Quenara River,
It wasn't even proper morning yet. The sun hovered near the horizon, casting a dull amber hue across the misty waters. Birds were only beginning to stir from their nests, unaware of the horrors beneath.
A lone wooden boat rocked gently on the river's surface. Standing aboard was Logan, a fisherman in his forties, weathered by years of toil. His hands, calloused and cracked, expertly cast a net into the dark waters. He was a man of duty, up before dawn to provide for his wife and two daughters—Becky and Christy—so they might one day escape the cycle of poverty.
He exhaled deeply, soaking in the morning's deceptive peace. But unseen, a pair of eyes had already locked onto him from below.
Logan felt it—an itch at the back of his neck, the primal instinct of being watched. He paused, scanning the ripples around him.
Nothing.
He chuckled nervously, rubbing his temples. "Too many late nights... I'm imagining things."
He resumed his work, whistling a low tune to push back the rising unease. The sound carried over the water, gentle and lonely.
The eyes crept closer.
Once again, Logan froze. The eerie silence had deepened—no birds, no wind, only the water.
A sudden CRACK exploded from below as something immense struck the boat. Wood splintered. Logan was hurled into the river with a shout, swallowed by cold.
Gasping, he kicked into a frantic swim. He was strong, trained—he could make it.
He dared a glance back.
And there it was.
A towering silhouette in the mist, ridged and pulsing with an unnatural glow, eyes like voids, mouth stretching too wide.
His limbs froze.
Tears mixed with the river.
"Forgive me... Becky... Christy... Louis..."
I love you…
His final breath escaped in silence.
---
The Lighthart Residence,
Later that morning,
Kite sat hunched on the living room couch. The house, once warm with memory, felt hollow now. The STF officers had long gone. Silence pressed against the walls.
Confused. Angry. Alone.
His hands trembled as he buried his face in them. Chu-Chu nuzzled against his chest, offering the only comfort he had left.
Suddenly—
"No!! Why!!"
The scream shattered the quiet.
Kite's head jerked up. He darted outside. The scream had come from the Johnsons' home.
A crowd had formed. Kite shoved his way through, heartbeat quickening.
There, laid on the cobblestones, was the mangled corpse of Logan.
One arm missing.
Chest torn open.
Face... unrecognizable.
Kite reeled. His stomach lurched. He covered his mouth, blinking rapidly.
Chu-Chu dove deeper into his pocket, whimpering.
Kite could barely breathe.
Then—
"Kite... look what that monster did to my dad..."
Becky. Her blue eyes were bloodshot, tears streaming down her dirt-smudged cheeks. She collapsed into his arms.
Kite held her tight, trying not to fall apart himself.
"It's—It's… all going to be alright, trust me. I'm right here for you..."
But his heart said otherwise.
Because deep down, he knew—
Something had awoken.
And it wasn't going to stop.