Thunder cracked like a whip across the midnight sky as fire devoured St. Solace Hospital. The storm raged above, but inside, something far darker had awakened.
The neonatal wing was a warzone—ash curling like black snow, monitors beeping frantically, and the wailing of a lone infant slicing through the inferno. A soft, rhythmic cry. Fragile. Helpless.
Laura De La stood at the edge of the crib, drenched in sweat and soot. Her long hair clung to her cheeks like wet threads, her lips cracked and bloodless. Her eyes—once warm hazel—were now wide, unblinking, and filled with something unnatural. Grief. Fury. Madness.
Tears streamed silently down her hollow face as her trembling hand hovered over the newborn. The baby's chest rose and fell in soft hiccups of breath, unaware of the storm outside or the fury boiling inside the woman before her.
"This... this should have been you," Laura whispered, voice raw and broken. Her lips curled, not in hatred—but in twisted heartbreak. "My baby is gone. And you're still here... why?"
Behind her, the fire cast monstrous shadows, but it was the voice in her head—her mother's voice—that echoed louder.
"They took her from you. Replaced her with this... thing. Can't you see? Right the wrong, Laura. Bring balance."
Laura choked on a sob as her knees buckled. Her face crumpled in anguish—brows twisted, jaw clenched, every line of her face screaming hurt. But the pain didn't stop there. Her expression shifted—tears turned to trembling fury. Her mouth twisted into a silent snarl as the ancient curse began to spill from her lips. Words she barely understood but had been taught in whispers—secrets passed down by blood and venom.
"By pain, by fire, by womb betrayed... return the stolen, unmake the lie…"
The air thickened. The crib rattled.
And then—Rozzi and Nathan Hale burst through the smoke.
Rozzi's sharp gasp caught in her throat when she saw the woman at the crib. "No—Laura, stop!"
But the curse had already taken root.
The baby's soft wails became shrieks. Her back arched unnaturally. Black veins rippled beneath her skin. A sharp gust of darkness exploded outward like a wave of ink, smothering every light in the room.
Nathan shoved Rozzi behind him, arms spread, face taut with terror and resolve. "Run—GO!"
But she didn't. Rozzi's face twisted in horror and disbelief, lips quivering. Her gaze fixed on the crib, then on Laura—who now stood still, face slack, stunned by what she'd done.
Rozzi dropped to her knees, fingers weaving in desperate prayer. Her voice, raspy and choked with smoke, summoned a counter-chant—one her grandmother had taught her when she was a child too curious about old country rituals. Her voice shook. Her hands trembled.
"Earth protect... air cleanse... return the innocence... return the light…"
For a moment, the black tendrils hesitated.
But it wasn't enough.
The curse struck.
Nathan screamed without sound as flame erupted along his back, his face contorting in silent agony—teeth bared, eyes wide, tears slicing paths through soot.
Rozzi reached for him, her own body folding as the fire touched her—lips stretched into a final, defiant cry as she finished the last line of the chant.
And then—collapse.
Wood splintered. Glass shattered. The wing fell into ash and silence.
No survivors. No cries. No justice.
Only the scent of smoke… and the ghost of a lullaby.
Three Years Later
The wind howled like a grieving mother.
Asto De La stood at the rusted gate of St. Solace Hospital, now swallowed by ivy and rot. His breath fogged in the cold air as he stared at the building's broken frame—windows like blind eyes, walls cracked and bleeding rust. The scorched rooftop sagged like a wound that never healed.
Asto's jaw tightened. His coat whipped around him in the wind, but he didn't flinch. He had waited too long to tremble now.
His once-kind face was sharp with bitterness, eyes sunken, rimmed in red. Grief had carved deep lines into him. But tonight, it wasn't grief in his eyes.
It was fury.
He stepped through the gate. Gravel crunched beneath his boots like bone fragments. The front doors—half-ripped from their hinges—groaned as he pushed them open.
Inside, time had stopped and rotted. The smell hit him first—mildew, ash, coppery traces of old blood. Graffiti sprawled across the cracked tiles: symbols, faces with hollow eyes, slurs, and one word smeared in red paint like a scream:
"RETURN."
Asto's fingers twitched near the knife strapped to his thigh. Not for defense. For resolve.
His footsteps echoed through the corridor like slow drumbeats. His breath grew heavier. He was not alone.
This place—this tomb—breathed.
The walls pulsed faintly as if remembering. Every crack whispered secrets. The overhead lights flickered despite being long disconnected from the grid. A chill ran down Asto's spine.
He paused outside the neonatal wing, the epicenter of the fire. The sealed door stood blackened, untouched since that night.
His throat tightened.
He remembered Laura—beautiful, bright, soft-hearted Laura—before her world unraveled. Before the fire. Before the whispers.
Her haunted stare. Her sudden screams in the night. The day she vanished, barefoot into the storm, never to return.
Asto clenched his fists. His arms shook as rage collided with sorrow in his chest like thunder.
"Why?" he whispered, voice cracking. "Why didn't you tell me the truth?"
He took a deep breath and pushed the door.
It swung open with a shriek.
Inside, the room was frozen in time. Crumpled hospital beds. Half-melted IV stands. The burnt imprint of a crib—still etched into the floor like a scar.
Then he saw it.
In the far corner—a sigil.
Carved deep into the wall. Ancient. Pulsing faintly. The same sigil from Laura's journal. The one she never explained. The one that bled when he touched it.
As he stepped closer, the air grew thicker. His breath caught. The shadows… moved.
He turned sharply—face taut, muscles braced.
Something scurried across the ceiling. Fast. Wrong.
"A hallucination," he muttered, sweat beading on his brow.
But then he heard it.
A soft, shuddering breath behind him.
He turned slowly—eyes wide, face pale, lips parted in disbelief.
A shape stood in the dark. Small. Frail. A child.
Her skin was gray. Veins black. Her mouth too wide. Eyes glowing faintly—innocence swallowed by something ancient. Something cursed.
She tilted her head.
And smiled.
"Daddy?"
Asto stumbled back, slamming into the crib's edge. His face twisted—eyebrows drawn in horror, lips curled in revulsion, eyes brimming with pain.
"No," he whispered, voice breaking. "No, you're not real. You can't be—"
The girl stepped closer. The air dropped. Her feet didn't touch the ground.
"Mommy said you'd come. She said you'd finish what she started."
Asto backed away, chest heaving. His expression cracked—half terror, half rage.
"What did she do to you?" he growled. "What are you?"
The lights exploded above them—glass rained down like falling stars. And the girl laughed. Not like a child. But like something ancient wearing a child's voice.
Then she vanished into smoke.
And Asto De La was left in the dark… alone.
Or so he thought.
Then it hit him—ice-cold, invisible, and merciless. One second he was standing, the next he was flying backward, slammed into another room by a force that felt like death itself had reached out and touched him. The air whooshed from his lungs as he crashed to the floor, and the cold didn't leave—it clung to him, sank into his bones, whispered in his ears like a curse. His heart pounded against frozen ribs, panic rising fast. Whatever it was… it wanted him gone. Or worse—it wanted him afraid.
Asto's eyes strained in the darkness, every breath a sharp rasp in the suffocating silence. The cold wasn't just on his skin—it was inside him, creeping into his bones like icy fingers squeezing tight. He could feel it: something waiting, just beyond sight, something that didn't belong to this world.
His muscles trembled as he struggled to stand, the weight of the unseen pressing down on his chest.
"What the hell was that…?" His voice was barely more than a broken whisper, swallowed by the shadows that seemed to pulse around him.
He called out, voice cracking: "Laura…" But the name was hollow, meaningless now. Whatever this was—it had already taken her away.
Then, as if carried on the breath of a dead wind, a whisper curled through the air behind him:
"You cannot stop what's coming."
His heart stopped. Time froze.
And then—something shifted in the darkness, a movement so faint it could have been a trick of the mind, but Asto knew better.
He dared not look.
Because whatever waited there… was watching him.
Asto's jaw clenched tightly, lips pressed into a thin, furious line. His brows knit together, eyes burning with a volatile mix of anger and heartbreak. The fear inside him twisted raw, fueling a fierce determination that refused to break.
His fists curled into tight balls, knuckles whitening as his trembling shoulders hunched forward under the weight of grief. Each ragged breath was a battle between rage and sorrow, and despite the cold gnawing at his bones, he stepped forward with defiance.
"Show yourself," he growled, voice low and shaking. "I'm not afraid."
But even as the words left his lips, his eyes betrayed him—glimmers of unshed tears flickering beneath the fire, exposing how deeply this loss cut him.
Then, from the suffocating darkness, a whisper—cold, venomous, impossible to ignore—brushed past him:
"You're too late."
A cold breath traced the back of his neck. A presence stirred behind him.
And this time, he didn't dare turn around.
Asto's breath caught in his throat as the whisper faded.
Then—behind him—a lullaby began.
Soft. Familiar. Sung in Laura's voice.
The same lullaby he used to sing with her… before everything fell apart.
His blood turned to ice.
Because Laura had never sung that lullaby alone.
And from deep within the dark, something began to hum along.