(POV – ???)

The city streets were damp, coated with a thin layer of water that made the asphalt shine with a slick, greasy sheen—leftover from the earlier rain. The streetlamp bulbs cast a sickly yellow light, creating blurry halos that seemed to flicker with every drop sliding down the power lines.

Puddles, scattered like shards of broken mirrors, distorted the reflections of building facades and neon signs, as if the world reflected in them trembled, reacting to some unseen presence prowling the city. The air was heavy, thick with the sweet smell of wet earth and the acidic smoke of exhaust fumes, forming a low fog that clung to the sidewalks.

A lingering scent of old oil and fried food saturated the air, coming from some corner diner that, judging by the darkened windows, seemed to be closing up for the night. In the distance, the muffled roar of an engine revving and the metallic snap of a gate locking completed the scene.

Heavy footsteps tore through the silence of the night, breaking the stillness with an uncertain, hesitant rhythm, as if the owner of those boots was struggling between the urge to run and the need to walk.

There was something nervous and desperate in every step, a clash between hurry and hesitation. The soles hit the pavement with an almost aggressive force, as though each stride was a futile attempt to crush his own fury or drown unwanted thoughts in the impact.

The man kept his head down, shoulders stiff as boards, every muscle tense as if carrying the weight of an invisible fight with every step. His clenched fists swung beside his body, trembling almost imperceptibly, fingers pale from how tightly they contracted.

From time to time, he snapped them open with a sharp movement, fingers spreading like they wanted to expel the accumulated rage—only to clench again seconds later, caught in a vicious cycle of frustration and suppressed fury. His breathing came irregular and heavy, as if just walking was a battle against himself.

His nostrils flared uncontrollably, as if even breathing was a hard-fought battle against his own body. His teeth ground together sharply—a low, rough sound, almost imperceptible, but betraying the tension inside.

The muscles in his jaw pulsed rhythmically, stretched tight like strings about to snap, revealing the near-desperate effort to not explode right there on the empty sidewalk. A few hurried passersby glanced furtively in his direction.

But a mere glimpse of the expression etched on his face—a mix of raw anger, stifled despair, and something wild, barely held back—was enough for them to immediately look away. They hurried on, as if instinctively knowing that when crossing paths with a brewing storm, it’s best not to draw attention.

The sky, heavy with thick, dark clouds, seemed to slowly press down on the tall buildings lined up like silent sentinels along the empty avenue. The street lamps flickered unevenly, casting a faint, shaky light barely cutting through the thin fog beginning to form.

Concrete walls, covered in graffiti and weathered marks, absorbed the dull light as if they were part of the decay around them. Closed storefronts, protected by rusted bars, completed the scene of abandonment. In the distance, the sharp wail of a siren ripped through the night air like a blade, its echo dragging across the empty streets. Still, he stood motionless, eyes fixed on some undefined point ahead.

As he walked down the dimly lit street, the silhouette of a bar began to take shape at the end of the block. The red neon sign flickered erratically, like a weakened heart on the verge of failure, struggling to keep its beat.

Through the cracked-open door came muffled music—a slow blues, heavy with melancholy, as if the instruments themselves were tired of existing. The smell of booze, cigarettes, and sweat formed an invisible wall at the entrance, thick and almost tangible—both inviting and suffocating.

The man paused briefly in front of the doorway. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs like someone gathering courage before a jump. His eyes half-closed seemed to weigh the moment, as if standing at the edge of an invisible cliff.

His lips twisted into a tight, rigid line, as if fighting to hold back a muffled scream burning in his throat, ready to erupt at any second. For a moment, his fingers trembled beside his body—a reflexive flicker of hesitation.

Then, as if smothering his own fear, he stepped forward. Without looking back, he crossed the threshold, swallowed by thick smoke, muffled music, and everything waiting for him inside that shadowy place.

***

(POV – Protagonist)

In the end, I have to admit I didn’t fully understand what Emily meant at that moment. Her words sounded vague, almost cryptic, as if she was deliberately avoiding being straightforward. Yet, if someone stopped to calmly reflect on what she actually said... it wouldn’t be hard to see what was about to happen.

The tone she used—firm but carrying an almost imperceptible unease—along with her careful choice of words, made it clear that outsiders to the organization were on their way.

The reason I think that way is pretty simple: I can’t imagine Emily picking exactly that particular set of words if the visitors were just the organization’s scientists.

After all... practically all of them already know exactly how my sister and I react in different situations. There’s no tension or hesitation when they watch us... much less when they decide to study us.

Honestly, the relationship between us and them has almost become a cold, predictable routine. They treat us like a set of variables in an experiment that’s already yielded every possible result.

No surprises... just clinical observations. By the way, in case you’re wondering what kind of studies are done on me and my sisters... well, the answer is surprisingly simple, even disappointingly obvious.

Physical tests, to assess our bodily limits; psychological tests, to see how far our minds can handle pressure and stress; and finally, skill mapping—a thorough analysis of everything we can do... or at least what they’ve been able to figure out so far.

In a way, since the organization at least has a basic understanding of what my sisters really are, the studies they conduct almost always revolve around what they call their "core concepts" If I had to sum up the essence of the tests carried out, I’d say they basically aim to understand and measure the effects that Althea, Nekra, and Nyara can cause in their surroundings.

For example, something I had witnessed a few times: if you take a withered flower, its petals dry and lifeless, and place it near Althea, it will simply bloom again as if it had never wilted, regaining its color and vigor in seconds. On the other hand, the effect with Nekra is exactly the opposite.

No matter how healthy the plant is, just leave it close to her long enough, and you’ll see it wither away, as if all its life energy was drained, leaving nothing but a dry husk.

With Nyara... well, her effect is a bit more unpredictable, and honestly, it’s the kind of thing even the researchers tend to avoid testing too often. From what both of them explained to me, this isn’t something they can control consciously.

According to their words, plants and animals seem to be much more susceptible to the influence of their concepts than humans themselves, who for some reason have a natural resistance to this kind of effect.

However, that resistance isn’t absolute... with a little push, a slight intensification of their will, even humans would eventually succumb in the same way.

***

(POV - ???)

From the moment the man walked through the bar’s door, he didn’t stop drinking. The empty glasses piled up in front of him like silent witnesses to his desperate attempt to erase his own consciousness. He had completely lost count of how many shots he’d downed so far, but he kept going, as if each gulp was a fight against something invisible.

Yet, the more the alcohol burned his throat, the more vivid and insistent the memories became. The images he wanted so badly to forget surfaced in his mind with cruel clarity, as if the alcohol itself summoned them from the depths of his soul. He was a prisoner... not of bars or walls, but of his own memories, condemned to relive them night after night inside the labyrinth of his mind.

Taking another sip, the man felt the familiar burn slide down his throat, as if the alcohol tried to burn away any trace of lucidity he had left. For a brief moment, he kept his gaze lost—until something beside him caught his attention.

A flyer lay there, almost casually, as if silently taunting him. He frowned, snapped his hand over it abruptly, and grabbed it. His eyes scanned the printed words with growing irritation, his jaw tightening as he read.

In a sudden gesture, he crumpled the paper with force, his fingers clenching it as if he wanted to crush his own anger. His expression, already heavy, grew even darker, reflecting the storm boiling inside him.

“Those bastards... Instead of destroying these abominations, they’re creating a damn zoo?” the man cursed, his voice thick with fury as his eyes burned with corrosive hate.

His face twisted, every line marked by deep rage ready to explode at any moment. His breath came short and heavy, as if just thinking about it suffocated him from within.

The man never really knew when it all truly began. He grew up in a small, simple family—himself, his father, mother, and younger sister. For many years, he lived the usual routine of that home until, in a cruel and unexpected instant, everything changed. A car accident took away everyone he loved, leaving him utterly alone in the world.

Forced to fend for himself, he bore the weight of pain and loneliness silently. But on an otherwise ordinary day at work, when long-buried memories started surfacing in his mind, a surprising revelation came to light—the truth that would forever change everything he thought he knew.

His family hadn’t died in a simple car accident. Behind that tragedy was one of those dark entities known as anomalies—enigmatic, terrifying beings responsible for ripping his loved ones away from him.

The man didn’t understand why, but something strange was happening: it seemed that, besides him, other people were also starting to recover forgotten memories. Gradually, everyone seemed to remember the existence of these anomalies, as if an invisible veil was being lifted from their minds.

Still, everything they knew about these beings was shrouded in deep mystery. No one knew for sure why anomalies existed, where they came from, or what was behind the relentless wave of unexplained deaths attributed to them. The man kept a cold, blank stare, his eyes fixed and expressionless as if staring into an unfathomable void.

Inside, however, he fought to hold back the growing wave of rage boiling in his chest—a feeling that seemed to tear at his insides with every second of silence. His jaw was tight, fists discreetly clenched at his sides, as if any wrong word could be the spark for something much worse.

Then, an unexpected voice broke the heavy silence around him, appearing beside him with a slightly provocative yet curious tone: “I wonder what could make someone so young wear such a dark expression...”

The moment he heard the voice, the man blinked briefly, as if his brain needed a second longer to process what was happening. Slowly, he turned his gaze toward the source of the sound, and with a slight look of surprise, raised an eyebrow. Sitting casually beside him was a man with gray hair, but whose strong physique sharply contrasted the age his silver strands suggested.

His relaxed posture, combined with an enigmatic smirk, radiated an unsettling confidence, as if he knew far more than he let on. The most disturbing part was that the man had no idea when that figure had come close or even taken a seat next to him.