The first thing Kane registered was the sound.
It wasn't loud — not like the blaring siren of an incoming mortar or the raw crack of rifle fire.This was quieter. A subtle, low hum that seemed to snake its way into his ears and settle behind his eyes.It pulsed… not in rhythm with his heartbeat, but with something else entirely.
His eyes snapped open.
The room was cold — colder than it should've been for early April in the mountains. The blanket clung to him with that dry static feeling, as though it had been sitting too close to a heating vent and then abruptly cooled. For a moment, he thought it was just another dream, one of those warped memories from his other life bleeding through again.
But then he glanced at the alarm clock.03:08.
Middle of the night.
The hum wasn't fading.
Kane sat up slowly, his hand automatically brushing against the nightstand until it found the familiar weight of his flashlight. The beam wasn't on yet, but just the feel of the cold aluminum casing in his palm made him more grounded.
He stayed still for another fifteen seconds, just listening.
The house was silent apart from the wind scratching against the siding outside. The mountains could sound like that sometimes — a shifting, almost living presence in the dead of night. But the hum wasn't wind. It was too focused, too constant.
It was coming from the basement.
The transition from bed to boots was instinctive. Even though he was technically just wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, Kane slipped on his old military boots, lacing them tightly. Bare feet on a cold floor were a liability, and part of him treated every unexplained sound as a potential hostile encounter.
Next came the flashlight, a multitool clipped to his pocket, and the weight of his grandfather's sidearm — a well-maintained SIG P226 in its leather holster. He didn't expect to need it, but habits like that weren't easy to kill.
He moved quietly through the house. The boards creaked underfoot in places, but he'd lived here long enough to know exactly where to step. The air smelled faintly of coffee gone stale and the subtle, dry scent of stacked firewood near the kitchen door.
The basement door loomed ahead, just past the kitchen. The hum seemed to grow stronger as he neared it, like walking toward the source of an electrical generator buried in the earth.
He placed his hand on the cool brass doorknob, hesitated, and then twisted it open.
The first step down creaked. It always had.Kane kept the flashlight beam low, sweeping the narrow wooden steps. Shadows stretched unnaturally far in the dim cone of light, and the hum was now a physical thing pressing against his ears.
The basement smelled like dust, motor oil, and old memories. The concrete floor had faint stains that he knew by heart — a spilt can of paint from when his grandfather had been patching the outer shed, the oil mark from a dismantled motorcycle engine that never got put back together.
The hum didn't seem to come from the walls or the floor. It was… directional. Like a line pulling him deeper.
His beam finally landed on the far corner of the basement — the corner his grandfather had always told him was off-limits. Even as a kid, Kane hadn't pushed that boundary much. The old man wasn't one for idle warnings.
Now, in that corner, the metal military-grade container sat exactly where it had been for years.But something about it was different tonight.
The surface of the case, usually dull and cold-looking, seemed to catch the faintest trace of moonlight leaking in from the narrow basement window. The reinforced edges looked like they'd taken some hits in their time — scratches, tiny impact dents, a thin diagonal score across one corner as if from a blade.
Kane approached slowly.
Up close, the hum was undeniable — and it wasn't coming from the basement's old electrical wiring or any of the hardware. It was radiating from the case itself.
He crouched, running his fingers over the metal. The surface was warmer than the air around it.Not hot — just the kind of warmth you get when metal's been held by human hands for a while.
On the lid's upper right corner, a partially scratched serial number read:AE-0592–A-GS
The handle was wrapped in leather that had cracked over time. The locking mechanism wasn't a simple latch — it was a recessed, double-lock system, one side for a physical key, the other for a combination dial.
Kane's jaw tightened. His grandfather had been the kind of man who would lock his own boots if he thought someone might try them on without asking. But this… this was something else entirely.
He ran his thumb along the latch. And froze.
The combination dial was already set. And the physical lock? Unlatched.
Slowly, he pulled the latch back and eased the case open. The hinges gave a faint metallic groan before revealing the contents.
Inside was a dense black foam insert, shaped with precision. Nestled within were two items.
The first was a folded, yellowed envelope. His name was written on it in heavy black ink, the handwriting unmistakable — sharp, deliberate strokes that belonged to a man who'd spent a lifetime filling out field reports and mission logs.
KANE
The second was…
He didn't have a word for it.
It was palm-sized, shaped vaguely like a smooth river stone, but its surface was a deep, glassy black with faint geometric etchings along the edges. The markings weren't random scratches — they formed precise, interlocking lines that seemed almost too perfect to be hand-carved.
Kane reached out and touched it.
The hum intensified for a heartbeat — and then, just as suddenly, dulled to a faint thrum beneath his skin.
But his focus shifted to the envelope. He took it out, broke the seal, and unfolded the single sheet of paper inside.
The handwriting was the same as the front. His grandfather's words, dated nearly two decades ago:
Kane,
If you're reading this, then I'm not here to stop you. And if I'm not here, then the world you know is closer to ending than you think.
I found the object in this case during an operation in a part of the world most people will never see. It wasn't on the maps, not the real ones. Our team lost good men bringing it back. We were told to hand it over to Command. I didn't.
This isn't a weapon in the way you're used to. It's older. Stranger. It'll either save your life or end it, depending on what you do with it.
Do not use it until the world starts to change. You'll know when.
That's the last order I can give you, soldier.
– Granddad
Kane's fingers tightened on the paper.
The hum was still there — softer now, almost like it was waiting.
He looked at the object again, sitting in its foam cradle like it had all the time in the world. The faint geometric lines seemed to shift ever so slightly under the flashlight beam, though he couldn't be sure if it was just a trick of the light.
Finally, he closed the case. Not locked, but sealed.
He stood in the dark basement for a long time, his thoughts a tangled mess of suspicion, unease, and the quiet weight of his grandfather's voice in his head.
When he finally climbed back upstairs, the hum seemed quieter — or maybe he was just getting used to it.In the kitchen, his eyes flicked to the wall calendar.
April 2nd, 2026.Fifty-eight days until the outbreak.
And now, the countdown felt a little louder.