit] —back in the lobby, Aníbal muttered under his breath. His eyes, increasingly sunken, seemed to be slowly losing the light of rationality.
And he wasn't the only one; the civilians around him looked as if they had swallowed an equally bitter insect.
The room, now choked in a hopelessness that slowly seemed to transform into something else, as the unnatural shadows seemed to gain ground and the provocative whispers grew louder and more frequent.
[They're against me. Those bastards don't respect my authority. They're stupid, they're heretics.]
With every second that passed, Aníbal's paranoia grew, but the refugees, far from looking at his crazed ramblings with disdain, began to cheer him on and agree with him, instigated by the whispers from the shadows.
But his spiral of madness was suddenly interrupted.
[Aníbal. You are under arrest for inciting a riot] —Wiston entered and declared. His tone was calm, but his eyes were filled with an undeniable authority.
Aníbal felt panic rise in his throat like bile. He was finished. He was going to be locked up, stripped of his status, reduced to nothing.
(No) —the shadow whispered in his mind, the voice now an icy, comforting hiss—. (Not yet. Look at your flock. They are the sensible ones, the ones who understand your genius and superiority. They need their shepherd. Protect them. Use them.)
In a movement that was not entirely his own, Aníbal did not retreat from Wiston, but rather pointed at him.
[Look!] —he shouted, his voice trembling with a false indignation—. [Don't you see what has happened? This is the chaos I warned you about! Wiston and his men are protecting monsters and allowing lunatics like that boy from before to beat us in our own home!]
With their minds on the verge of collapse and instigated by the whispers, the people instinctively closed ranks around Aníbal, creating a human shield. Aníbal felt a surge of power. He was no longer a coward hiding; he was a martyr defending his people.
Wiston stopped, and his men hesitated.
[Enough!] —Wiston roared, his patience finally broken—. [We are going to open the armory! We'll take the heavy weapons and finish this ourselves!]
It was a logical move, a declaration of power that should have united everyone. But the whisper in Aníbal's mind was faster.
(An error. His last error. Now, destroy him.)
[Weapons!] —Aníbal exclaimed, his voice cutting through the air—. [And who will control them? Them?] —He pointed at the circle of police officers, his finger trembling—. [The same ones who have failed us? The ones who hesitate while the enemy dances on our graves? You want to give them more power to oppress us?]
The seed of doubt was planted deeper. The refugees' gazes turned even more suspicious. Trust, a resource scarcer than food, was on the verge of extinction.
[And think!] —Aníbal continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone that forced people to strain to hear—. [The army will come! Order will be restored! And what will happen then? When they see that we have looted a federal arsenal without permission? They won't see us as survivors, they'll see us as criminals! They'll blame us for the chaos! Wiston, in his madness, is condemning us all!]
The logic was twisted, but the constant whispers validated it somehow. Every time they allowed themselves to be convinced, a little of the light in their eyes died.
Aníbal could feel it. The invisible entity by his side was reveling, drinking in the paranoia that now filled the room like a poisonous gas. The air grew even colder. The shadows in the corners seemed to lengthen, twisting like serpents. Wiston himself seemed bewildered, trapped in a war he couldn't win with bullets. A riot could be crushed; an idea, however venomous, could not.
With a growl of frustration, the police chief turned around. [This isn't over.] - He said as he retreated, followed by his officers.
Aníbal's victory was silent, empty. He stood in the middle of the lobby, surrounded by the expectant gazes of his new flock. He had won. So why did he feel a cold panic, colder than ever before?
He retreated to the small office at the end of the lobby, his heart hammering in his chest. The door closed, leaving him in the dim light. He was alone.
(You are not alone) —whispered the voice, now the only company in his head—. (You have won. You are their leader. But he has not given up. He will try to take the weapons anyway. He will challenge you.)
[He can't,] —Aníbal muttered to himself—. [The people are with me.]
(The people are weak. Wiston's strength is real. His weapons are real. As long as he has that option, you do not have absolute control. As long as there is light, there is hope for them. And their hope… is your weakness.)
Aníbal stared at the single lightbulb flickering above the desk. The light. The power. The generator.
A slow, unhinged smile spread across his face.
[To be the only beacon in the darkness, first, you must put out all the other lights,] —he muttered, convinced that what he was saying made some kind of sense. An impeccably twisted logic.
The last vestige of sanity in his eyes disappeared, replaced by a different gleam, one unfocused and deranged.
A disheveled smile spread on his lips as his mind began to forge an idea.
In the silence of the room, only the accelerated beat of his own heart could be heard.
After a long time, Anícal stood up from his seat, a benevolent smile on his lips.
[The first step is, of course, to make sure the sheep are well-guided,] —he whispered as he approached the door. Not even he noticed that his voice seemed to contain two different tones merging into one.
The whisper in his head was gone. Now it was "his own voice," "his own idea."
The old door creaked as Aníbal opened it. The light from the lobby spilled in, expanding Aníbal's shadow all the way to the back wall. Or at least it should have… But the shadow it cast was no longer human.