Chapter Eight - The Night The Demon Arrived.

Nine lay wide awake in her bed, her nightgown clinging to her as she stared at the ceiling, her thoughts a turbulent mess. Her heart hammered in her chest, as though some deep, primal part of her knew what was coming. The night was too quiet, too expectant. Then came the sound. A single, deafening gunshot, cutting through the silence like a knife. The sharpness of it made her flinch, her body jerking upright in bed as if she had been electrocuted. The echoes of the shot vibrated through the walls, pulsing through her veins, filling her ears with an insistent ringing. For a moment, she couldn't move, couldn't breathe. But then, the weight of reality crushed her, and she was forced to face it.

The demon. He's here.

Her hand shot out to clutch the edge of the bed, her small feet brushing the cold floor. The nightgown fluttered against her skin as she stood, bare and vulnerable in the dark. Slowly, carefully, she crept toward the door. She whispered, her voice barely audible.

Her voice was hoarse from fear, but this… This was the first time Nine had ever spoken in the Lab. Well, at least according to witnesses… I can't say for sure. I am only the author retelling the story that I've been told.

"The demon, the demon, the demon… kill… demon."

She clutched the nightgown to her body, her hands trembling as she forced herself to move out of the bedroom, gently opening the door. The hallway was as dark as it had been before, but now it felt different. Darker.

Her heart pounded as she crept down the corridor, the silence now so thick it felt suffocating. Each footstep felt heavier than the last, like she was wading through the dark with the weight of some horrible truth hanging over her. The Demon. The Demon. The… Soldier… The… Soldier… The Polish… The Polish soldier! A Polish soldier. Where had Nine heard this before? A Polish soldier… How did this have anything to do with a demon?

Suddenly, Nine saw the memories of the woman—her mother? No, not her. But whose? The images continued to churn in her mind, a storm of fragmented faces, of blurred figures and distant voices.

"Remember my name? If I don't return, okay?"

The sky over Danzig was a sickly shade of gray, the kind that made everything feel cold even before the wind blew. It was September 1939. The month the world shifted. The day the Nazis crossed into Poland, and with them, the storm that would tear Europe apart.

A blond woman stood at the edge of her small home's worn porch, clutching her shawl tightly around her shoulders. Her hands trembled as the wind carried the faintest smell of smoke—burning wood, and something far worse. It was all too close now, the war creeping closer like a shadow that had swallowed everything in its path. She could hear the faint rumble of tanks, the distant crack of gunfire, even though Danzig had not yet fallen. But it would. She knew that much.

Her son stood before her, his posture rigid with the conviction of youth. His blue eyes were fierce, determined, the way he clenched his fists at his sides, ready to fight the world, but too afraid to admit it. But she could see the fear in his jaw, tight with the struggle to conceal it. She had seen that same look on his father's face before he left for the front, years ago, when he was still whole.

Her husband had returned from the front with half his body ravaged.. The war had stolen him from her piece by piece, and now Ca…. was stepping into the same hell.

"You can't go," she pleaded, her voice thick with emotion as she stepped forward, reaching for the sleeves of his coat. Her hands were cold, trembling as if they already knew what was to come. "Please, don't go. You don't have to fight. We can leave—" She took a deep breath, "We can go to Sweden. We'll be safe there, I promise. I'm begging you, come with me."

His lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes avoided hers, as if looking at her too long might make more tension build.

"Mother, this is my duty," he said, his voice firm but quiet, "I can't run. I can't leave Poland. I need to be here. I need to protect this country."

"Please," she whispered, her voice breaking.

She reached for him, but he pulled away, stepping back from her grasp.

"Please don't go..." But he was already walking toward the door. He didn't look back.

"I'll fight for you," he said over his shoulder, the words empty and heavy. "If I don't, who will? Right!? Oh, and Mama? Remember my name if I don't return, okay?"

"I want to see the end of the world with you! Live till the end with me!" The woman screamed.

* * *

The woman's heart clenched in her chest as she scanned the crowd of weary men, their faces drawn and pale, each one haunted by what they had seen, by what they had done. The ships creaked as they swayed in the harbor, their hulls filled with men who had survived, and those who hadn't. But as her eyes scanned the crowd one last time, the empty space where his face should have been felt like a knife through her. He wasn't there. Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes growing wide with disbelief. The sound of tears from the other soldiers felt hollow, as though it came from a place far, far away. Her world had gone cold. She staggered backward, her hand going to her mouth to stifle the scream that rose from deep within her. Her stomach churned with a mixture of nausea and hopelessness. She stumbled to the ground, her body giving way as the truth hit her all at once. He wasn't coming back.

The tears came in waves then, hot and bitter. She choked on her sobs, her chest heaving as her breath faltered. There was nothing left. Nothing.

* * *

The snow had begun to fall, soft and silent, covering the world in a blanket of white. She didn't know where she was going or how she had ended up there, but she found herself at the edge of the forest, alone and lost in the quiet. Her hands were frozen, but they didn't feel it. She clutched the rope in one hand, feeling its frayed edges against her palm.

Her own birth certificate was crumpled in her other hand. She had never found her son's birth certificate since the tragedy struck. His name... It started with a C. She couldn't remember it. She had forgotten it all—forgotten everything. He was gon.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, my son." She whispered the words into the snow, "I'm sorry I couldn't keep your promise. I'm sorry I forgot your name. If I can't remember you..." She took the birth certificate and set it ablaze, the flames licking the edges of the paper as her name faded into ash. The smoke curled into the winter air. "I won't be remembered either."

The birth certificate, burned to ashes in the wind, was all that remained of her name. It was gone now—just like her son was. Gone. Forever. The war had stolen him, and with him, a part of her soul had been taken too. She had failed him. She couldn't protect him.

She dropped the charred remains of the birth certificate into the snow, where the last of the embers flickered weakly before fading. Her hands were shaking, her entire body trembling under the weight of her own grief, but still, she held the rope. She glanced at it one more time. Alone in this cold, unforgiving world, alone with nothing but her memories and her regret, she couldn't remember her own son's name. Her hands moved on their own, as if they had made the decision before she had. As she held it up, the faintest whisper of a name floated to the surface of her memory, just beyond reach—a name that starts with "C".

I wanted to see the end with you. You, me, and the end. Right? I wanted that… Right?

"But what is the end? What truly counts as the end? Is death the end? Or is it when the universe collapses back on itself, like what Alexander Friedmann had said?" A hallucinatory voice gently whispered in her ears.