We thought she was just a child.
Quiet. Fragile. Traumatized.
But something was wrong.
Even in her silence, she felt… aware. Too aware. She never blinked. Never cried. Her eyes followed things no one else could see.
On the third day after we brought her in, a guard went missing. No blood. No sound. Just… gone.
We blamed the monsters, of course. Maybe a ghost got through. Maybe a shadow slipped past the outer line. But the security system didn't trip. The barricades weren't touched.
And that night, the little girl stared out the window. Unblinking. Watching the dark.
That same night, my friend who helped save her whispered something to me:
"I woke up. She was standing at my bed. Just standing. Staring. Like she wasn't... a child."
I didn't know what to say.
The next morning, we found something etched into the wall behind her sleeping mat.
A symbol. Like a twisted eye. Carved into concrete with a tiny fingernail.
No one taught her that.
No one dared ask how she knew.
And somehow, we all felt it—She didn't come alone.