*Trigger warnings* : Unhealthy family dynamics (manipulation), fighting, swearing, pain/injury, violence, abduction, aliens? Brainwashing, slight torture, mentions of death.
He'll smirk. He'll act like I'm just another lost little girl coming to him for help. And then he'll name his price. Because he always does.
The tires crunch over loose gravel as I pull up to the house, the engine humming low beneath me. It's not much to look at—just an old, run-down place on the outskirts of the city, the kind of place that people pretend not to notice. The windows are tinted, the porch light flickering, and there's a cigarette butt still burning on the steps, like someone left in a hurry or got distracted.
Figures.
I kill the engine and sit there for a second, gripping the wheel. My stomach twists. I don't want to be here. Every instinct in my body tells me to turn around, that this is a mistake, that I should find another way.
But I'm already here.
With a sharp exhale, I step out of the car, boots hitting the pavement harder than I mean them to. The night air is thick with the smell of gasoline and rain-soaked asphalt, and the house looms over me like it knows I don't belong here.
I shove my hands in my jacket pockets and head for the door.
I don't knock.
I know better.
Instead, I rap my knuckles against the frame, sharp and deliberate, then lean back on my heels. A second passes. Then another. I hear movement inside—someone shifting, muttering, the distinct click of a safety being switched off.
Then the door swings open.
And there he is.
My uncle leans against the frame, looking me up and down like I'm a ghost from a past he'd rather forget. He doesn't look surprised to see me. But then again, he never does.
"Well, well," he drawls, taking a slow drag from a cigarette. His eyes flick to the car behind me, then back to my face, sharp and assessing. "Look what the cat dragged in."
I don't smile. "I need information."
His smirk widens, lazy and sharp all at once. "Yeah, no shit. You wouldn't be here otherwise."
I cross my arms, standing my ground. "Are you gonna help me or not?"
He exhales smoke, watching me through the haze like he's weighing his options.
I step inside, and the door swings shut behind me with a dull thud. The air is thick with stale smoke and something metallic—gun oil, maybe. The place is a mess. Papers and half-empty takeout containers litter the coffee table, a duffel bag sits half-zipped on the couch, and there's a bottle of whiskey perched precariously on the armrest.
Nothing's changed.
My uncle moves ahead of me, taking his time as he strolls toward the kitchen, like this isn't the first time I've shown up on his doorstep needing something. He taps the ash off his cigarette into the sink and gestures vaguely toward the fridge.
"If you're gonna make yourself at home, there's beer. Or something stronger."
I ignore that. "I don't have time for this. I need—"
He holds up a hand. "You need information. Yeah, I got that part, niece."
I don't rise to the bait.
Instead, I step closer, arms still crossed, my voice hard. "I'm looking for something. A piece of tech. Underground trade. High-end security."
That gets his attention. His cigarette hangs between his fingers as he studies me, like he's trying to decide if I even know what I'm asking for. Then, he huffs out a quiet laugh and flicks his cigarette into the sink.
"Shit," he mutters, shaking his head. "You don't make small requests, do you?"
"I don't have time for small."
He leans against the counter, arms folding across his chest, and I already know what's coming next. The price. There's always a price.
"I'll tell you what I know," he says, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. "But you know how this works, kid. You don't walk in here after all this time and just get free favors."
I force myself to hold his gaze. "What do you want?"
He lets the question sit in the air for a second, like he's enjoying the moment. Then he pushes off the counter and nods toward the couch.
"Sit down," he says. "We'll talk."
I hesitate. This was a mistake. I know this was a mistake.
But I sit anyway.
I sit stiffly on the worn-out couch as my uncle sifts through the mess on his coffee table, pulling out a battered laptop and flipping it open. The glow from the screen casts deep shadows across his face as he types, cigarette still balanced between his fingers.
"So, let me get this straight," he mutters, tapping a key. "You're looking for a high-end piece of tech. Something top secret. Something no one's supposed to have their hands on. And you don't even know what it is?"
I clench my jaw. "I was hoping you could help with that part."
He snorts. "Of course you were."
Despite his tone, his fingers keep moving, typing in something I can't see from my angle. Then, after a few beats, he exhales sharply through his nose and leans back, rubbing his jaw.
"Well. Ain't that something."
I lean forward. "What?"
He tilts the screen toward me, and my stomach drops.
A grainy image stares back at me—a small, metallic object, no bigger than a fist. Sleek. Black. Carved with markings that don't belong to any known language. It looks...wrong, somehow, like it shouldn't exist in this world. My pulse quickens.
"What the hell is that?" I ask.
"Something that shouldn't be here," my uncle says flatly. He taps the screen. "Best I can tell, it's alien. Off-world tech. A singularity core—unstable as hell. If it's activated the wrong way, well..." He shrugs. "Say goodbye to the planet."
I stare at him, waiting for the punchline.
It doesn't come.
I swallow hard. "You're saying this thing could—"
"Collapse everything into a black hole?" He grins, but there's no humor in it. "Yeah, kid. That's exactly what I'm saying."
I exhale, gripping the edge of my seat. This just got a lot worse.
"Who has it?" I demand.
His grin fades. "That's where things get tricky." He closes the laptop with a soft click, giving me a look that sends a chill down my spine. "Finding out what you're looking for? That was the easy part. Finding out where it is? That's gonna cost you."
I tense. "How much?"
His smirk returns, but there's something calculating in his eyes now.
"We're not talking money."
I let the silence stretch between us, my fingers digging into my knee as I stare him down. He thinks he has the upper hand. He always does.
I lean back, crossing my arms. "This is exactly why my dad kicked you out of the family, you know."
His smirk doesn't even flicker. If anything, he looks amused.
"Oh?" he drawls, tilting his head. "And here I thought it was because I had a different definition of loyalty."
My jaw tightens. He's not wrong. But that doesn't mean I'll let him win this.
I scoff. "Right. You mean loyalty to the highest bidder?"
He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "See, this is why you kids are exhausting. Always painting everything black and white. Your old man likes to pretend he's better than me, but deep down, you know we're the same."
I bristle at that. "You're nothing like him."
His smirk widens. "If you say so." He taps a finger against his laptop. "But if I were really as bad as you want to believe, I wouldn't have even entertained this conversation, now would I?"
Damn him.
I look away, my nails digging into my arm. I hate that he won't take the bait.
"Like I said," he continues, voice maddeningly casual, "I can get you what you need. But it's gonna cost you."
I glare at him. "And what exactly do you want?"
He leans forward, his grin sharp as a knife.
"I'll let you know when I figure it out."
The longer I stay here, the worse it gets.
My uncle takes his time, lounging around like he doesn't have the key to everything I need locked behind that smirk of his. He makes a show of pouring himself a drink, flipping through an old book, even stepping outside for a cigarette while I sit there, stewing.
This isn't a negotiation. It's a waiting game.
And I hate waiting.
I pace the length of his tiny living room, the floor creaking beneath my boots. "You're enjoying this," I mutter.
He exhales smoke from the open doorway. "Immensely."
I glare. "You already know what you want. Just say it."
He takes another drag, eyes flicking toward me with something unreadable behind them. "Maybe."
I swear to God.
I'm about two seconds from throwing something when he finally steps back inside, shutting the door with a click. He doesn't speak right away, just watches me with that same amused patience, like he's measuring how far he can push me before I snap.
Then, finally, he exhales.
"Alright, kid. I've decided."
I cross my arms. "And?"
His smirk is slow, deliberate.
"You owe me a favor."
I don't react right away, because that—of all things—was not what I expected.
"A favor," I repeat, wary.
"That's right." My uncle downs the rest of his whiskey, setting the glass on the counter with a deliberate clink. "And lucky for you, I already know what it is."
That's worse. So much worse.
I exhale sharply. "Alright. What?"
He leans against the counter, arms crossing over his chest, and gives me that slow, knowing smirk.
"You're gonna help me with a little job."
I knew it.
I laugh once, humorless. "No. Absolutely not."
He lifts a brow, not the least bit surprised. "Then I guess you can go ahead and figure out your little doomsday device situation on your own."
I clench my jaw so tight it hurts.
"You're seriously holding the fate of the planet hostage for some job?"
He snorts. "Oh, please. You and I both know the planet's been on the verge of imploding for years. One alien artifact isn't gonna change that." He gestures lazily with two fingers. "Besides, it's not like I'm asking you to kill someone. Just a quick in-and-out. Get a drive. Bring it back. No big deal."
I stare at him, waiting for the catch.
"There's always a big deal with you."
He grins. "Not my fault you lack trust in family."
I resist the urge to throw something. "What's the job?"
He picks up a folded slip of paper from the table and holds it out. "All the details you need."
I don't move. "I want to hear it from you."
He rolls his eyes but obliges. "It's a retrieval mission. There's a safe house on the south side—guy there's holding onto something that belongs to me. I need it back."
I frown. "And you can't get it yourself because?"
His smirk deepens. "Because he doesn't know you."
I really don't like where this is going.
I snatch the paper out of his hand and scan the address.
"Fine," I grit out. "But if this is some elaborate setup, I swear—"
"Relax, kid," he says, grinning as he claps a hand on my shoulder. "It's just business."
I don't trust this. Not even a little. But I also don't have a choice.
I step out into the cold night air, gripping the paper so tight it crumples in my fist. My uncle stands in the doorway behind me, watching with that infuriatingly smug expression, like he already knows I'm going to go through with it.
I whirl around. "If this turns out to be a setup—"
"Then you'll shoot your way out of it. Like you always do."
I scowl. "You're a real piece of work, you know that?"
He grins. "And yet, you're still here."
I don't dignify that with a response. Instead, I shove the paper into my pocket and head to the car. I slide into the driver's seat, grip the wheel, and take a deep breath.
I could just drive away. Forget the job. Forget my uncle.
But then what? I'd be back at square one, wasting more time tracking this thing down myself while Miras catches up. And if he finds it first, he's going to be dealing with something neither of us understand.
I start the engine.
******
The address isn't far. The south side is quiet this time of night—mostly abandoned warehouses and rundown buildings, the kind of place where no one asks questions. I park a block away, keeping my head down as I move.
The safe house isn't much to look at. Just another forgotten building, windows boarded up, no obvious signs of life. I press my back against the brick wall and listen.
Nothing.
I exhale. In and out, no big deal.
I slip inside, moving carefully through the darkness. The air smells like dust and old wood, but there's a faint hum of electricity somewhere nearby. Someone's definitely been here recently.
Then I hear it. A quiet shuffle. A presence.
I freeze. My fingers twitch toward my weapon.
And then a voice—low, rough, annoyed—cuts through the silence.
"You've got about five seconds to tell me who you are before this gets ugly."
I don't move. Don't breathe.
The voice came from the shadows, just out of sight. My fingers brush the grip of my gun, but I don't draw it. Not yet.
"Depends," I say carefully. "You the guy holding onto something that doesn't belong to you?"
A beat of silence. Then—
A chuckle.
It's low and humorless, and something about it puts me on edge.
"That's funny," the voice says. "Because from where I'm standing, you're the one breaking into my place, acting like you've got the upper hand."
I shift my weight, subtly adjusting my stance. "Wouldn't be the first time."
A light flicks on.
It's dim—just a single overhead bulb buzzing faintly—but it's enough to illuminate the man now standing in front of me.
He's tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a black jacket that's seen better days. His face is sharp, all hard lines and a couple of days' worth of stubble. And his eyes—dark, cold, assessing—lock onto mine like he's already decided I'm trouble.
Which, fair enough.
I take a slow step forward. "I don't care who you are. I just need what you took."
He tilts his head, unimpressed. "And you think I'm just gonna hand it over?"
"That depends," I say. "Do you really want to see what happens if you don't?"
His smirk flickers, but he doesn't back down.
Then, without warning, he moves.
Fast.
I barely have time to register it before I'm dodging—his fist swings toward my ribs, but I twist away, pivoting sharply. He comes at me again, this time aiming for my shoulder, and I barely manage to block him.
Okay. So that's how we're playing this.
I drop low and sweep my leg out, aiming to knock him off balance. He stumbles, but only for a second before recovering, throwing another punch that I sidestep just in time.
I don't bother holding back. I launch myself forward, catching him in the stomach with an elbow. He grunts, staggering back a step, but instead of getting angry—
He laughs.
"Not bad," he admits. "For a kid."
He moves to counter my next strike—grabbing my wrist, twisting, trying to use my momentum against me—but I've been trained by better fighters than him. I wrench free, flipping my grip and yanking him forward instead. His knee almost buckles when I slam mine into his thigh.
But instead of cursing me out or swinging again, he suddenly stops.
His hand is still half-raised, his stance still tense, but his expression—
It shifts.
His brows pull together, his mouth opens slightly, and there's a flicker of something like recognition in his eyes.
I don't hesitate. I slam my fist into his ribs.
He grunts, staggering back, but his hands stay up—not in defense, not in retaliation, but in hesitation.
Then he exhales sharply.
"Shit."
I roll my shoulders, fists still clenched. "What?"
He lets out a breath, half a laugh, shaking his head. "You're Cherish Battle."
I freeze for just half a second.
Not Cherish. Not my uncle's niece. But Cherish Battle.
He knows who I am.
My pulse spikes, but I don't let it show. I narrow my eyes, shifting my stance slightly. "And?"
His smirk is different now—less cocky, more wary. Like he's realizing this fight could go south for him.
"I just figured I was dealing with some errand girl," he says, rolling his shoulder. "Didn't think the old bastard would send you."
I grit my teeth. "Well, surprise."
He huffs out another breath, then glances past me, like he's suddenly checking the exits. Like he's rethinking everything.
His gaze flicks to the door, then back to me, sizing me up with a new kind of caution.
"You're not here for the package, are you?" he says, voice low, almost calculating.
I don't answer right away, trying to read him. I've seen enough of these types—survivalists, hustlers, the kind who play all sides— and something in the way he's standing, like he's waiting for me to make the next move, tells me he's not in a rush to get rid of me.
"I'm here for what you've got," I say, taking a step forward, keeping my tone steady. "The package. The thing your boss is too scared to handle himself."
His lips curl into something that's half-smile, half-grimace. "My boss... Right. Guess I should've known you weren't just another kid trying to play at being a tough guy. You're the real deal." He pauses, taking in my stance, the cold look in my eyes. "You're Cherish Battle, after all."
"What do you want?" I ask, voice sharp. "If you've figured it out, then we can skip the games."
He laughs—quiet, rueful, like the weight of the situation is finally starting to settle on him. "You're smart. I'll give you that."
Then, his eyes narrow as he glances behind me—at the cracked window, the faint outline of a silhouette. His hand moves quickly, reaching for something tucked under his jacket.
I'm already moving before I fully register the motion. I step to the side, hands flying to intercept whatever he's trying to pull out. A weapon? A device?
But it's not a weapon.
It's a flash drive.
"Get that away from me," he mutters, like he's trying to shield it from someone—or something.
"Tell me what's on it," I demand, voice low but edged with urgency. "Is that the thing I need?"
He shakes his head, eyes flicking to the door again, and then back to me, as if he's weighing his options.
"Not if you want to stay alive," he says softly, voice steady despite the rapid-fire pulse in his veins. "You're better off walking away now. Before it gets too deep."
I don't move. "I don't walk away."
"You're in over your head," he adds. "You don't know what you're messing with. That device? It's more than just a tool. It's a signal. A beacon."
"A beacon?"
"Yes." He takes a step closer, and I instinctively pull the gun from its holster, aiming it at him. He doesn't flinch. "You think the guy you're looking for is the only one who wants it? They're all coming."
My pulse spikes. The hum is deafening now, vibrating in my skull.
"Who's coming?" I ask, barely able to hear my own voice.
But he doesn't answer. Instead, he looks down at the ground, his gaze distant.
"Too late," he mutters, almost to himself. "Too damn late."
Too my surprise, he throws the flash drive down at my feet. We both watch as it bounces past me, landing in a tuff of grass.
I freeze, my heart skipping a beat as the flash drive hits the ground. The metallic click as it bounces makes my stomach twist. It wasn't what I expected—not at all.
He watches me carefully, no longer speaking, just observing.
I glance down at the flash drive, uncertainty creeping in. Why did he throw it away? Does he not need it? Or is this some twisted game, a bait to see what I'll do next?
"Pick it up," he says softly, his voice now tinged with something darker. "You'll need it."
My eyes flick back to him, then to the small device lying just a few feet away. The same device that could destroy everything. The very reason I'm here.
It seems like too easy a choice. Too obvious.
But I can't just pick it up without knowing what's behind his sudden shift in demeanor. Something's not right. I don't trust him.
"What's your game?" I ask, my voice sharper than I intend.
He raises an eyebrow but says nothing, just watches me, his expression unreadable. He isn't giving me anything to work with.
I shift my weight, hands still steady on the fire escape ladder, my mind racing.
"I'm not stupid," I mutter. "You don't just throw away your bargaining chip."
"Why? You think I'm after you now?" He laughs, but there's a hollow sound to it. "You've already done enough damage. I've made my choice. This"—he gestures vaguely at the flash drive—"it's not mine to keep. You're on your own with it now. But trust me," he says, leaning slightly toward me, his voice low, "you'll regret taking it."
Regret?
I stare at the device, then back at him. The tension in the air is palpable. His words echo in my mind—you'll regret it. The gnawing sense of unease begins to deepen, but I can't back down now. Not when I'm this close.
"Good luck little Battle, " he says as he steps back inside the safehouse. "You'll need it."
I walk into my uncle's house, the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead almost deafening in the silence. The air feels stale, thick with the kind of cold indifference only he can project. He's sitting at his desk, eyes glued to his computer screen, the faint glow illuminating his face in the otherwise dim room.
I step forward, the sound of my boots hitting the floor breaking the silence. He doesn't look up immediately, not until I place the flash drive on the desk with a sharp clink.
"I've got what you want," I say, trying to sound confident, even though my nerves are fraying with every second I stand here.
He glances down at the drive but doesn't reach for it. Instead, he leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. His expression is neutral, like everything's just another transaction to him.
"I assume you've come to trade it for the information you need?" His voice is as cold as ever, and it doesn't help that he's not even making an effort to acknowledge the bruises that are still visible on my arms.
I nod, but I don't say anything. I've learned a long time ago that talking too much around him is a waste. He already knows what I want.
"You're lucky I'm in the mood to help," he says after a pause, leaning forward slightly. He finally picks up the flash drive, inspecting it like it's no more important than a paperweight. "I've got some friends who can help me decipher this, but it'll cost you."
I feel my stomach tighten. There's always a cost with him, and I'm not sure if I'm ready to pay whatever price he's about to set.
"Just tell me what I need to know," I say, my voice tight with frustration. "No games. I don't have time."
He smirks, the kind of smug, calculating grin that makes my skin crawl. "No, I don't think you do." He slides the flash drive into his computer, his fingers typing rapidly on the keyboard. The screen flashes a few times, and I watch the data begin to unfold before my eyes.
A map. Coordinates. A location.
"There," he says, pointing to the screen without looking at me. "That's where you'll find what you're looking for. But..." He trails off, glancing up at me. "You should know that not everyone wants you to succeed in this."
I grit my teeth, unwilling to let him see how much his words bother me. I've heard the warnings, I've seen the threats. But I'm already too far in to back out now. The information I need is right in front of me. The artifact. The device. It's all too close.
"Is that all?" I ask, already feeling the urge to leave before he tries to wrangle me into some other deal.
He leans back in his chair, his eyes flicking over to the map on the screen again, lingering on the coordinates. "For now. But you know, Cherish..." He pauses, his gaze sharpening, "there's always a price for everything. You can't just waltz in and take what you want without consequences."
I don't have time for his lectures, but I hold his gaze, unwilling to show any weakness. I need that location, and he's given it to me.
"I'll deal with the consequences," I say, my voice low and steady, "but I'll be taking that device first."
He lets out a dry laugh, but there's no amusement in it. "We'll see, won't we?" His tone drips with something darker, something I can't quite place, but I don't care. Not now.
I pick up the flash drive again, slipping it into my pocket. The map is burned into my memory, and that's all I need. I don't need him anymore, and I certainly don't need his warnings.
"Thanks for the help," I say, turning on my heel and heading toward the door.
I don't wait for him to respond. He won't stop me, and I'm done letting him think he has control over me. But as I step into the hallway, a nagging feeling lingers in the back of my mind. Something about this place, about this conversation, doesn't sit right.
I shake it off. I don't have time for doubts. The mission's waiting.
The night is thick with fog as I make my way through the darkened streets, my footsteps echoing off the damp pavement. I keep my hood pulled low, my senses sharp. My uncle's information led me here—a desolate dockyard on the outskirts of the city. It's the kind of place people go when they don't want to be found. The buildings are rusted and half-collapsed, the air heavy with the salty sting of the ocean. It feels like a forgotten part of the world.
As I near the docks, I can hear the faint sound of water slapping against the pier, the creaking of old wood beneath the weight of time. It's eerily quiet, the kind of stillness that makes your skin prickle with unease. I duck behind a crate, peering through a gap. Several crew members stand in a tight circle near the engine room. Their backs are to me, their conversation hushed, but that's not what makes my breath catch.
It's the way they move.
Their limbs are too fluid, their heads tilting at angles that no human should manage. Their voices—though they mimic human tones—have an underlying resonance, like a radio slightly out of tune. And their eyes, when they turn slightly in my direction, gleam with an unnatural sheen in the dim light.
Not human. Not even close. Their disguises ripple like oil on water, human features melting away to reveal something wrong. Too-tall bodies, limbs bending in ways they shouldn't, skin that shimmers as it struggles to hold its shape. Their mouths move, but the sounds that come out are all wrong—garbled, like they're trying to remember how to speak.
I swallow hard. This just went to hell fast.
Something cold wraps around my wrist—too fast, too strong. I twist, try to pull away, but another one grabs me from behind, yanking my arms back. The drive slips from my grip, hitting the floor with a clank.
"No—"
I lash out, my boot connecting with something solid. One of them snarls, but it doesn't let go. They're too strong. Too fast.
My gun is wrenched from my fingers, clattering to the floor. A sharp pain spikes at the back of my head, and the room tilts dangerously.
Then—darkness.
******
When I come to, the first thing I notice is the cold.
The floor beneath me is metal, slick and unfamiliar. The air smells sharp—sterile, with an undercurrent of something electric. A low hum vibrates through my bones.
I blink against the harsh overhead lights. My arms are bound behind me, thick restraints cutting into my wrists. My legs are locked in place, too.
I'm not alone.
One of them stands in front of me, holding the flash drive. It turns it over between long, clawed fingers, studying it with detached curiosity. The glow of a nearby monitor casts its face in sharp relief, making it look even less human.
The screen flickers. My blurry reflection stares back at me, and then—
A camera.
Oh, hell no.
Before I can speak, a distorted voice crackles through hidden speakers.
"People of Earth."
My stomach drops.
The feed is live.
My own face fills the screen—blood on my temple, arms wrenched behind my back, breathing hard but defiant. They're broadcasting me.
To everyone.
My chest tightens as the voice continues.
"This girl attempted to steal what does not belong to her. She is a threat to order. A threat to stability. And now, she belongs to us."
The camera zooms in, framing my face in sharp detail.
A warning. A message.
And the entire world is watching.
I grit my teeth, forcing my expression into something cold and unreadable. If they think they can break me, they don't know who they're dealing with.
The alien holding the flash drive tilts its head, as if considering me. Then, it steps aside, and another figure moves into view—taller, clad in something resembling armor, its eyes glowing with an unnatural light.
It leans toward the camera, the edges of its form flickering like static on a broken screen. And when it speaks, the voice is wrong. Not fully synthetic, not fully organic—something in between.
"Maurice Battle."
My breath catches.
No. No, no, no—
The camera shifts slightly, framing my face again as the voice continues.
"You have taken from us before. Interfered where you were not meant to. You believed we would not come for you." A pause. A slow, deliberate turn of its head toward me. "You were wrong."
I yank against my restraints, heart hammering in my chest. They aren't just using me to send a message—they know who I am. Who my father is.
The thing reaches out, almost casually, gripping my chin between its fingers. Its touch is ice-cold, its claws pressing just enough to make a point.
"You will come to us," it continues, voice lowering into something almost human. Almost amused. "Or she will die screaming."
I don't flinch. I won't.
But the words hit like a gunshot.
They're calling him out. Dragging him into this.
And now, the entire world is watching.
The alien's grip on my chin tightens, its cold claws biting into my skin. My pulse races, the pressure in my chest unbearable. It leans closer, its voice a hiss that sends shivers down my spine.
The alien tilts its head, a low hum vibrating in its chest. "Maurice Battle has a decision to make," it says, but the voice that leaves its lips is not its own. It's mine.
My skin crawls at the sound, and I try to jerk away, but my body won't respond. It's like I'm trapped inside a shell that isn't mine anymore.
I want to scream. I want to fight. But I can't.
The alien's hand—cold, too cold—presses against my shoulder. And then I feel it—a sharp, searing pain, a pressure deep inside my chest, like something is tearing me apart from the inside. I gasp, trying to breathe, but the air is thick with static, choking me.
I can't move. I can't breathe.
It's happening again.
"No—please—" My voice is weak, barely a whisper, but I feel it. The alien is enjoying this, savoring the terror in my eyes.
"You think your father will come for you?" the voice echoes through my body. "You think he will save you?"
I want to say something, anything, but my vision is blurring again. I try to hold on, to keep the edges of myself from falling apart, but I can feel myself slipping.
And then, the pain spikes.
I scream.
The sound is guttural, raw, and the alien's grip tightens around my neck, its claws digging into the delicate skin.
I can feel it—the alien, slithering its way into my mind, twisting everything it touches. My thoughts are drowning in static, suffocated by something foreign, something... wrong.
I try to scream, to fight, but I can't. It's like my own voice has been stolen from me. The world around me is warped, fractured, and the only thing I can focus on is the cold pressure in my skull, the suffocating weight of its presence.
My eyes snap open. The room is still the same, but it doesn't feel real anymore. I'm standing in it, but I'm not.
I want to claw at my own skin, rip it off, anything to get rid of this feeling. But my hands are still, unmoving at my sides.
A voice—my voice—fills the air, but it's not mine. It's smooth, too smooth, laced with malice.
"Maurice Battle..."
I hear my name from my own lips, but it's not me speaking. It's the alien. It's taken me.
I try to fight it, to push it out, but the alien's power is too strong. I feel it curling around my thoughts, tightening, squeezing. It's digging its claws into my mind, and I can't shake it off.
"Maurice," the alien purrs again, drawing out the words like a weapon. "We've been waiting for you."
My breath catches. I know what it wants. What it's about to do.
"Come and find me."