Tick. Tick. Tick.
The sound of the clock was the only thing alive in the room.
The air smelled of old medicine and damp wood. The walls were peeling, revealing the gray concrete underneath. This was a typical house in the Brown State—a place for people who were strong enough to survive, but not important enough to matter.
In the small, outer room, a boy lay on a thin mattress. He had been there for five months. Still. Silent. A living corpse.
In the next room, Mr. and Mrs. Mughel sat on the edge of their bed. The heavy silence between them was suffocating.
"Is he… is he actually going to wake up?" Mrs. Mughel whispered. Her hands were shaking.
Mr. Mughel stared at the floor. He looked twenty years older than he was. "I don't know. The doctor said he will never wake up. But he also said… if he does wake up, it won't be a miracle."
"It will be a curse," Mrs. Mughel finished his sentence. Tears welled in her eyes. "What we decided… I don't think I can do it. He is our son."
"We have no choice," Mr. Mughel said, his voice hard but cracking with emotion. "You heard the warning. If he wakes up, he won't be the boy we knew. He will be something else. Something dangerous."
Creeeeak.
The rusty hinges of the bedroom door screamed in the silence.
Mrs. Mughel jumped. She looked at the door. Suddenly, her worried face lit up with a desperate, hopeful smile.
"Son?"
He was standing there. He was safe. He was sound. He looked exactly like the boy she had raised, but his eyes were different. They were voids. Empty. Cold.
Mrs. Mughel's smile froze. Then, it slowly faded into horror.
A single beam of moonlight cut across the room. It landed on the boy's right hand. He was holding a kitchen knife. Thick, dark liquid dripped from the tip.
Drip. Drip.
"Son?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "Why is there a knife in your hand? Why… why are you covered in blood?"
The boy didn't blink. He didn't speak. He simply moved.
It happened in a blur. He stepped forward, faster than a human should move. The silence broke with a wet shkkt sound.
Mrs. Mughel's hands flew to her neck. She tried to speak, but only a gurgling sound came out. A bright red line opened up on her throat. She fell sideways onto the bed, her eyes wide with confusion and betrayal.
Mr. Mughel didn't scream. He didn't run.
He turned his face away as the blood sprayed. He sat there like a stone statue. He knew this would happen. He knew the reason.
The boy stood over his father. His face was emotionless.
Mr. Mughel stood up slowly. He looked at the dead body of his wife, then at his son. Tears streamed down his face, but they were tears of apology, not fear.
He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around the boy. A hug. A final embrace.
"I'm so glad to see you again, son," Mr. Mughel whispered into the boy's ear. "You have a lot of responsibilities on your shoulders now. The world is cruel, but you… you are necessary."
The boy remained stiff.
"As long as He is with you," the father said, looking deep into the boy's empty eyes, "I am not worried about you. Come on. I'm ready now."
Mr. Mughel grabbed the boy's hand. He placed the bloody knife against his own chest, right over his heart.
"Do it."
Mr. Mughel pushed. The boy pushed.
The blade pierced the skin, the muscle, and the heart. Mr. Mughel gasped, his body seizing up. He slumped forward, his weight falling onto his son. The boy let him slide to the floor, gentle and precise.
It was done.
The boy stood alone in the room. His family was gone.
He checked the clock on the wall. 4:45 A.M.
Time was running.
He walked back to his own small room. He moved with terrifying calmness. He lay down on his mattress, assuming the exact position he had been in for five months.
He held the knife with both hands. He calculated the angle. He needed it to look real. He needed to be a victim.
Thud.
He drove the knife into his own chest, missing the lung and heart by a fraction of an inch. Pain exploded in his body, but he didn't make a sound. He pulled his hand away, letting the blood pool around him.
His vision began to blur. The last thing he saw was the second hand of the clock ticking.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Morning arrived with the sun, but the horror was waiting in the shadows.
Huzaifa, the boy's childhood friend, stood at the main gate. He came every morning to check on him.
"Mrs. Mughel?" he called out. No answer. "Uncle?"
The main door was slightly open. That was wrong.
Huzaifa stepped inside. The air smelled metallic, like copper coins. He saw a dark trail leading from the boy's room.
"Hello?"
He pushed open the door to the boy's room. He froze.
The boy was lying in a pool of blood, a knife sticking out of his chest.
"No… No!" Huzaifa panicked. He scrambled backward, grabbing his phone. He dialed the ambulance, his fingers shaking. "Help! Send help! There's been an attack!"
He hung up and rushed into the hallway. "Mr. Mughel! Mrs. Mughel!"
He ran to the first door—the middle brother's room. He kicked it open.
Huzaifa screamed.
On the floor lay the body of the 15-year-old brother. But it didn't look like a boy anymore. His arms and legs were bent at impossible angles, snapped like dry twigs. His eyes were popping out of his head. Someone had choked him with inhuman force. The deep cuts on his skin weren't meant to kill him quickly—they were meant to cause pain.
Huzaifa gagged, covering his mouth. He backed out and ran to the second door. The 12-year-old sister.
He opened it.
She was slumped against the wall. Her body faced the door, but her head… her head was twisted all the way around, facing the wall behind her. Her neck had been snapped like a toy.
Huzaifa fell to his knees. He couldn't breathe.
He crawled to the parents' room. He pushed the door open.
Mr. and Mrs. Mughel lay on the floor, their hands almost touching. A pool of blood connected them.
Outside, the wail of sirens cut through the morning air. The ambulance had arrived. The police were coming.
Huzaifa sat in the hallway, surrounded by death, sobbing into his hands.
In the outer room, on the bloody mattress, the boy lay absolutely still. He forced his breathing to be shallow. He kept his eyeballs perfectly motionless under his lids.
To the world, he was a tragic victim, still trapped in a coma. But inside, his mind was sharp, awake, and watching.
He was alive. And he was hungry. Deep in the back of his mind, a shadow whispered a single, demanding command: Feed.!!!!!!!!