The city felt wrong without screams.
A'Coruña had been under siege for so long that silence had become foreign, almost dangerous. When the soldiers sealed every street at dawn, posting rifles at each corner and ordering civilians inside, the village expected the night to end in blood again. They waited for that familiar, sickening echo the kind that split the lungs of grieving parents and the bones of sleeping children.
But nothing came.
And somehow, that made the fear worse.
Theo was locked beneath the barracks, chained in the same cold cellar where fishermen once stored winter rations. Now it stored him, A'Coruña's most valuable prisoner and its most terrifying uncertainty. Some stood outside the iron door all day just to be sure he hadn't vanished, changed, or broken free.
I (Manuel) wasn't one of them. He stood at the barricaded town square, staring at armored trucks and unfamiliar insignias painted across the metal. Everything about these soldiers felt foreign to me too polished, too disciplined, too quiet. They looked like men who had seen the inside of too many mass graves and learned to walk gently around ghosts.
The lieutenant guarding the steps of the old city hall shifted when he saw me approach. His helmet shadowed most of his face, but not his eyes; those were unmistakable.
"He said, almost relieved. "You're still alive."
"Barely, Mark,"offering a weary hand.
"You look like hell."
Lieutenant Mark Alvarez huffed something like a laugh. "War doesn't let you age gracefully."
"Neither do monsters," I replied.
Mark's expression flatlined immediately. He had always been the type to hide horror behind soldier's training, but the word monster seemed to press into him differently like something familiar, unwelcome, and too close to his own memories.
"You came to see the General?" Mark asked, tone tightening.
"I need answers,and I think he owes me that much."
Mark hesitated not long, but enough to expose a quiet fear he was trying to bury. "He'll only talk on one condition."
I frowned. "Name it."
"He wants your boy," Mark said. "Francisco."
A cold sliver of dread crawled up my spine not protective fear, not suspicion, but something deeper. Something instinctual.
"How does he even know Francisco exists?"
Mark looked away. "The General knows… more than he should."
I clenched my jaw. "About the monster?"
Mark didn't answer.
Instead, he turned toward the city hall doors. "I'll tell him you're ready."
Inside the Hall of Power That Wasn't Meant for Them
Once upon a time, the city hall was a place for wedding certificates, citizenship papers, and noisy celebrations over fishing quotas. Now it felt like a commandeered fortress. Maps covered the walls, old tables had become strategy desks, and every window was blocked with steel plating, all done in barely a day.
And at the center of it all stood General Suarez, hands tucked behind his back, staring at a spread of topographical charts as if they were prophecies.
He didn't turn when I and Francisco entered, but the air shifted. The man's presence filled the room like smoke thick, invisible, impossible to ignore.
Mark closed the door behind them, leaving the three alone.
"You brought him," Suarez said finally, still facing the maps. His voice was calm, almost cold, but there was a precise sharpness in it as if every syllable were a blade.
I stepped forward. "General, we need to talk about…."
"No," Suarez interrupted. "He speaks first."
His eyes landed on Francisco with the intensity of a man dissecting something dangerous. Francisco stiffened but didn't look away.
"You're the one who senses it," Suarez said. "The creature."
Francisco swallowed. "I don't… sense it. Not properly. I only…"
"Feel it," Suarez finished. "Fear it. Respond to it. That already puts you above most."
Francisco's voice cracked despite his effort to steady it. "I don't understand how it works. It's not something I control."
Suarez considered him closely long enough for Me to step between them.
"General, you didn't drag the boy here just to interrogate him."
"No," Suarez said, calmly circling the table. "I brought him because he's useful. And because he's the only one here who tells the truth."
My eyes narrowed. "Meaning?"
Suarez paced like a man measuring the floor. "Theo's story changes everything. A cave beneath the city. An encounter tied to the war. A voice that pulled him out while his comrades died." He stopped. "That wasn't coincidence."
I stiffened. "You know something."
Suarez folded his arms behind his back again. "More than you think. Less than you fear."
"And Theo?" Francisco asked. "You're not killing him?"
"If I wanted him dead," Suarez said, "I wouldn't have needed a trial."
That answer chilled both of them.
I pressed, "What are your plans for him, then?"
Suarez's jaw tightened slightly, a crack in the armor. "Not torture. Not execution. But tests."
"What kind of tests?" I demanded.
"The kind that tell me whether he's a weapon," Suarez said softly, "or a door."
The silence that followed was ice-cold.
I realized, suddenly and horribly, that Suarez wasn't afraid of the monster. He was studying it.
"General," Manuel said carefully, "if you're hiding something…"
"Everyone is hiding something," Suarez cut in. "Even you, Manuel."
I flinched.
Because somehow, impossibly, the General's eyes saw through me, saw the memory I had been trying to bury since Theo's testimony awakened it. That strange flash of a night I had convinced himself he imagined. The impossible voice I had heard once, long ago, when death was close enough to taste.
Suarez stepped toward them. "For now," he said, "only one thing matters." His dark gaze settled on Francisco again. "I trust him."
"Why?" Francisco whispered.
Suarez didn't blink. "Because there are things in this world older than monsters, older than war. And some boys are born closer to them than others."
He turned away, signaling the meeting was over.
The dismissal hit Me like a blow. I opened my mouth maybe to argue, maybe to demand more, but no words formed. Suarez had a way of shutting doors simply by choosing to stop speaking.
As they left, Francisco walked beside Me, silent and pale.
Lieutenant Alvarez met them at the exit. "How bad was it?"
I exhaled shakily. "Bad enough."
Mark placed a hand on Manuel's shoulder, firm, grounding. "Watch your back," he murmured. "The General doesn't come to a place like this without a reason."
"Do you know his reason?" l asked.
Mark hesitated. "I know he's not here only for Theo. And whatever he's waiting for… it's not over."
Meanwhile the hospital room smelled faintly of iron and antiseptic,two scents Ana had grown to associate with fear. Machines hummed in soft rhythm beside Jorge's bed, a reminder that something was keeping him alive other than her prayers.
She'd barely slept since she came back. The chair at his bedside had molded itself to her shape; the blanket folded over her shoulders carried the scent of her sweat and tears. She hadn't allowed herself to close her eyes,not fully. Every time she blinked too long, she saw him bruised and half dead on the day this happened.
If she slept, he might slip away again.
So she watched.
Watched the rise and fall of his chest. Watched his fingers twitch in dreams. Watched the color slowly seep back into his face weak, pale, but living.
She didn't realize she was crying until a warm tear slid down her cheek.
"...Mamá?"
Her breath caught.
Jorge's voice thin, rough, but real cut through every fear she'd buried beneath her ribs. His eyes fluttered open, hazy at first, then focusing, widening.
"Mamá," he repeated, stronger.
Ana's composure shattered.
She leaned over him, knees buckling, hands trembling as they cupped his face. "Mi niño… mi niño, estás aquí…"
My boy… you're here…
He lifted a hand slow, shaky and brushed her cheek. "Why are you crying?"
A laugh escaped her, half-choked, half-sob. "Because you scared me nearly to death."
Jorge managed a small, crooked smile. "Sorry."
"You always say sorry for the worst things," she whispered.
But beneath her smile, guilt gnawed at her like rust eating steel. Guilt that she couldn't save the children. Guilt that she'd taken a life in the hall. Guilt that she'd failed others while clinging desperately to the only son she had left.
She pushed it down, burying the weight beneath the warmth of his hand.
"How…" Jorge swallowed. "How bad was it?"
"You're alive," she said firmly. "That's all that matters."
But he saw the truth behind her eyes. He always did.
"The children?" he whispered.
Ana's throat closed. She tried to answer, she truly did, but her voice cracked before the words formed.
Jorge understood without hearing it. His jaw tightened. His gaze fell. Shame, heavy and sharp, settled onto his shoulders.
"I should've protected them," he murmured. "They trusted me."
"No," Ana said fiercely. She took his hand, gripping it like it held her upright. "No, Jorge. You did everything you could."
"Not enough," he whispered. "I froze just for a moment and that thing…"
His voice broke.
Ana pulled him into her arms, careful not to strain his bandages. "You lived," she whispered. "And living is not a failure."
He clung to her then not as the strong young man who guarded A'Coruña's children, but as the little boy she once carried home after scrapes and nightmares.
For a moment, the world outside didn't exist. No monsters. No trials. No soldiers.
Just a mother holding her son.
Almost immediately the door swung open suddenly, and the quiet room filled with noise footsteps, gasps, the sharp hitch of breath from too many chests at once.
Isa stood framed in the doorway first, eyes widening with disbelief before overflowing. In a heartbeat, she bolted toward Jorge, nearly knocking Ana aside as she wrapped her arms around him.
"You idiot," she sobbed into his neck. "You absolute idiot, don't you dare scare me like that again."
Jorge wheezed a laugh, hugging her back. "Missed you too."
Bruno entered next, shoulders rigid, face carved from stone. But the moment he saw Jorge sitting up, breathing, speaking his knees buckled just slightly. Relief hit him not like a wave, but like a punch. Hard. Unexpected. Painful.
"Boy's too stubborn to die," Bruno muttered, clearing his throat roughly. "Has been since he was a child."
But his voice trembled, betraying the truth: he had thought Jorge was gone. Another child swallowed by the darkness.
Ivan approached slower quiet, controlled. But his eyes softened, the tension in his jaw easing as he murmured, "Good to have you back, hermano."
Maria hovered last, leaning on the doorframe. Her smile was small but sincere, a tired pride glinting in her eyes. "Finally," she said, "one thing that hasn't completely fallen apart."
Jorge looked between them all, overwhelmed by the attention, the affection, the raw relief etched into their faces. For weeks, the hunting squad had been nothing but grief and violence and exhaustion.
This, seeing one of their own alive was a spark. A fragile one, but a spark nonetheless.
Matteo entered last.
He didn't run. Didn't shout. He simply stepped forward, clutching the ancient book to his chest like a life raft. His eyes met Jorge's dark, tired, layered with too many losses, too many horrors.
"You're really alive," Matteo whispered.
Jorge blinked at him. "Yeah. I guess I am."
Matteo nodded, swallowing hard. "Good. We… we need everyone we have."
It wasn't just relief in Matteo's voice. It was something quieter fear. Fear that if one of them fell, the monster might as well have won already.
Ana watched all of them their smiles, their hidden trembling hands, their red eyes and felt both warmth and dread twist together in her chest.
These were the children she had fought beside. The children she had nearly lost. And out there, somewhere in the shadows between the streets, something ancient was watching them.
Jorge asked "where was Francisco" he wanted to see his younger brother after so long.
Matteo answered saying " don't worry, I sent someone to notify him, immediately we heard news of your recovery."
The hallway outside the hospital room was dim, lit by flickering lamps that buzzed like dying insects. Manuel's boots echoed in slow, unsteady steps as he and Francisco walked side by side though their minds traveled entirely different paths.
Francisco walked fast at first, almost stumbling in his hurry. One thought raced through his chest so loudly it drowned out everything else:
Jorge is alive. Jorge is awake. Jorge is okay.
He didn't bother hiding his urgency the entire building could burn and he'd still run toward that room. After everything they'd lost, after the woods, after the children, after the trial… he needed this one good thing. He needed it like breath.
Manuel followed more slowly.
His face was tight, jaw clenched, shadows deepening beneath his eyes. Inside his skull, thoughts battled violently, General Suárez, the strange familiarity of the man's voice, that memory clawing at the edge of his mind like something half-buried trying to resurface.
He wasn't sure which terrified him more:
the general's intentions…
or
the possibility that the memory clawing back to life was real.
He rubbed his temple, trying to ease the pounding ache.
"Francisco," he called quietly.
But the boy didn't hear him. Or maybe he did, and he simply couldn't slow down.
Manuel didn't push.
He understood.
So he stayed silent as they reached the room door. The muffled voices inside Ana's soft murmur, Isa's laugh breaking through tears, Maria's tired quip eased Manuel's chest for the first time in hours.
Francisco pushed open the door….
and froze.
His breath broke out of him in a single choked sound.
Because there Jorge was. Awake. Smiling through exhaustion. Talking. Alive.
"Jorge…" Francisco whispered.
His older brother turned weak, bruised, bandaged, but smiling. "Hermano."
That one small word shattered Francisco.
He crossed the room in seconds and nearly toppled onto Jorge's bed, hugging him so tightly he made the boy wheeze.
"You you idiot," Francisco stammered, voice trembling so hard the words barely held shape. "Don't ever….. ever do that again."
Jorge laughed painfully. "You sound like Isa."
"I should sound like Isa!" Francisco snapped, wiping at his eyes. "I thought you were dead."
Jorge's smile softened. "I thought I was too."
Francisco pressed his forehead to his brother's shoulder, shaking. It wasn't a heroic moment. It wasn't triumphant. It was raw, messy, human.
Ana stepped back, giving them space but tears still slid silently down her cheeks. Isa sniffed loudly, pretending she wasn't crying. Matteo turned away, trying to hide the way emotion twisted his face. Even Bruno, hardened by war and grief, looked away and swallowed hard.
They had all nearly lost him.
And yet here he was.
Alive.
While the others embraced, Manuel lingered near the door. His hands were shoved deep into his coat pockets, shoulders hunched not from cold, but from something heavier.
He watched them celebrate life, but his mind was stuck somewhere else entirely.
Suárez's voice replayed in his head:
"The only person I trust in this city is the boy."
No explanation.
No logic.
Just quiet certainty and something darker behind his eyes.
Why Francisco?
What did he know?
What had he seen in him?
Manuel felt the memory again like a whisper brushing the edge of consciousness. A cave. A symbol. A child screaming not in fear, but in recognition. His own hands covered in dirt. The sound of something inhuman breathing just behind him—
He squeezed his eyes shut, steadying his breath.
Was that real?
Or was the monster already worming its way into his mind too?
"Manuel?" Ana's voice drew him back.
He blinked, realizing the room had gone quiet. Everyone was watching him now.
"Are you alright?" she asked softly.
He forced a smile…. thin, brittle. "Fine. Just… tired."
But Francisco saw the truth. He always did.
"What happened?" he asked quietly.
Manuel hesitated. He looked at Jorge still too fragile. Looked at Ana already drowning in fear. Looked at the others relieved but terrified beneath the surface.
He couldn't burden them.
Not yet.
Not until he understood what the hell was happening.
"Nothing that can't wait," he said.
And they accepted it for now.
For a few minutes, the room felt almost… warm. Safe. Manuel let himself stand in it, absorbing their laughter, their whispered relief, the way Ana refused to let go of Jorge's hand as if letting go might kill him.
But then someone glanced toward the window.
The moon was rising.
Silence fell.
And the fear crept back in.
Nightfall had passed without screams.
But nobody believed they were safe.
Not truly.
The creature was satisfied at least for now but how long did a have, one more night or less?
Out of all this questions, only one thing would linger the most, what if all this was part of a bigger plan for a greater feed.
Jorge swallowed, breaking the silence. "How long… until it comes back?"
Nobody answered.
Because nobody knew.
Manuel stepped forward finally. "We have time," he said more to steady them than himself. "Suárez is planning something. Dangerous, maybe. But he's not wrong about one thing."
They all looked at him.
"We're not prepared. Not enough. Not yet."
He exhaled slowly, meeting each of their eyes Ana's weary gaze, Maria's hardened calm, Isa's trembling hope, Matteo's burning determination, Francisco's quiet fear.
"But tonight," Manuel said, voice steadying, "no child died."
A small victory.
A fragile one.
But a victory nonetheless.
Francisco nodded slowly, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder.
"Then we keep going," he said. "Whatever it takes."
Manuel looked out the window once more.
The city was quiet.
Too quiet.
And somewhere within himself, that half-memory pulsed again like a warning heartbeat.
Whatever came next would not be simple.
Or easy.
Or safe.
But for this moment for this single night, they had hope.
Thin.
Fragile.
But alive.
Just like Jorge.
And hope was a dangerous thing for a monster built on fear.