"I bought a house in New Orleans. We move next week."
That was the bombshell my grandfather dropped at the dinner table on a perfectly normal Thursday evening. We were living in San Isidro, Argentina, at the time. My parents had passed away when I was eight, leaving my older brother and me to fend for ourselves until our paternal grandfather stepped in. He had moved us from China to Argentina to live in his estate.
Now it was 2014, and it was just the two of us. My brother was in Maryland chasing his dreams at college, but I was the "failure child." I had dropped out of school that year at sixteen. I had no friends, no job, and barely enough energy to leave the mansion for fresh air.
"You're joking, right?" I asked, hoping for an April Fool's prank despite it being September.
"No, Nico, I'm serious. It's better for my business, and for your sake," Grandpa said. "It has been a month since Dr. Maria last checked on you. We need to find someone competent for your case. I heard there is a special research lab in New Orleans for your eye condition; perhaps they can provide the medicine she used to give you. After all, how long has it been since you stopped taking it?"
It had been almost a week.
When I didn't answer, he gave me a worried, stern look, the one that made it clear the matter was settled.
"Also, when we arrive, I expect you to find a job. I'm getting old, Nico. You need to start your own life instead of staying in your room all day."
His gaze softened slightly. "You're not that traumatized kid anymore. Remember, I'm doing this for your own good."
He finished his dinner and headed for the house phone, likely to call his assistant, Pedro, to finalize the move. My grandfather was the type of guardian who made decisions months in advance and only told you once it was too late to refuse.
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The flight to Louisiana was quiet.
I hated the move, but English wasn't the issue: my mother was Chinese and my father Argentinian, so my brother and I grew up trilingual. I just despised the idea of being forced into the world.
When we landed, we took a car to our new home: a smaller mansion in a row of others, filled with neighbors ready to label me as a "problematic, depressed kid."
I clutched Coco, my grandfather's domestic shorthair cat, as we walked toward the front door. Grandpa followed close behind, as if making sure I wouldn't bolt.
He placed a firm hand on my shoulder, a grip that whispered don't worry, and ushered me inside.
"Well," he said, closing the door behind us. "Home sweet home, kid."
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I spent the first week acclimating to the house the only way I knew how: locked in my room, drawing, and dreading the job search.
Meanwhile, Grandpa was busy with the "Lab." When he came home one evening, he mentioned the staff seemed "both friendly and weird." Then, he dropped the second bombshell:
"I stopped by a bar after my appointment. They had a sign out front for waiters," he said. I felt my stomach drop. "I went in and told them you were looking. They want to interview you tomorrow."
I wanted to curse in every language I knew. A waiter? The job required constant interaction with strangers, the very thing I loathed.
I didn't sleep a wink.
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I left the house at 10:00 AM the next morning, heart hammering against my ribs so hard I felt dizzy. I had spent the night mapping out the quietest, most deserted side streets to avoid seeing anyone.
I was a block away from the bar when a sound caught my attention.
To this day, I wonder: What if I had ignored it? What if I had just kept walking to that interview? But I didn't. And in that moment, my life changed forever…
The sound was terrible, a high-pitched, metallic screech that sounded like the scream of an unearthly creature from a horror film.
Usually, I would have bolted in the opposite direction, but this time was different. I acted on pure instinct. I could've sworn I wasn't in control of my own limbs anymore: my legs moved toward the source of the noise as if following the orders of something that wasn't me.
I soon reached the source.
Standing there was a girl, likely my age, with dark skin, raven-black hair, and piercing green eyes. She had just delivered a crushing kick to the real nightmare: a creature nearly seven feet tall. It had no eyes, and its grey flesh was riddled with tiny, sickening holes and pores. But the most unsettling part was its smile: wide, unnatural, and frozen.
A violent shiver raced down my spine.
My body was still operating on autopilot: I lunged forward to help, making my presence known the only way I knew how: by driving a fist straight into what I assumed was the creature's jaw.
The girl recoiled, her expression flickering from adrenaline to pure shock.
She backed away, petrified.
I opened my mouth to reassure her, to tell her I wasn't some freak or a psycho, when I looked back at the thing I had hit.
The creature began to twist oddly, its limbs jerking in a violent, seconds-long seizure before it went completely still.
One punch? That was all it took?
Suddenly, a dull ache throbbed behind my sockets. My eyes felt like they were on the verge of exploding, and I didn't even notice the warm trail of blood trickling down my cheeks.
The girl was staring at me, dumbfounded.
I tried to speak, to offer some comforting words, but I never got the chance.
A baseball bat I hadn't noticed before swung through my field of vision. It connected with the side of my head, and the world went black.
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When I finally came to, I was in a dim basement.
My hands were zip-tied to a chair, a gaming chair, strangely enough, and a heavy gag was shoved into my mouth. I scanned the room, squinting through the pain: there were massive monitors, flickering candles, and various pieces of medical equipment arranged neatly beside me.
My eyes landed on the heavy metal door. Above the frame was a single, chilling inscription:
"Section 77 "