The late evening at the police station was much livelier than usual. The corridors, usually empty at this hour, buzzed with footsteps, ringing phones, and muted curses. Officers, some in rumpled uniforms and others with unbuttoned collars, hurried from corner offices, sipping cold coffee and frowning at the bright light of the lamps.
Bill, an older officer with a tired face, barely kept up with the bustling chaos. He struggled to suppress another yawn, covering his mouth with the back of his hand, and muttered, glancing at the clock, "What the hell is going on here?"
Sleep still clouded his thoughts, and the recent call echoed in his mind.
"Bill, don't yawn!" barked Tony, an officer with a thick mustache, who seemed to draw irritation straight from the air. "It's a mess here, worse than at a Christmas parade. Come on, help me shoo these damn vultures away from the entrance!" He waved towards the glass doors, behind which reporters were crowding.
"Tony, explain to me what we're doing here?" Bill rubbed his temples. "Why are these journalists so worked up? And why did I have to rush across town?"
Tony shrugged and turned to him, raising his voice to be heard over the din outside. "Haven't you heard on the radio? It's an emergency! A big one! Just a catastrophe. And these reporters smell trouble from a mile away; they got here before us."
A loud knock on the glass was followed by the flash of cameras. One of the journalists shouted, "Officers! Comment on the nighttime operation! Why are all the streets blocked off?"
Tony sighed and hissed through his teeth, "These leeches… Bill, down some coffee and wake up, or the feds will eat us alive!" He wanted to say more, but at that moment, young Mackenzie rushed up to them, his cheeks flushed and eyes bewildered.
"Sirs, the feds are already here!" he blurted out, slightly stammering.
Tony cursed, slapping his hand against the wall. "Dog's shit! We haven't even managed to shoo these parasites away, and the polished ones are already here!"
Mackenzie nervously slicked back his hair. "They demand a full report and want to come inside. They say they have a warrant."
At that moment, the captain appeared in the corridor—a tall, composed man with graying temples and a stern gaze. Without removing his coat, he approached the map board and turned to the group. "Tony, what the hell are you doing standing around? I ordered you to restore order!" His voice cut through the air like a knife.
Tony hurriedly replied, "Captain, we're trying, but it's total chaos… The reporters are all over us!"
The captain snorted, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it right in the room, ignoring the "No Smoking" signs. He slowly exhaled smoke towards the ceiling. "If the feds get in first, we're done for. They'll turn everything inside out, not even sparing our underwear! Bill, if they ask, report to them what happened, no embellishments!" He pointed a finger at Bill, whose hand trembled.
Bill opened his mouth but couldn't find the words. His gaze darted between the captain and Tony, but the words stuck in his throat.
Seeing the hesitation, Mackenzie stepped forward. "Captain, if you allow me, I… can explain."
The captain nodded, raising an eyebrow. "Mackenzie, make it clear and concise; we're short on time."
Mackenzie straightened up. "This evening, under your orders, we conducted an operation to rescue the kidnapped children. Our detectives pinpointed the kidnapper's hideout, and the SWAT team went there along with the detectives and two operatives. At first, everything went according to plan, but…"
He hesitated, glancing at Bill and Tony.
"Come on, spit it out," the captain said impatiently. "What happened next?"
"Almost the entire team was wiped out, sir. Only two survived; one is currently in intensive care. The others—" Mackenzie clenched his fists, holding back a tremor. "But the children are safe; they were evacuated through a back exit, everything went quietly. Psychologists are working with them now."
Tony interjected, "I just spoke with Rita from the lab. They found DNA traces at the scene that aren't in the database. This might be our chance…"
"Do we have anything on this bastard?" the captain interrupted, his face growing harder.
"We do!" Mackenzie quickly added. "According to the survivors, the kidnapper wasn't alone. There was a second person in a mask who moved incredibly fast, almost inhumanly. Carl managed to shoot, but missed."
"What about Carl?" the captain asked, his voice tinged with concern for the first time.
"He got banged up a bit, but he'll live. He's in the interrogation room now. The feds want to talk to him."
The captain slowly extinguished his cigarette, staring out the window where reporters were still gathered. "Alright," he exhaled. "Mackenzie, keep me updated about Carl. Tony, Bill, work with the feds—but nothing extra! We can't afford to be set up. And I… I'll try to come up with something for the press."
He turned and walked down the corridor, leaving behind the heavy smell of tobacco and the feeling that the night was just beginning.
******
At that moment, in one of the dimly lit interrogation rooms, Detective Carl sat like a shadow of himself. His face was deathly pale, his cheeks sunken, and deep shadows lay under his eyes. The lamp above the table cast harsh light, illuminating only his trembling hands gripping a scratched pen. On the table, next to a disheveled notebook, lay a bloody bandage—a reminder of the night's carnage.
Carl was trying to finish his report, but the words blurred on the paper, turning into splotches and meaningless lines. The nightmarish roar echoed in his head, a cacophony of children's screams, gunfire, and an inhuman, beastly howl. It felt as if the walls of the room were closing in, dragging him back to that dark corridor where death lurked around every corner.
He squeezed a silver cross in his palm so tightly that the patterns dug into his skin. Whispering, almost silently, Carl prayed, begging God to free him from new memories. Somewhere on the edge of consciousness, a thought flickered: if it weren't for his military training, he would have broken down and cried like a boy long ago.
Suddenly, the door swung open—no knock, no warning. Two people entered the room: FBI Agent Lincoln, broad-shouldered with a bald head, his gaze heavy but not cruel; and Agent Tanya—tall, slender, with a straight posture and a cold, piercing look. A thin but noticeable scar ran across her left cheek, a reminder of past encounters.
"Sorry for the intrusion, Detective," Lincoln began calmly, not bothering with a smile. "I hope we're not interrupting too much. I'm Agent Lincoln, and this is my colleague, Agent Tanya. You should have been informed about our visit."
Tanya nodded briefly, her movements precise and measured—no unnecessary emotion.
Carl looked up at them with a dull, tired gaze. He tried to force out a semblance of a smile, but it resulted only in an uncertain twitch of his lips. "Yes... of course... I'm just trying to finish the report..."
He attempted to put the cross away and pick up the pen again, but Tanya gently yet firmly placed her hand on the notebook and slid it toward herself. "We'd like you to tell us everything in your own words first," she said, sitting across from him, "and then we'll deal with the paperwork."
Carl gave a weak smile, nervously licking his dry lips and shrugging. "What do you want to hear, agents? I doubt you'll believe me even if I tell you everything..."
"Start from the beginning," Lincoln said firmly, sitting down. "We need details. Everything you remember."
Carl gripped the cross even tighter, almost to the point of pain. "You know, I…" he nervously laughed, the sound unsettling, "I'm not a drinker. Well, maybe sometimes after particularly tough shifts. But today, I'd pass all the tests, honestly! Not a drop over, not a gram of anything banned."
Tanya squinted, carefully watching Carl's every movement. "That's not important, Detective. Just tell us what you saw. Any detail could be crucial."
Carl took a deep breath, as if diving headfirst into icy water. "Agent Tanya…" he suddenly addressed her quietly, "can I ask? Do you… believe in God? Or at least have you ever gone to church?"
Tanya momentarily broke her gaze from the notebook and looked Carl straight in the eyes. A shadow of doubt flickered in her expression. "I usually don't discuss such things at work," she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. "But if it's important to you—I'll be honest: no, I'm not religious. I've seen too much… crap to believe in something higher."
Carl nodded, as if he had heard something significant. "I understand… I probably used to be like you. Until tonight," he whispered.
Lincoln leaned forward slightly, his voice becoming more demanding. "Detective, let's get to the point. Every hour counts now. We believe the kidnapper is the so-called Pied Piper. We've been pursuing him for many years. This is the first time children have survived. We need your help. Everything you remember."
Tanya laid a folder with photographs on the table, and one of the images—a child's face with a vacant stare—flashed before Carl. He averted his eyes, unable to look, and spoke in a dull tone, as if he were talking not to them but to himself. "My father," he began slowly, "was a Catholic, a true believer through and through. He always said, 'If you want to truly believe in God—look the devil in the face.'" Carl trembled, his voice cracking. "Tonight, agents, I saw the face of the devil himself."
"Describe him," Tanya requested calmly. "Everything you can."
Carl looked at her for the first time in a long while. His breathing became rapid, and his eyes darted around the room as if searching for an escape from an invisible trap. Words caught in his throat, and he suddenly shrank back, as if a knife had been plunged into his gut.
Noticing the change, Tanya reached across the table toward him. "Detective, are you with us? Is everything alright?" She tried to speak softly, but her voice betrayed her concern.
Carl raised a wild gaze to her. In his eyes reflected a horror that seemed almost indescribable. His hands trembled treacherously, causing the cross to rattle against the table.
"Carl," Lincoln interjected, leaning forward, "if you need a moment, we can—"
Suddenly, Carl jerked back, gripping the cross tightly, and then, with a primal scream, lunged forward. Without thinking, he drew the cross across his throat, leaving a crimson line in its wake. Blood gushed from the wound, flooding the table and the papers.
"Shit!" Lincoln shouted, instantly leaping over the table, but it was too late.
Tanya, stunned, reflexively grabbed Carl's hand, trying to stop the bleeding by pressing a napkin against the wound, but the flow was too strong. She trembled, her fingers slipping as they crumpled the now useless sheets of paper.
"Carl! Hold on! God, not now!" she screamed, desperately trying to keep him with them.
Lincoln had already dashed out the door, calling urgently, "Emergency! Medics! Here! Faster, damn it!"
Carl, growing pale before their eyes, suddenly seized Tanya's hand with his last strength, pulling her close and whispering barely audibly in her ear, so only she could hear: "The devil... has three faces... but most of all... beware of the one with... cat-like eyes..." Blood choked his voice, and he coughed, gasping, before placing the cross in Tanya's palm. His fingers squeezed her hand, then went limp.
At that moment, Lincoln burst back into the room, followed by a couple of officers and a nurse with a first-aid kit. Tanya sat on the floor, leaning over the body, her arms up to the elbows stained with blood, and in her palm lay the bloody cross.
"Is he... already...?" Lincoln began but stopped himself, seeing the expression on his partner's face.
She nodded silently, unable to speak, while the nurse began attempting CPR, though it was clear it was futile.
The officers crowded at the door, some crossing themselves, others standing in shock. One of them muttered, "What the hell just happened here?"
Lincoln straightened up, wiping sweat from his brow. "That's it," he exhaled bitterly. "Again. Once more, we have no clues, no decent description of the bastard. All for nothing!"
He was angry, pacing the room, casting glances at Tanya. She slowly rose, clutching the cross in her hands, and suddenly smiled quietly, though the smile resembled more of a grimace.
"Not entirely, Lincoln..." she said, pulling a blood-stained sheet from under Carl's body.
She handed him the paper. On it, in shaky, uneven lines, were two figures—monstrous, as if torn from a nightmare. One creature was enormous, with curved horns and bottomless black eyes; the other was smaller but had terrifyingly long claws and eyes that glinted like a cat's.
"He… managed to draw this," Tanya whispered, "just before..."
She fell silent.
Lincoln stared intently at the dreadful image, then looked into his partner's eyes. "The devil... has three faces," Tanya repeated, clutching the cross. "But most of all, beware of the one with cat-like eyes..."
******
Two Months Earlier
The quiet comfort of William's room, still enveloped in the fragile scent of sleep, was suddenly shattered by the piercing, unbearable roar of the alarm clock. This mechanical tyrant, merciless to both dawn and human frailty, burst into the sweet haze of dreams where the young man still floated, clinging to elusive images. In despair, William buried his face in the pillow, hoping that the soft fabric might muffle the relentless signal. If he had any power over time, he would gladly pause it—if only for a couple of minutes—to finish his extraordinarily vivid dream.
But reality knew no mercy. Leaning forward with lazy reluctance, William reached for the alarm—his hand felt heavy and awkward, as if it belonged to someone who had woken up in another universe. His fingers, trembling from cold and frustration, finally found the plastic casing, which seemed to vibrate with its own fervor. The alarm continued its hysterical wail with disdain.
"Shut up already... please," William groaned, squinting wearily at the bright red numbers glowing on the screen like the eyes of a mysterious monster from childhood nightmares. He hit the snooze button hard, and the room sank back into silence.
But as soon as he brought the clock closer to his face, his heart first froze, then began to race wildly. The dial displayed four ominous digits: 8:30. The full horror of the situation hit him instantly—he had overslept! An icy wave of panic coursed through his body, awakening every cell as if someone had poured a bucket of ice water over him.
"Oh God… not this! I overslept again!" he exhaled, jumping out of bed so abruptly that the blanket rustled to the floor, and the pillow followed suit. Not giving himself a moment to wallow in self-pity, William dashed to the closet, yanked out the first shirt he could find—a wrinkled white one, but a favorite—and tried to button it up on the go, fumbling with the buttons in his haste.
The wooden floor creaked and groaned beneath his bare feet as he sprinted down the corridor, ignoring the cold that seeped into his bones. The chandelier on the first floor swung like a pendulum. From the kitchen came his father's voice, filled with grumbling discontent: "Hey, quiet down! What are you doing in there? Trying to bring the house down? You're not at a stadium!"
But William was too busy to respond. Thoughts swirled chaotically in his mind: how to catch at least the second bus, what to say to the professor if he was late.
Reaching the bathroom, he yanked the door open with force—and at that very moment, he collided with an unexpected obstacle.
"Occupied!" he heard an irritated voice from behind the door.
William froze, not believing what was happening, then, frustrated, knocked on the doorframe. "Sam, get out! I need it urgently; I'm late!"
From the other side came the mocking voice of his younger sister: "You're not the only one living in this house, brother! I'm in a hurry too, so wait your turn!"
As if to confirm her words, she turned on the water at full blast—the noise became almost deafening, and all attempts to outshout her were doomed to fail.
"You little brat..." he began, but gritting his teeth, he cut himself off, realizing that arguing was pointless. His fingers nervously fidgeted with the folds of his shirt, and his movements grew sharp and restless.
Throwing at the door, "Damn you!" he turned around and, slapping the doorframe, hurried back to his room, feverishly trying to think of how to escape this disaster. Outside, heavy clouds hung low, and it seemed they were laughing at his morning frenzy, hiding even more unpleasant surprises for the day ahead.
******
Saint Bulman's University loomed over the city like a stone ship frozen in eternity. Its massive Gothic walls were adorned with carvings and intricate patterns: stone vines crawled across the facade, hiding figures of owls and chimeras among them, while the stained glass windows sparkled in the morning light like precious gems. The tall arches in the hall created a cathedral-like feel, and the cool air was filled with the scent of old paper, damp stone, and coffee from the nearby student café.
Inside, there was a lively hustle and bustle. Groups of students swarmed through the wide corridors, paved with antique tiles—some debated the meaning of life, others were reciting formulas, while some rushed to lectures, desperately flipping through the last pages of their notes. In the lecture halls, behind heavy wooden doors, classes were already underway: projectors hummed, microphones crackled, and laptops clicked.
William, trying not to draw unnecessary attention to himself, wove between groups of students, hastily nodding at acquaintances but lingering with none.
He turned into the corridor he needed, where the walls were adorned with old black-and-white photographs of faculty and alumni, and finally stopped in front of a massive black door, intricately carved: among the Gothic swirls, gears stood out distinctly, the symbol of the engineering department.
"Alright," he muttered, forcing himself to touch the doorknob, "Be a man, Farrow. Don't let the old creep intimidate you!"
He was about to enter when he suddenly froze, hesitantly gripping the knob. A thought flashed through his mind: "What if he goes off on me again? Maybe I should just not go in..." But he quickly scolded himself: "Get it together! It can't get worse."
Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open. It creaked, and the entire class turned to look for a moment, while Professor Klein, a tall, skeletal man with a cold gaze, raised an eyebrow.
"And how long do you plan to stand there, young man?" Klein snapped, not even turning around fully.
"Sorry, Professor..." William began, but the professor waved his hand dismissively, not wanting to hear excuses.
"Sit down. Not all of us have time to listen to another tale about malfunctioning alarm clocks and traffic jams," he added dryly, and a wave of light laughter swept through the classroom.
William hurried to his seat, trying to avoid making eye contact with the instructor. Kemar, a tall, slender guy of Jamaican descent with a constant smile, immediately leaned toward him: "That jerk gets more unbearable every day, don't you agree? I bet his wife is on edge at night!" he whispered, nudging William with his elbow.
"Don't even start," William sighed. "Yesterday he yelled at Chloe just for wearing a t-shirt that said 'Science Sucks, Magic Rules.' And today, I see him handing out grades without even looking at the papers."
"Look," Kemar snorted, nodding toward the door, "He's about to get cheerful when Sarah walks in."
At that moment, Sarah entered the classroom. Her arrival always caused a special excitement—short, with flowing golden locks, she moved confidently. Her outfits often straddled the line of the university dress code, but it seemed Klein turned a blind eye to it.
The professor, noticing Sarah, suddenly softened his expression and even smiled slightly: "Miss Blackwood, glad to see you on time."
"Thank you, Professor," Sarah sweetly sang, throwing a mischievous glance at William and Kemar.
Kemar quietly snorted: "I wonder if her parents know their daughter prefers to sleep with dinosaurs?"
William laughed, barely containing himself: "By the way, weren't you two dating?"
"Are you crazy?" Kemar exclaimed. "I don't need to add a collection of STDs to my resume!"
"But the whole university was talking about you two," William said, a bit louder than he intended.
A sharp clap sounded—Professor Klein slapped his palm on the desk: "Mr. Farrow! It seems you find your classmates' presentations insufficiently interesting. In that case, please come to the board—replace Mr. Tyrone."
A wave of whispers and barely concealed laughter swept through the classroom. Kemar wanted to defend him: "He just—"
"And you, Mr. Blake, would be better off saving your comments, or a square sponge might fly in there," Klein coldly interrupted him. "And by the way, your idea about energy from plants is complete nonsense. I've already lowered your grade."
Kemar snorted but remained silent.
The professor turned to William, dramatically spreading his arms, and announced, "So, Mr. Farrow, we are all on the edge of our seats, awaiting a great discovery in the field of alternative energy! Please, amaze us."
William stood up, feeling a wave of heat wash over his face. He took a step forward, briefly glanced at the audience, and began, trying to speak confidently, though his voice trembled slightly: "My project focuses on finding efficient ways to store energy on a small scale. I studied the possibility of using new composite materials for batteries..."
The professor immediately interrupted: "Composite materials? And what, in your opinion, is so special about them?"
William froze but quickly found his footing: "First of all, their structure allows for increased capacity at a lower weight. Secondly, I conducted several experiments on their durability..."
"Experiments? And where's the proof?" Klein measured him with a cold gaze.
"Here," William replied, pulling out a folder and handing it to the professor's assistant. "It details the methodology and results. There are photos and graphs confirming the increase in efficiency..."
A murmured "Ooh!" spread through the hall—students seemed impressed.
The professor carefully flipped through the report, occasionally frowning and tapping his pen on the desk. A tense silence fell over the audience as everyone awaited the verdict. Finally, Klein closed the folder, nodded reservedly, and said, "Well, Mr. Farrow, for the first time in a long while, you've genuinely surprised me. The material is presented clearly, and the results are interesting. Sit down."
A light murmur of approval passed through the class, and someone even nodded in approval. William exhaled in relief and was just about to sit down when the professor added, with his characteristic serpentine grin, "However, despite the good work, I must lower your grade for excessive chatter and, of course, for being late."
William stopped as if rooted to the spot, his eyes widening in outrage: "But Professor, that's unfair! I worked on this project all week, even at night! Doesn't that have anything to do with the quality of the work itself?"
Klein raised an eyebrow and looked at him coldly over his glasses: "Mr. Farrow, in life, fairness is a rare guest. But discipline must always be maintained. Learn to control your emotions; you are no longer a teenager. And one more thing..."
He leaned forward slowly, pausing for effect as everyone in the audience turned to William.
"Consider yourself lucky that I'm grading you at all and didn't throw you out of the lecture, considering you just presented to the entire class with your fly unzipped."
At that moment, Klein nodded toward William's crotch, and William, frozen in shock, lowered his gaze. To his horror, the fly was indeed unzipped, and the edge of his white, red-striped underwear peeked out.
"Oh, damn..." William exhaled, hurriedly zipping up his pants. His face turned crimson, and his palms trembled with shame.
The entire class erupted in laughter. Someone from the back shouted: "Will, show us your treasures!"
"Hey buddy, are those your sister's pink panties?" another chimed in, and the laughter in the audience reached a peak.
Even Sarah, usually composed, covered her mouth with her hand to hide her smile.
Noticing William sinking into his seat and hiding his face in his hands, Kemar shot a disdainful look at the professor: "That old creep... he doesn't know when to stop," he hissed through his teeth.
"I'd shove those underwear down his throat!" William grumbled, still unable to lift his head.
Klein, gathering his papers, tossed over his shoulder: "I hope next time, Mr. Farrow, you pay more attention to the details. In science, they make all the difference."
The class continued to buzz with laughter, discussing the incident. Even after Klein moved on to the next topic, jokes and winks toward William didn't stop.
Kemar slapped his friend on the shoulder: "Don't sweat it, bro; everyone has days like this. At least now you'll be a legend in this classroom forever."
William managed a weak smile, feeling a lump rising in his throat. He took a deep breath and muttered, "May that creep burn in hell... I just want this day to end."