ch7

[Kael – Inside the Closet]

The space was barely big enough to breathe in.

Wooden walls pressed in on either side. The air was thick with dust, the scent of old coats and dry cedar. Kael sat with his knees pulled tightly to his chest, head bowed, arms wrapped around himself like he was trying to disappear into the folds of borrowed clothes.

They didn't really fit. The fabric scratched against his skin, and the seams pulled wrong at his shoulders. But that was the point.

He had seen himself in the mirror before calling. Pale. Small. Shaken. Just enough dirt on his face. Just enough tremble in his fingers.

Now came the performance.

He slowed his breathing, letting the rhythm soften, fade. His lips moved without sound as he whispered the lines again and again.

'I'm a child. I saw something horrible. I don't remember. I don't know my name. I don't know what happened. I'm just afraid.'

The lie wasn't perfect. But it didn't need to be. It only had to be convincing enough.

They would see a scared boy. Fragile. Helpless.

Not a demon. Not something that should not exist.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway—boots over warped floorboards. Slow. Measured. Kael could feel the tremor in the wood beneath his back with every step.

Closer.

He shut his eyes briefly. Not in fear. In focus.

'It's starting. Stay calm. Just follow the plan.'

The footsteps stopped directly outside the closet.

Kael didn't move.

[POV Shift – Officer Baines]

The front door had been left ajar. That was the first sign something was wrong.

Baines moved slowly, pistol drawn, sweeping each corner of the entryway. The air inside the house was colder than expected. Not icy. Just still. Like the place had been holding its breath too long.

Dispatch had said the call came from a child. No name. Just a muffled panic. The address traced back to a house on a quiet cul-de-sac—no neighbors nearby, no traffic for miles.

Inside, everything was too quiet.

Then he saw the bodies.

Two adults. Torn apart.

The male was slumped in the corner near the kitchen, most of his chest caved in like something had slammed into him. The female—closer to the hallway—was face-down in a pool of dried blood. Claw marks ran across the walls, long and deep, like an animal had thrashed through the room.

But there were no signs of a struggle. No overturned chairs. No broken windows.

Whatever happened, it was fast. Precise. Efficient.

Baines muttered under his breath, "Jesus…"

His radio clicked. "Baines, anything?"

He touched the mic clipped to his vest. "Hold. Still clearing."

A creak in the hallway made him tense again.

He swept his light toward the sound—a small door, slightly ajar. Closet. Narrow. Just big enough for someone small to hide in.

He approached slowly, gun steady, breath even.

One hand pushed the door open.

And there—sitting in the dark, arms tight around his knees—was a boy.

Pale. Dark hair. Expression blank. Not terrified. Not crying. Just… quiet.

Baines lowered his weapon by a fraction.

The kid blinked at the light. His eyes caught the beam for a second too long before flinching back, like a deer not sure whether to run or freeze.

"Hey," Baines said gently. "What's your name, kid?"

The boy's lips parted.

"I… I don't know."

Baines frowned.

The voice wasn't monotone. But it was controlled. Measured. There was no tremble in it, no crack. Just a neutrality.

He looked the boy over.

Clean clothes. No blood. Not a single bruise or scratch. He hadn't been touched by whatever tore this place apart.

But still—he looked ten. Eleven at most.

And there was something else. Something in the stillness of his body, in the way his eyes tracked movement without panic.

Baines holstered his sidearm but didn't let go of his caution.

He crouched, keeping his voice calm. "It's alright. You're safe now. Can you come out?"

The kid hesitated.

Then slowly—carefully—he reached out and took the offered hand.

Baines helped him to his feet. The kid stood steady. Too steady.

The officer pressed his mic. "This is Officer Baines. Scene's clear. Two deceased. One survivor. Child. No immediate physical injuries. EMS en route."

"Copy," came the dispatch reply. "Hold until backup arrives."

Baines looked down at the kid again.

His skin was warm—not from fever. From life. From something running hot beneath the surface.

And his eyes…

Sharp. Calculating. But veiled beneath blankness.

The kind of look you'd expect from an interrogator.

Not a child.

Still, Baines didn't say anything. Not now. Not here.

He put a hand on the boy's shoulder and guided him toward the front door, stepping carefully over the dried blood.

"You got a name?" he asked again.

The boy hesitated. Then gave the smallest shake of his head.

"Alright. Then until you remember, we'll call you John. How's that sound?"

The boy said nothing.

Baines glanced down.

Still watching. Still tracking every word.

But when they stepped outside into the light, the kid finally spoke again. Soft. Measured.

"Thank you."

Baines looked at him, really looked.

For a moment, he thought he saw something behind those eyes.

Not fear.

Not pain.

But patience.

Like the kid was waiting for something.

Or someone.