Case 33's hands trembled, the smile frozen, the grin stretched too wide—like a mask that had long ago forgotten the face beneath it. His eyes gleamed with something that was not quite madness but not sanity either, something in between, like a shadow of both. Suddenly he broke, his voice low, trembling, almost human:
Case 33 (sorrowfully):
"I am very sorry, Charles. I will protect her… that's the only thing I can do."
The words were not for Maria, but for some other presence—some name that slipped through the cracks of his "syndrome." Then, just as swiftly, like a puppet snapping back into place, he straightened his posture and smoothed his voice:
Case 33:
"Excuse me. I often suffer from a syndrome that makes me act… uncomfortably. Nevertheless, I assure you—that will not happen again."
Maria did not blink. Her voice was calm, almost surgical.
Maria (focused):
"So… who's Charles Bonnet?"
At once, Case 33's smile flickered, as though a hidden string had been cut.
Case 33 (sharp, suspicious):
"How do you know that name?"
Maria:
""Cuando estabas sufriendo, lo dijiste. Dijiste: Charles Bonnet… monstruo… el monstruo principal… el caballero que mata… el ángel que deseó sufrir… sálvame… por favor, detente…"
Case 33 lowered his head. His grin quivered, then broke into a grotesque laugh that didn't sound like laughter at all. Maria didn't flinch.
Maria:
"I dare you… heal yourself."
A silence. Then, slowly, he raised his hand and drew a jagged line down his forearm. No blood came—only a thick green liquid, glowing faintly, unnatural. The moment he wiped it away, the wound closed as if it had never been. His grin widened again, victorious.
Maria (thinking):
A dare is dangerous. I should not have used it—not in this game. But he showed no violence, no hatred… only obedience. Was I manipulated? Was this step his design, not mine?
Case 33:
"I dare you…"
The words slithered between them like a trap. Maria's chest tightened. Why did I take this step? Was it him all along, leading me, pulling me into his game?
Meanwhile, in the outworld, reality cracked in a different way.
Edward sat in the back of the truck, pressed against the window, watching. The road was narrow, lined with empty buildings and darker alleys. And the people—no, the shadows—stood silently, thousands of them, smiling. Not one attacked. Not one moved—until the family's fear betrayed them.
When the mother's hands tightened on the wheel, when her breath came sharp, the first line of smiling figures twitched. Then—sprinting. Their faces stretched into something unbearable as they ran alongside the truck.
Edward's Mother (panicked, muttering):
"God… God help me… I can't… I can't—"
Her knuckles were white on the wheel. She was a skilled driver, but today her nerves burned like wires pulled too tight.
Edward (leaning forward, whispering):
"Mom… don't you think it's strange? They're not attacking."
Father (grim, eyes locked on the road):
"That's strange indeed. I remember… they tore the neighbor apart like dogs."
Edward (frowning):
"Yes. That's what I saw too. So why—why are they only running?"
Mother (voice breaking, terrified):
"Maybe… maybe they've evolved… consciousness. Maybe they know when to attack."
Edward (incredulous):
"Consciousness? It's been less than a month…"
Father (cold, resolute):
"All the more reason. They are changing faster than we can think. That's why we need food. That's why we need to survive."
The truck rattled past crumbling facades, broken windows that somehow never shattered, streets that seemed held in place by silence itself. Edward pressed his head against the glass, staring at the faceless buildings.
Edward (whispering):
"These empty buildings… they scare me. Why haven't they broken anything? Why is it so quiet?"
Mother:
"Drive faster. To the mall. Don't look back."
Father (grim, final):
"Yes. The mall. As fast as possible."
And so they drove, three humans in a machine of steel, through a corridor of smiles. But even as the road opened before them, Edward could feel it: the silence was not absence. It was preparation.