Josh just had a brutal argument with his dad.
You know, the kind where words float in the air. Even long - long after the shouting stops.
As always, he tried to explain himself in front of his parents. Forcing his hands into different shapes. Trying to carve words into the air- But.. as always no one listened.
The voices rose. His father's tone - always carrying that heavy authority that could flatten him with just a look. His mother was silent.
"A conversation - it was supposed to be a two-sided thing, wasn't it? But they never listen.", He thought bitterly.
Josh stormed into his room as fast as he could. And then slammed the door right behind him.
The sound echoed down the hallway, but inside, it was like stepping into a cave. His room was his safe space. It was small, crowded with his whole life jammed into four walls. And yet it felt empty. It was like a void - ready to swallow him whole.
He looked around. In the corner, there was his guitar. A football sat abandoned by the closet. His bed was a complete mess. On the wall above, posters peeled at the corners - bands he used to love, a football star whose face had faded from the earth and there was even a movie poster. His computer sat on the desk, scarred with fingerprints and smudges on the screen.
It wasn't just a room. It was him. Every corner, everything.
And maybe… maybe this was it. This void was the only place patient enough to hear him.
Because the people… they never listen, do they?
"The perks of being a mute guy, I guess." He smirked at himself.
Yeah, that's right. Joshua Fernandez aka Josh - He can't talk. Since birth, actually. While in his head, though, he has been talking. Talking so much.
Whole arguments.
Whole conversations.
Whole worlds built in silence.
"I'm fed up," he thought, collapsing into the worn-out chair at his desk. His head fell right into his hands. "Maybe the wall is just as tired of me as I am of it."
He definitely needed a distraction.
With a sigh, he pressed the power button on his computer. A buzz. Then, a slow bloom of blue across the dark screen.
The screen blinked into a news channel. The anchor appeared first - a woman in her forties with a smile that was too plastic. She was trying to project calm, but even through the glass, Josh could see it — the job was eating her.
"Two more communities from sector 5 have endorsed the Troopers. As of now, 16 communities throughout the entire sector are now backing this group of vigilantes. Communities are anticipating the approval from the government for the Troopers. And from the looks of it, the day is near." The anchor announced.
Josh rolled his eyes, "Really never liked these trooper guys. Damned the reputation of our sector 5." He turned up the volume.
Then came - the debate. Two women, sitting across from each other in shiny black chairs. The first leaned forward, arms crossed. Her hair was tied too tight. The second lady was speaking with her chin tilted like she was above it all.
The debate spiraled between these 2 women. Their voices grew louder with time, as if each was trying to out-shout the other.
"The more... I say the more I get to hear about this group, the creepier it gets. What I don't understand is, our great beautiful country doesn't have any shortage of police officers! We're fully armed with well-trained forces. So why..... Do we need these Troopers?"
The other woman's response was quick, "We've gone through this conversation several times already. We all know that the Troopers only operate in Sector 5."
She snorts and continues, "Dead coral project. Our country's dream. For that project, we, our people, and the government need help from the natives. Troopers, They're needed for security and a lot of other reasons. Those troopers are really loved there."
"Don't lecture me!" the first woman snapped. "Now we are calling someone a criminal after measuring their popularity?"
The second woman interjected, "Uh-huh. Never about popularity; It's about respecting one's culture. Did you forget what happened last time we didn't? People died. Even this Troopers team was born because of how the center mistreated their sector. Don't forget-"
The first woman laughed, "I didn't forget anything. I've seen their so-called methods. Violence at every turn. Just three months ago, they burned two people alive in broad daylight. Is that what justice looks like now?"
"They were criminals."
The first retorted once again. "Every human has rights."
Something about the noise in their voices bled into Josh's room, too close, too raw.
He pushed back from the desk. His gaze went toward the guitar in the corner.
The guitar felt heavier than it should. He dragged it into his lap, the wood felt too cold against his skin.
"Hahaha," His fingers fumbled across the strings. And that producing a sound so rough it almost hurt his ears.
Ugly, but alive.
He pressed harder, striking faster, forcing the noise to rise. The guitar cried like a wounded thing. The noise on the television fought to drown it, but Josh's chords fought back, defiant. His rhythm was off, his strumming violent, but it was his. It was him shouting, in his own way.
And slowly, he let it consume him.
The voices from the television blurred.
The room, the house, even the world beyond his walls - all of it dissolved into nothing but broken sound.
But then-
Da-da-da-da.
The sound of plates crashing downstairs ... heavy.
The noises came from below, where his parents slept. At first muffled, then sharper. But Josh didn't even flinch. He didn't rush to check what's happening.
His mind was too lost to the escalating tension. His hands moved faster with the strings, in sync with the arguing voices on the screen and the chaos unfolding beneath him, as if the guitar could fight the noise with him.
He just played.
Until - The door.
It exploded, the frame tearing apart in a single violent burst.
Josh's hands froze mid-strum. His whole body went rigid, the last chord vibrating into silence.
And through the wreckage, something heavy slammed onto the floorboards.
A body.
His father's.
Josh's ears strained. His hands shook violently and his breathing patterns were uneven. He darted his eyes from the body to the doorway.
And that's when he saw it.
A figure cloaked in a wolf's skin.
But it's not a wolf.
It was standing on two feet like a human.
But not also a human.
It was neither.
Its head tilted unnaturally. The fur shifted, as if alive, crawling across its frame. Hands stretched too long, claws retracting as flesh bubbled underneath.
The jaw snapped - bone cracking, Its reshaping into human lips. The skin tore. Fur receded into pores, leaving raw patches of pink flesh behind.
Step by step, its shape changed.
The beast dissolved. A man stood there now.
Josh's insides were burning with silent screams. He was sweating but he could feel. He could feel that, his legs were locked beneath him. He couldn't run.
His thoughts raced — Is this real? Why my father? Am I next?
The man stepped forward slowly. Boots heavy. Moving slow. His eyes were fixed on Josh.
There, Josh's trembling hands slipped. The guitar fell to the floor.
The monster - now a man - spoke,
"Boy, what's your name?"
Josh tried to sign, but his hands - "fucking hands" - betrayed him, shaking too violently to form even one word.
The man chuckled, "Oh, you can't talk? Poor soul."
The way the man said those things, it wasn't just pity, it was delight, as if Josh's silence was entertainment. The stranger leaned closer, so close that Josh could smell him.
"Don't worry," he whispered, "I won't kill you. I'm a bit soft on the disabled."
The man straightened slightly. And he murmured, "Just need a place to stay for a day, I'll leave after that. But you-"
Then his lips curled into something wide, "-don't you ever leave my sight. Is that fine, baby?"
Josh nodded weakly. Not out of understanding, but sheer survival - the smallest motion he could muster to keep that voice from turning sharp.
The room felt colder now. He somehow forced his fingers into shaky shapes, each joint felt stiff. Slowly, he spelled out one question.
Who… are you?
The man paused.
Laughed.
That sound burst from the man's throat, echoing off the walls of this tiny room. He leaned back like a maniac again.
From his coat, he pulled a cigar. Lit it. The flame carved his face into sharp edges. The smoke curled around him like some serpent.
"Who am I, you ask?" His tone shifted.
"The night is deep, ain't I right? The moon is sparkling so bad. The right time for me to- me. me…. Me….."
His voice broke into fragments.
"That's right. I can't be a human. Hmm..... Then what do you all call someone who runs the place and doesn't give a shit about the civilians?"
His grin widened until it looked painful. His vocals were smooth, mocking.
"Oh yeah. A bloody God."