The next morning arrives too soon. A quiet dawn that feels less like a new day and more like the end of something important.
Carter stands in his childhood bedroom, the first pale rays of the sun filtering through the window. He is dressed in the sharp, black suit of the Library, the fabric a strange weight on his shoulders.
A small duffel bag sits on his bed, packed with a few things from his old life.
He looks around the room at the faded posters on the wall, the worn chair in the corner. The room was a history of a life that was no longer his. Of a boy who no longer existed.
A quiet sadness filled him. A grief for the simple life he never appreciated until it was gone.
Taking a piece of paper from his desk, he begins to write.
The words are clumsy, a poor substitute for the conversation he wishes he could have. He tells them he is safe, that he is sorry for the secrecy, that he loves them more than words can say.
Folding the note, he places it on the dining room table. Beside it, he places a thick, white envelope.
Inside is ten thousand dollars of the money Gabriel had given him. A small attempt to ease the burden his absence will cause.
Back in his room, he walks to the closet. Taking one last look at the familiar space, he memorizes every detail. His hand rests on the cool wood of the door.
“Open,” he whispers, the single word a quiet, final goodbye.
A shimmering portal of rainbow colored light forms in the doorway of his closet.
Where it all started.
Taking a deep breath, the familiar scent of his home a painful ache in his chest, he steps through, leaving his old world behind.
A few minutes later, Yasmin knocks gently on his bedroom door.
“Carter, honey?” she calls out, her voice soft. “I made some coffee before you have to leave.”
She waits, but there is no reply.
A familiar, cold knot of anxiety tightens in her stomach. She pushes the door open.
The room is empty.
The bed is neatly made.
He is gone.
She walks downstairs, her heart a heavy weight in her chest. She sees the note and the envelope on the dining room table.
Her hands are trembling as she picks up the note, his familiar, messy handwriting both a comfort and a pain.
She reads the words. The same vague reassurances from his letters. A fresh wave of tears wells in her eyes.
She picks up the envelope. It is surprisingly heavy.
She opens it. A thick stack of hundred dollar bills slides out onto the table.
She stares at the money, at the impossible amount of it, and the cold anxiety in her stomach becomes a full-blown fear.
What is my son involved in?
The thought screams in her mind.
Fancy suits, disappearing for months, envelopes full of cash…
Is he a drug dealer? Or something worse?
She stands there, her mind filled with fear and confusion, when a sharp knock sounds from the front door.
“THUD! THUD! THUD!”
The knock makes Yasmin jump, her heart leaping into her throat.
She quickly shoves the money and the note back into the envelope, her mind racing.
Is it Carter? Did he forget something?
A wild, desperate hope wars with the cold fear in her stomach.
Walking to the door, she opens it with a hopeful look on her face.
But the man standing on her doorstep is not her son.
He was a young man, around Carter’s age, but the opposite in every other way.
Where Carter was warm, this man was cold and pale. His skin the color of bone, his hair a shock of white blonde.
But it was his eyes that made the breath catch in Yasmin’s throat.
Flat, dead, and emotionless gray.
The eyes of a predator, fixed on her with a cold intensity.
And he was not alone.
Standing just behind him, one on either side, were two large, broad shouldered figures. Dressed in long, dark overcoats, their hands hidden in their pockets.
Their faces were completely hidden by gleaming, golden masks. Blank, expressionless, and inhuman.
A mother’s instinct, a deep alarm bell, screamed in Yasmin’s mind.
These men were dangerous.
“Can I help you?” she asks, her voice a thin sound she barely recognizes.
She places a hand on the door, ready to slam it shut.
“We are looking for Carter Cross,” the pale haired man says, his voice flat, as emotionless as his eyes. “Is he here?”
“No.”
Yasmin lies, the word a sharp, protective bark. “I haven’t seen my son in seven months. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
She tries to close the door, but the pale haired man’s hand shoots out, a blur of motion, catching it. His grip was unnaturally strong.
“I don’t think so,” he says, a slow, cold, terrifying smile spreading across his face.
“Who are you?” Yasmin demands, her voice rising with fear and anger. “What do you want with my son?”
“We are… coworkers if you will,” the man replies.
The lie was so absurd it was an insult.
The story Carter had told her, of an international relief organization and his new, beautiful “friend” Ruby… it had been believable.
But these men… these cold, dead eyed, and inhuman men… they did not fit.
Not at all.
“What’s going on, Yas?”
Cam’s deep voice comes from behind her. He walks to the door, his large frame a comforting, protective presence beside her.
He takes in the scene. The pale, smiling man, the two silent, masked figures, his wife’s terrified face.
His expression hardens into a kind man’s fury.
“You have five seconds to take your hand off my door and get off my property,” he says, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
The voice of a Marine Sergeant who had seen and done things these soft boys couldn’t imagine.
“Before I remove it for you.”
The pale haired man’s smile does not falter.
He looks at Cam, at the raw power coming from him, and a flicker of amusement dances in his dead, gray eyes.
He seems completely unfazed by the threat.
“I don’t think you are in a position to be making demands,” he says, his voice a low purr.
Ignoring Cam’s warning, he looks past him, into the warm interior of their home.
He speaks a single, strange word.
A language Yasmin has never heard. It felt like a crack in reality.
The world goes silent.
The birdsong from the garden, the distant hum of traffic, the frantic hammering of Yasmin’s own heart.
It all vanishes.
Replaced by a deep, echoing silence.
The color drains from the world, the sun drenched morning turning a dull, flat gray.
She looks at Cam.
The fire in his eyes is gone. Replaced by a blank, empty stare.
She tries to scream, to move, to do anything. But her body is no longer her own.
A prisoner in her own mind. A terrified observer watching through the eyes of a stranger.
Her eyes and her husband’s turn a terrifying, glossy black.
The pale haired man’s smile widens. It is a triumphant, predatory expression.
“SAFEGUARD ACTIVATE…”
“THE KING ORDERS YOU TO COMPLY…”
He says, his voice a low hiss. “Now, let me in.”
Like puppets, Yasmin and Cam step aside. Their movements stiff, jerky, and perfectly synchronized.
“AS THE KING WISHES.”
They reply in unison, their voices a flat, inhuman drone.
The pale haired man and his two golden masked guards step into the house. Their heavy boots thudding on the hardwood floor.
He looks around the living room, at the family photos on the mantel piece, with a detached curiosity on his face.
“Hmm, nice place you’ve got here,” he says, his tone light and conversational. A chilling counterpoint to the horror of the situation.
He turns back to the two black eyed figures standing before him.
“So, let’s try this again, shall we? Where is your son, and the girl he was with?”
“HE IS GONE.”
Yasmin replies, her voice a dead monotone.
“HE WILL BE IN SOUTHEAST ASIA.”
Cam adds, his own voice a chilling echo of his wife’s.
“THAILAND.”
The pale haired man clicks his tongue, a sharp, impatient sound.
“Tsk…”
“Be more specific. What city in Thailand, exactly?”
“HE DID NOT SPECIFY.”
Yasmin replies.
The man’s smile falters, a flicker of childish annoyance in his dead, gray eyes. He paces the room, his movements agitated.
“Of course he didn’t. The anomaly is proving to be… troublesome.”
He stops, turning back to them, his gaze sharp.
“His room. Where is it?”
“Upstairs,” Cam says, his voice flat. “Last room on the left.”
“Stay here,” the pale haired man commands.
He turns and heads for the stairs, his two golden-masked guards following like silent shadows.
He walks into Carter’s room. His cold unrelenting eyes scan the space with intensity.
It is the room of a young man. A space of quiet normalcy.
But he knows it is a lie.
He was standing in the den of a Library agent.
The one person in the world who was a threat to his King’s perfect, silent order.
Ignoring the bed, the posters, and the small personal trinkets, he walks to the computer desk.
He opens the laptop, his movements quick and efficient.
He was not an enforcer. He was an intelligence agent.
A hunter.
He knew that in this modern age, a person’s secrets were not hidden in a diary, but in the cold data of their search history.
He finds it in less than a minute.
Recent searches: “timezone in Bangkok,” “weather in Bangkok,” “best way to get around Bangkok.”
And, most damning of all, “recent unusual disappearances in Bangkok.”
A slow, triumphant, and chilling smile spreads across the pale-haired man’s face.
“Found you.”
He whispers to the empty room.
Pulling out his secure phone, he makes a call. A woman’s voice, is heard with cold and smooth tone. She answers on the first ring.
“Report.”
“Hello, sorry to call you like this,” the man says, his voice a low, respectful purr. “I have a lead on the anomaly and his companion. It seems he made a visit back home. They are heading to Bangkok, Thailand. It appears they are searching for their missing comrades.”
“I see,” the woman’s voice replies, a hint of amusement in her cold tones.
“Predictable. Leave for now. But keep tabs on the family. They may prove useful to us in the future.”
“Understood, my lady,” the man replies.
Ending the call, he stands for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the room one last time.
Reaching into his long, dark overcoat, he pulls out a single, golden mask.
It gleams in the soft, morning light. A blank, expressionless, and terrifying symbol of his King’s silent, unified world.
Opening the drawer of Carter’s computer desk, he places the mask inside.
A hidden trap for a future he had already begun to orchestrate.
He walks back downstairs, his two golden masked guards falling into step behind him.
Carter’s parents are still standing in the living room. Their bodies perfectly still, their eyes two pools of empty, glossy black.
“It is time to leave,” the pale haired man says to his guards.
He then turns to Carter’s parents, a final command in his cold, quiet voice.
“You will forget. You will forget that we were here. You will forget this conversation.”
“You will forget everything that has happened in the last twenty minutes.”
“And in one hour, you will return to normal.”
“You will continue your day, and you will remember nothing.”
He walks out the front door, leaving the two possessed, black eyed loveable parents standing perfectly still in their silent, violated home.
The seeds of a new, more personal, and far more terrifying war had just been sown.