Sophia had managed to suppress Angelo's powers—but not completely. His strength and regeneration remained, dulled like a blade sheathed in cloth. Days passed, and Angelo recovered slowly, adjusting to the strange quiet within himself. The whispers that once clawed at his mind had quieted, but not vanished.
A week later, Sophia returned.
She moved with purpose, silent and composed, like someone walking a tightrope stretched between fear and determination. She examined the seal etched onto his chest and the strange, shifting marks that coiled along his back.
"It's stable," she murmured. "For now."
They spoke only briefly. Her words were always careful, deliberate—like every sentence was part of a ritual. Then she left. The next week, the same. Her presence became part of their routine. And in time, something unexpected happened.
Angelo began to open up.
At first, it was small—comments, questions, quiet reflections. But gradually, the dam broke. He told her about the dreams that bled into his waking thoughts. The whispers in his mind that no longer screamed, but sang—soft lullabies in a language no one should know. He spoke of shadowed figures at the edge of sleep, watching him with eyes that bled.
Sophia listened with a stillness that unnerved the room. Then she asked, "Have any of your family members experienced anything like this?"
He shook his head. "No."
Her brow furrowed. "If it wasn't inherited… then how did it happen?"
Angelo hesitated. Then, like a puzzle piece sliding into place, the answer emerged.
"I'm adopted."
There was a pause at the doorway. Olivia had been listening, holding a cup of tea that now trembled in her hands. She stepped into the room slowly, her expression unreadable at first.
"I was going to wait until you were older," she said softly.
Sophia looked up, silent.
Olivia sat beside Angelo. "It was raining. Storming, actually. We were driving home when the car stopped on its own. Everything just… died. No headlights. No engine. No heat."
She looked at Sophia now, voice a quiet storm. "Only Alex heard the crying. I didn't hear it. James didn't either. Just Alex. We got out and followed him, and there he was. Angelo. A baby, alone on a park bench in the middle of a thunderstorm. Crying."
She turned to Angelo, tears threatening to fall. "When we found you and took you into the car, you stopped crying—and the rain began to ease. Then the lights came back on."
She smiled, soft and full of pain and love. "Even if you're not my blood… you're still my son. I've never loved you any less. Never."
Angelo blinked, and for the first time in a long while, his heart felt warm. Like something fragile had begun to mend. He leaned into her, and she held him tightly, as if afraid that letting go might break him.
Sophia stood silently, watching the moment unfold.
Eventually, she spoke. "I'll keep searching—for a way to fully seal it. There has to be something. Somewhere."
Her words were a quiet torch in the dark.
As she gathered her tools, Angelo found his eyes lingering on her—on the way she moved, on the quiet strength she carried like armor. He had never noticed before, but now he saw it: she was beautiful.
Not just her face. Her presence. Her purpose.
But not everyone in the room felt the same.
Alex stood in the hallway, arms crossed. He said nothing, but his eyes—sharp and guarded—never left Angelo. He had seen the blood. The way Angelo moved when no one was looking. The marks on his skin that pulsed like breathing wounds.
He didn't hate him.
But he was afraid of him.
And fear is a seed that grows in silence.
Beyond the Walker household, the world was no longer what it had been.
The first breakout had shattered the illusion of safety. Creatures born from nightmare now stalked the shadows of reality. Governments fell into chaos. But humanity, as always, adapted.
Global military coalitions rose, forged through necessity. Soldiers trained with new weapons designed by scientists who no longer slept. Cities became fortresses. Survivors became fighters.
Some creatures fell easily. Others… didn't. Through blood and sacrifice, humanity learned how to fight back.
And for the first time since the Breakout, there was hope.
Yet, not all enemies could be fought.
The Watchers remained.
They stood atop ruined buildings, unmoving. Sat silently in warzones, their heads tilted slightly—curious, as if studying. They never attacked. Never interfered. But their eyes… their eyes held galaxies of silence.
They observed.
And the world watched them back.
Strategists, soldiers, scientists—they all agreed:
The moment the Watchers decide to move, everything changes.
But until then, humanity would fight. Cling to hope. Rebuild.
And prepare.