The night was thick with fog, but the screams tore through it like blades.
Fen sprinted across the outpost courtyard, boots slamming against cracked stone. The siren military base was in flames—barracks split open like gutted fish, smoke curling from shattered towers. Shadows wheeled through the skies overhead, their leathery wings blotting out the moonlight. Vampires.
He didn't know how they got past the defenses. Didn't know how they'd struck so fast. One moment he'd been unpacking his gear, the next—sirens dying in droves.
"Fall back!" someone shouted behind him. "Get to the—!"
The voice cut short in a wet, horrible gurgle.
Fen didn't look back.
His ears rang with the sound of flapping wings and snapping jaws. The air stank of ash and blood. His chest ached, lungs heaving from the sprint, but he didn't stop. Couldn't. His orders had been clear: regroup at the inner sanctum and hold the line. But there was no line left.
Then—something slammed into him from above.
The impact lifted him clear off the ground.
Clawed hands dug into his arms and shoulders, piercing the skin. He screamed—more in shock than pain—as the world blurred past in a whirlwind of air. The vampire had taken him into the sky. In seconds, they were hundreds of feet up, the battlefield below now a distant patchwork of flame and ruin.
"Got you," the vampire hissed into his ear.
Its voice was cold. Inhuman.
Fen struggled. Kicked. But the grip was iron.
His heart pounded. Panic clawed at his ribs, but something ancient stirred beneath the fear.
A sound.
A pulse.
The Voice.
The sirens' greatest weapon wasn't claws or teeth—it was their song. And his had never come willingly. It only responded to raw emotion, to a kind of primal desperation that cracked open the soul.
Right now, that was all he had.
Fen inhaled sharply—and screamed.
The sound wasn't human. It wasn't even siren. It was layered, twisted, as if dozens of voices spilled from his mouth at once—rage, terror, sorrow, all singing the same note. It vibrated the air itself.
The vampire recoiled midair, snarling. Its eyes went wide. Then—its hands loosened.
Fen fell.
He plummeted like a stone. Wind howled past his ears. The ground rushed up to meet him.
He twisted in the air, trying to find something—anything.
Then, in the distance—through the clouds, through the smoke—he saw it.
A light.
Not fire.
Not magic.
Something… else.
It shimmered like water and burned like starlight.
The Veil.
He didn't know how he knew—but he knew.
He had to reach it.
Gritting his teeth, Fen called on another gift—another curse. Shapeshifting came with pain. It always had. But if he didn't change now, he would die.
He screamed again—this time not from fear, but agony—as his arms bent and cracked. Skin stretched. Bone shifted.
His hands flattened, webbing forming between his fingers. His forearms lengthened, curved, growing sleek and sharp like the fins of a winged fish.
He screamed until he had no air left—but he didn't stop.
His body twisted in freefall, and suddenly—he was gliding.
Barely.
The transformed fins caught the wind, slowing his descent. He spiraled through the air, every muscle burning, wings twitching with every gust.
The Veil drew closer. Brighter.
And then—he hit it.
The world exploded in white.
Metal screamed.
Fen exploded through something solid. Glass shattered. A horn blared once—cut off with a deafening crunch. His half-shifted body tore through the roof of a moving truck, his winged arms flailing in chaos, before he slammed into the cold pavement and everything went black.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar—smooth, white, and sterile. The scent of antiseptic filled his nose. Machines clicked and hissed softly nearby.
A hospital?
He tried to move.
Clink.
A cold band around his wrist yanked him back. He looked down—handcuffed to the hospital bed.
Fen blinked once, registering the beeping heart monitor, the IV line in his arm, and the glowing red camera light in the corner.
This wasn't a hospital.
It was a cell.
He pulled gently on the cuff. Not enough to break it. Not yet.
Footsteps.
The heavy door creaked open. A woman entered—tall, composed, and carrying a slim file folder. Her tailored jacket hugged her frame, her auburn hair pinned in a loose bun. Her eyes locked onto his with calm calculation.
She moved like a hunter.
Not afraid.
Strange.
Most humans could feel what he was—if only instinctually. They grew nervous. Skittish. Predators sensed predators.
Not her.
She closed the door softly behind her and pulled a chair beside the bed.
"You're awake," she said coolly, flipping open the file in her hands. "I'm Countess. You can call me that."
Fen said nothing.
She studied him, flipping a page.
"You tore through a freight truck like wet paper. EMTs thought you were dead. No ID. No vitals they recognized. Then you started… healing."
She glanced up. "And fast."
Still no response.
"I'm not going to insult you with the usual questions," she said. "We know you're not local. What we don't know is how you got here—or why more things like you have been showing up since."
Fen's eyes narrowed.
"You're not the first anomaly we've seen," she continued, "but you are the first to arrive like this. Two weeks ago, you crash-landed in the middle of a highway. The next day? One of our sensors picked up a tear in the sky over the Baltic Sea. Then another. And another."
She leaned in.
"You didn't come through a door, Mr. James. You kicked it open."
Fen tensed slightly at the sound of his name.
She smiled.
"We pulled it from your jacket. Everything else was unrecognizable. Burned. Melted to the bone. Yet here you are."
Her eyes scanned his body. "Good as new."
Fen finally spoke, his voice dry and cracked.
"Water."
She tilted her head.
"Thirsty?"
"Not… normal thirsty."
The Countess stared for a beat too long. She stood, crossed the room, and filled a metal cup from a small sink in the corner. She brought it back and held it to his lips.
He drank greedily. The room dimmed as his body pulled the moisture in like a sponge, a low hum running through his core.
Still not enough.
Still not home.
"You were unconscious for thirteen days," she said, sitting again. "Now suddenly awake. And lucid."
Fen's jaw clenched. "You said other portals opened. Did anything come through?"
"We've had sightings," she admitted. "Nothing as coherent as you. Just… things. Creatures. Most don't survive long. The ones that do aren't good at talking."
"So you chained me."
"You leveled a truck, destroyed half a mile of freeway, and glowed like a bonfire on every sensor we had. I think a chain was the least we could do."
Fen leaned his head back and closed his eyes. His body ached for water—not for drinking, but for immersion. The dryness was beginning to spread through his bones. His Voice—the very thing that had saved him—was unstable when his body was like this.
She waited for him to speak again.
He didn't.
"You're not human," she said softly.
"Neither are you," he muttered.
She blinked.
"You hide it better," he added. "But I can smell it. You're trained. Hardened. You've killed before."
A long pause stretched between them.
Finally, she stood.
"My orders are to assess you. To see if you're useful."
He opened one eye.
"And if I'm not?"
Her smile returned.
"They bring in someone far less charming than me."
She moved to the door.
"But you're lucky. I think you are useful. Even if you don't want to be."
The door clicked shut behind her.
Fen stared at the ceiling, sweat beading on his brow despite the chill.
He needed water.
He needed to know where the Veil was.
And he needed to figure out who these people were—before they figured out what he was.
The lights above buzzed faintly. The sound irritated him. Everything did—every tick of a wire, every shift of air from the vent.
He was trying to be still.
Trying to behave.
But his veins were beginning to burn.
Fen's breathing grew ragged. His body was overheating fast, his skin hot to the touch. The healing had drained more than strength—it had taken moisture. What little water the woman gave him had barely wet his throat.
He could hear it now. A slow, rhythmic drip from the sink across the room.
The stainless steel cup still sat there. Waiting.
He looked at the red light on the camera in the corner. Still watching.
They thought the cuff would hold him. Maybe it would've… if he weren't dying.
With a calm, slow breath, Fen reached up to the metal shackle around his wrist.
Then—crack.
The steel snapped like a dry twig.
He stood, shaking out his hand, then stumbled to the sink.
Fen didn't drink from the cup.
He drank straight from the stream, cupping his hands under the faucet and splashing it over his face, neck, chest—anywhere he could. He leaned over and drank greedily, throat convulsing with every swallow.
The effect was immediate.
His skin cooled. His muscles relaxed. His vision sharpened.
And then… the hum returned.
His body vibrated softly with the rhythm of the water. Not audible—but felt. Deep, low, like the earth itself humming along to his breath.
His power was returning.
He turned the sink off with one flick of his fingers, lifted the cup, filled it once more, and drank until it was gone.
Then, calm as if nothing had happened, Fen walked back to the bed.
He picked up the broken cuff, sat down, and examined it. With a gentle squeeze of his fingers, the warped ends popped back into place—not a perfect seal, but close enough.
He slipped it back on his wrist and reclined into the pillow.
And then, with a tired half-smirk, he looked straight at the camera above.
He waved.
The door didn't open. The camera didn't shift.
They'd seen.
Good.
Now they knew he was choosing to stay.
The footage looped again.
Fen twisted the steel cuff off like it was plastic, drained the entire pitcher of water in seconds, then turned toward the camera—expression unreadable—and gave a lazy little wave before lying back down and snapping the cuff closed like nothing had happened.
Countess stood silently in the observation room, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.
Behind her, the door hissed open.
"Is that what I think it is?" asked Director Barron as he stepped in, a paper coffee cup in hand.
"You mean him breaking containment like it was nothing?" she replied dryly. "Yeah. That's exactly what it is."
Barron let out a low whistle and leaned against the wall, sipping his coffee. "I thought those cuffs were tested against full-blooded vamps."
"They were."
They both stared at the screen for a moment longer.
"You know what gets me?" Barron said. "He didn't run. Didn't scream. Didn't even look pissed off. He just—got a drink, waved at the camera like we were neighbors, and got back in bed."
"He's sending a message."
"Oh, yeah," Barron chuckled. "Loud and clear: 'I'm here because I chose to be.'"
Countess didn't laugh.
Barron took another sip. "He's the first one through, you know. First creature, being, whatever the hell he is. We've had rumors. Old texts. Satellite anomalies. But this? He's real."
"He hasn't said much," she said.
"He's a soldier. You said it yourself—just name, rank, and that's it."
She nodded. "But he listens. Watches everything."
"Hyper-aware."
"And strong. Fast. That scream—"
Barron raised a hand. "Don't remind me. The boys in the audio lab are still whining about their ruptured eardrums."
Countess allowed herself a small smirk. "They were standing behind reinforced glass."
"Well," Barron sighed, "I guess we can cross 'siren' off the list of fictional creatures."
"Not until he says it out loud."
Barron gave her a sidelong glance. "You think he will?"
"No," she said. "But he knows we're guessing."
They both turned back to the monitor. Fen lay still, his breathing calm, eyes closed—but she knew better. He wasn't resting. He was waiting.
"He didn't kill anyone," she added after a moment.
"Could've."
"He didn't."
Barron tapped the screen with his cup. "Makes him smarter than most of our recruits."
"He's not ours yet."
Barron shrugged. "He accepted the deal."
"He hasn't said the words."
"That little wave was close enough."
Countess didn't answer.
Barron pushed off the wall and moved toward the door. "Keep him close, Agent. Watch him, learn from him—hell, flirt with him if you have to. Just keep him pointed at the right things."
She frowned.
"I'm serious," he added. "Whatever he is, we're not ready for a second one. We need him."
"And what if he doesn't need us?"
Barron paused in the doorway. "Then let's hope he never figures that out."
He walked out.
Countess remained alone, eyes fixed on the still image of Fen on the monitor.
Relaxed.
Silent.
Dangerous