Jacob and the Sheriff stood outside the old farmhouse, the weight of their mission heavy on their shoulders. The moonlight cast long shadows across the overgrown lawn, and the wind whispered through the trees, adding to the eerie atmosphere. The place looked like it had been abandoned for years, but they both knew better—inside was Mike Phillips, the 82-year-old billionaire, and his adopted daughter, Lydia.

The two men exchanged a glance, their determination mirrored in each other's eyes. They had to get to the bottom of this. *The Boiled One* had already taken two victims—Joshua and Antonio—and now Mike and Lydia were next on the list. But this time, Jacob and the Sheriff were ahead of the game. They could stop it before things escalated.

They approached the front door, which was hanging slightly open, as if someone had left it open in a hurry. The soft murmur of voices could be heard from within, and the faint glow of a light filtered out through the crack. The two men moved cautiously, pushing the door open just enough to slip inside.

The house was old and smelled of dust and decay. The furniture looked as though it hadn’t been touched in years, and a thick layer of grime covered every surface. But the sound of voices drew them forward, deeper into the house, until they reached the bottom of a staircase.

"She’s upstairs," one of the officers called out quietly, his face a mask of unease. “Lydia’s talking to us, but... something’s off.”

Jacob’s heart sank. Lydia was only seven years old, far too young to be mixed up in something like this. He glanced at the Sheriff, whose brow was furrowed with concern.

“We’ll check on her in a minute,” the Sheriff said, turning his attention back to the officer. “Where’s Mike?”

The officer pointed to a room at the end of the hallway. “He’s in there. Won’t talk much. Just sitting in his chair, staring at nothing.”

Jacob nodded, his hand resting on the grip of his firearm as they moved toward the room. The door creaked as they pushed it open, revealing Mike Phillips seated in an old armchair, his back turned to them. The glow of a single lamp illuminated his frail figure, casting long shadows on the walls.

Mike didn’t move as they entered. He just sat there, his hands resting on his knees, his head slightly bowed. The air in the room felt thick, like something was pressing down on them.

“Mike,” the Sheriff said, his voice firm but calm. “We need to talk.”

There was no response at first. Mike remained still, his gaze fixed on the floor. Jacob moved around to face him, noting the lines of age etched into the old man’s face. His skin was pale, almost sickly, and his eyes had a distant, haunted look to them.

“We know something’s going on,” Jacob said, his voice steady. “We know about Joshua and Antonio. We know they’re connected to you. We need to know what’s happening, Mike. What’s *The Boiled One*?”

At the mention of the name, Mike’s hands twitched. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out. He looked... terrified.

Jacob and the Sheriff exchanged a glance. They were close. Mike knew something, something that could help them stop this madness.

“Mike,” the Sheriff pressed, stepping closer. “Lydia’s upstairs. She’s in danger. If you want to protect her, you need to tell us what’s going on.”

Mike’s eyes flicked up, meeting the Sheriff’s gaze for the first time. His voice, when it finally came, was hoarse and broken, like someone who hadn’t spoken in days. “You don’t understand... None of this makes sense anymore.”

Jacob crouched down beside the old man, trying to keep his voice calm, despite the urgency gnawing at him. “Help us understand, Mike. How are you connected to Joshua? To Antonio? What does *The Boiled One* want?”

Mike’s hands trembled in his lap. He licked his dry lips, struggling to form the words. “It’s not me,” he muttered, shaking his head. “It’s her. It’s always been her.”

“Who, Mike?” the Sheriff asked, leaning in closer. “Who are you talking about?”

Mike’s eyes darted toward the ceiling, where they could hear the faint sound of Lydia’s voice drifting down the stairs. Jacob felt a chill crawl down his spine.

“She’s... not right,” Mike whispered, his voice barely audible. “I tried to stop it, but I couldn’t. *It* wants her.”

Jacob’s heart raced. *The Boiled One*—was it after Lydia? Was she somehow at the center of all this?

Before they could ask another question, the door creaked open, and one of the officers stuck his head in. “She’s still talking to us, but... it’s strange. She keeps saying things that don’t make sense. Something about ‘them’ watching.”

Jacob stood up quickly. “We need to talk to her.”

The Sheriff nodded. “Mike, stay here. We’re going to check on Lydia.”

Mike said nothing, his eyes once again fixed on the floor, as if retreating into himself. Jacob and the Sheriff moved quickly toward the staircase, their footsteps echoing off the wooden floorboards as they climbed. At the top of the stairs, they found Lydia sitting on the floor in a small room, a notebook and crayons spread out around her.

Two officers stood nearby, both looking uneasy as they watched the little girl. She was drawing with intense focus, humming softly to herself. Her small hands moved the crayon across the page with precision, creating shapes and lines that, at first glance, seemed harmless.

But as Jacob stepped closer, his stomach twisted. The drawings weren’t simple shapes or innocent doodles. They were dark, disturbing images. The outlines of figures that looked almost human but with twisted, grotesque features. And in every drawing, there was something else—something that stood taller than the rest, looming over the others like a shadow.

*The Boiled One.*

“Lydia,” Jacob said gently, kneeling down beside her. “Can we talk for a second?”

She didn’t look up at him, just kept drawing, her eyes fixed on the paper. “They’re coming soon,” she said softly, her voice calm, almost sing-song. “They want to talk to you.”

Jacob’s heart skipped a beat. “Who wants to talk to us, Lydia?”

She paused for a moment, tilting her head as if listening to something only she could hear. Then, without looking up, she said, “The ones in the pictures. They’re coming for you.”

The Sheriff stepped closer, his expression grim. “Lydia, do you know what’s happening? Do you know who *The Boiled One* is?”

This time, she stopped drawing. Slowly, she lifted her head and looked at Jacob, her eyes wide and unblinking. “He’s always been here,” she whispered. “Watching. Waiting.”

Jacob’s blood ran cold. There was no mistaking it—this little girl knew something. Something she shouldn’t know.

The Sheriff knelt down beside Jacob, his voice firm but gentle. “Lydia, do you know why *The Boiled One* is after you? Is he trying to hurt you?”

Lydia blinked slowly, her gaze drifting back to her drawings. “He doesn’t want to hurt me,” she said, her voice soft. “He wants to take me... somewhere. Somewhere quiet.”

Jacob’s stomach churned. The room felt suffocating, the weight of the situation pressing down on them all. He glanced at the Sheriff, who looked just as disturbed.

“We need to figure this out,” Jacob muttered, standing up and gesturing for the officers to keep an eye on Lydia. “She knows more than she’s letting on, but we can’t push her too hard. Not yet.”

The Sheriff nodded, his expression tight with worry. “We’ll question Mike more. He knows something, too. Maybe we can get him to open up now that we’ve talked to Lydia.”

Jacob agreed, and the two men made their way back down the stairs. Mike was still sitting in the same spot, his hands trembling in his lap. His eyes were glazed over, as if he was lost in some deep, dark thought.

“We talked to Lydia,” Jacob said as they approached. “She’s drawing pictures of *The Boiled One*. She says it’s been watching her.”

Mike flinched at the mention of the entity. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to block out the memories.

“Mike,” the Sheriff said, his voice low and serious, “you need to tell us what’s going on. If you care about Lydia’s safety, if you care about stopping this thing, you need to tell us everything.”

Mike sat in silence for what felt like an eternity. The seconds dragged on, tension filling the room. Finally, he opened his eyes, his gaze heavy with guilt and fear.

“It started years ago,” Mike whispered. “Long before Lydia. Long before Noel.”

Jacob and the Sheriff exchanged a glance. The name Noel hadn’t come up yet in their investigation, but now it seemed crucial.

Mike took a deep, shaky breath. “I was involved in things I shouldn’t have been. Dark things. *The Boiled One*... it came to me because of what I did. And now... it’s coming for all of us.”

The Sheriff frowned. “What kind of things, Mike?”

Mike’s eyes filled with tears. “I tried to stop it. I tried to make it right. But it’s too late now. It’s too late for all of us.”

Jacob stood still, struggling to take in everything Mike had just told them. The room felt suffocating, thick with tension and unease. The Sheriff was pacing, his face tight with worry, and even the distant humming of little Lydia upstairs only added to the eerie atmosphere. The house felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something terrible to happen.

Suddenly, the front door slammed open with a loud crash, startling everyone inside. A group of men in dark suits, armed and moving with purpose, barged in. These weren’t just any agents—they were CIA. You could tell by their sharp, no-nonsense movements. Their arrival meant one thing: the situation had escalated beyond local police.

“Jacob Ward. Sheriff Dawes,” the lead agent said, his voice flat and emotionless. He didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “You’re done here.”

Jacob’s chest tightened, anger flaring up. “What do you mean, ‘done’? We were close—Mike was about to tell us everything. We’ve got leads, we’re about to crack this case wide open!”

The agent, a tall man with graying hair, looked at Jacob with cold, detached eyes. “This is no longer your investigation. It’s out of your hands.”

Jacob took a step forward, his voice rising. “You can’t just walk in here and take over. We’ve been on this for weeks! We know what’s happening. You don’t even understand what you’re dealing with!”

The agent’s expression didn’t change. “We understand enough. You’ve already compromised things. This is classified now—national security. Our team will take it from here.”

The Sheriff stepped forward, trying to keep his calm, though Jacob could see the frustration building in his face too. “What are you planning to do with Mike and Lydia?” the Sheriff asked, his voice steady but tense.

“We’re going to conduct some tests,” the agent replied, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. “We have our own ways of getting the information we need.”

“Tests?” Jacob’s voice was sharp, disbelief spreading across his face. “These aren’t lab rats. Mike is an old man, and Lydia is a child. You can’t just experiment on them like that.”

The agent ignored him, signaling to his men. Two of them moved swiftly, grabbing Mike, who had gone pale and was slumped in his chair, too exhausted to fight. They held him up as a third agent approached with a small black case, pulling out a strange-looking pill. Without a word, the agent forced the pill into Mike’s mouth, holding his jaw shut until he swallowed.

“What the hell are you giving him?” Jacob shouted, his hands curling into fists. He was ready to fight, but the Sheriff put a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head slightly.

“We’ve got no choice, Jacob,” the Sheriff muttered. “It’s out of our hands now.”

Within moments, Mike’s eyes rolled back, and his body went limp as the agents picked him up. Without a word, they carried him upstairs to the master bedroom, where they locked the door behind them, shutting Jacob and the Sheriff out.

Three long, tense hours passed. The sound of Lydia’s soft humming from the other room was the only noise breaking the heavy silence. During that time, Jacob could do nothing but pace the hallway, his mind racing. Every minute that ticked by felt like a missed opportunity. He had been so close to uncovering the truth, and now, with the CIA in control, it felt like they were losing their grip on everything they had worked for.

The agents had set up monitors in the room next to the bedroom, keeping constant watch over Mike through a live camera feed. They had hooked him up to all sorts of machines—heart monitors, brain activity scanners, things Jacob didn’t even recognize. But to Jacob’s frustration, nothing seemed to be happening. Mike just lay there, unmoving, completely out of it.

“What’s their game here?” Jacob muttered, glancing over at the Sheriff, who had been watching the agents with the same wary expression. “They’re just letting him sleep.”

“I don’t know,” the Sheriff replied quietly. “But whatever it is, I don’t like it.”

After hours of this, Jacob couldn’t take it anymore. He stormed into the room where the agents were watching the monitors. “What exactly are you doing?” he demanded, his voice hard with frustration. “He’s not some test subject. He’s a human being!”

The lead agent looked at Jacob with the same cold, indifferent expression he’d had since the moment they arrived. “We’re observing.”

“Observing what?” Jacob’s voice rose. “He’s just lying there! You drugged him, and now you’re just waiting? What kind of investigation is this?”

“We’re waiting for a connection,” the agent replied, as if it were obvious. “*The Boiled One* doesn’t just appear to its victims at random. There’s something linking them—something that Mike knows, even if he doesn’t realize it.”

Jacob’s frustration boiled over. “And you think drugging him is going to make that connection clearer?”

The agent gave a slight shrug. “Our methods are effective.”

Jacob felt sick. They were treating this like some kind of cold, calculated experiment, completely disregarding the human cost. Mike and Lydia weren’t just names in a file—they were people, real people whose lives were on the line.

Suddenly, one of the monitors began to beep loudly, drawing everyone’s attention. Jacob rushed over to the screen, his heart pounding in his chest. On the camera feed, Mike’s body was twitching. His eyes fluttered open and closed, his hands clenching and unclenching as if he were trapped in some kind of nightmare.

“What’s happening?” Jacob asked, his voice tense with worry.

One of the agents leaned in, watching the screen closely. “He’s responding.”

“Responding to what?” Jacob demanded.

The lead agent didn’t answer. He just stared at the screen, a flicker of interest in his cold eyes. And then, as they all watched, Mike began to murmur—low, disjointed words that none of them could make out clearly.

Jacob’s pulse quickened. He could feel it in his gut—whatever was happening inside that room, it wasn’t good.

The minutes dragged on, feeling like hours. Jacob and the Sheriff could only stand by, helpless, as the agents continued their bizarre, clinical procedures. And then, just as suddenly as it had started, the beeping from the monitors stopped. Mike’s body went still again, his face slack and lifeless on the screen.

“What’s going on?” Jacob asked, his voice edged with desperation.

The agent finally turned to him, his expression calm. “We’re making progress, Ward. Slowly, but surely.”

Jacob didn’t like the sound of that. He didn’t like any of this. They were losing time—time that could be spent hunting down *The Boiled One*, stopping this horror from spreading. Instead, they were stuck here, watching the CIA treat human life like it was some kind of science project.

Jacob’s fists tightened at his sides. He knew he had to stay calm, but every part of him screamed that this was wrong. If they didn’t act soon, it wouldn’t just be Mike or Lydia at risk—this nightmare could spread to anyone connected to *The Boiled One*.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

And Jacob was starting to think that there were a lot more connections than they had originally thought.

The tension in the air was thick, suffocating. Jacob's eyes were glued to the screen showing Mike in the master bedroom. The old man lay still, his body shaking slightly, but the black figure outside the window was getting closer. Much closer.

“The Boiled One,” Jacob whispered to himself. His chest tightened as dread clawed at his insides. He turned quickly to the CIA leader. "It’s coming through the window! We have to stop it—now!"

But instead of reacting, the CIA leader turned his icy gaze on Jacob, shaking his head slowly. “No.”

The agent’s calmness was unnerving. The men standing guard, gripping their guns, were at the ready, but the leader held his hand up, signaling them to stand down.

“We’ve come too far,” the leader said, voice calm and collected. “Mike Phillips has done too much evil. We’re going to get as much information from him as possible, and that creature? It won’t harm him—yet.”

Jacob’s breath hitched, disbelief and anger flashing across his face. “Are you out of your mind? That thing will kill him. It’s here for him!”

The CIA leader only stared, indifferent to Jacob’s rising panic. He turned back to the microphone, ignoring the growing tension. "Mr. Phillips," he said, his voice steady, "tell us the truth. What happened before all of this? Why is it here?"

Mike, still frozen on the bed, shivered uncontrollably. His eyes darted toward the window where the black figure, barely visible, was crawling ever so slowly, almost taunting him. He felt the weight of his past, his sins pressing down on him like a heavy stone. Finally, his resolve broke.

"Fine," Mike choked out, his voice barely whispering. "You want the truth? I'll tell you."

The room was deathly silent, the only sound the rhythmic beeping of the machines monitoring Mike. Even the tension in the hallway, where Jacob and the Sheriff were being held back by the CIA agents, seemed to pause as Mike’s confession began.

“A year before Lydia was born,” Mike started, “I ran a sex trafficking ring. A large one. And I had everyone involved—police, politicians, businessmen. It was how I made my millions.”

His words felt like a punch to the gut. Jacob clenched his fists, his mind racing. It was worse than he had thought.

“The main two people involved,” Mike continued, his voice shaky but clear, “were Antonio and Joshua. They handled a lot of the dirty work. I stayed in the background, pulling the strings. But then I met her.”

Mike’s voice wavered as he mentioned her name. “Noel. She was a babysitter at the time. Innocent, quiet… easy prey. We kidnapped her, kept her locked up. I—” He stopped, swallowing hard, trying to push the words out. “I molested her, abused her. I kept her hidden until… until she got pregnant.”

Jacob felt his stomach turn, bile rising in his throat. Mike was confessing to the most horrific crimes imaginable, but the pieces were finally starting to fall into place.

“The child… Lydia,” Mike whispered, his voice breaking. “She’s mine.”

Upstairs, Lydia sat with the officers, drawing with crayons, oblivious to the nightmare unfolding downstairs. The officers tried to keep her calm, talking to her gently, but the air felt wrong, heavy with something unseen.

“She tried to kill me after she had the baby,” Mike admitted. “Noel came at me with a knife, screaming, but I used my connections. I had her thrown in prison for attempted murder.”

Jacob’s mind raced. Noel had been a victim, broken by the horrific abuse she’d endured. But Lydia? She was here, a living connection to it all. How could a girl so innocent be tied to something this twisted?

The pieces were coming together, but something was still missing. The Boiled One… why was it here? What was it?

Jacob didn’t have time to think. On the monitor, the black figure had now reached the window. Slowly, with agonizing patience, it crept through the glass, its shadowy form oozing into the room.

Mike didn’t see it. He was too busy recounting his sins, his mind too locked on the horrors he had committed. But Jacob saw it—*everyone* saw iAnd then, as if on cue, the camera feed cut out. All except for one—the feed from Mike’s point of view. The old man was still lying there, unaware that death itself was standing at his bedside.

“Mike,” the CIA leader called through the comms, his voice suddenly louder. “Tell us what the Boiled One is.”

Mike’s eyes widened in fear, realizing something was terribly wrong. He turned to the camera, a tremor in his voice. “I don’t know… I don’t know what it is.”

But it was too late. The camera from Mike’s perspective caught a glimpse of the Boiled One—its face, or what passed for a face, staring directly into the lens. And then, the camera shut off.

The room erupted with the sound of Mike’s screams, high-pitched and guttural, blending with the hideous sound of chomping. The man begged, pleaded for someone—anyone—to save him, but the only thing they could hear was the tearing of flesh and the breaking of bones.

“Help me! Please! Someone—” his screams cut off abruptly, replaced by silence.

For a moment, no one moved. No one spoke. The air was thick with shock, horror filling the space between breaths.

Then Jacob snapped.

He lunged at the agent holding him back, punching him square in the nose. The agent grunted in pain, stumbling backward, but Jacob didn’t stop. He rushed to the door, grabbing the handle and trying to force it open.

But before he could push through, the CIA leader’s voice rang out. “Stop him.”

Another agent slammed Jacob against the wall, pinning him down. The leader approached him slowly, his cold eyes locking onto Jacob's with eerie calm.

“You know what it is,” the leader said, his voice low and deadly. “You know what the Boiled One is, don’t you?”

Jacob tried to speak, but the pressure on his chest made it hard to breathe. He struggled, but the agent holding him down was too strong.

“Detain him,” the leader ordered, his tone as icy as ever.

The agents grabbed Jacob, pulling him to his feet and shoving him toward the door. As they dragged him out, his mind raced. He had been so close—so close to figuring it out. But now, they were taking it all away.They shoved Jacob into the back of the car, locking the doors behind him. His heart pounded in his chest, his head swirling with a thousand thoughts.

The pieces were almost all there. Antonio, Joshua, Mike, Noel, Lydia… they were all connected. But the Boiled One? It was still a mystery, a shadow lurking at the edges of his mind, and he knew, deep down, that time was running out.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that the answers were just within reach, but now… he was trapped.

“static”…………..

"The very memory of my face will cause a manifestation of my being in the future. You will be asleep in bed. I will be there, and watch over you. When you wake, you will not be able to move any part of you."

“………..”

"When the doctors eventually find you, they will not see me, but you will... and I'll see you too."

"Forever, I'll see you READER."

The door creaked open slowly as the screaming from inside the room stopped. A heavy silence filled the air, thick with tension. The CIA agents and the sheriff stepped into the master bedroom, their faces pale as they took in the horrific scene.

Mike was sprawled on the bed, his eyes still open, filled with shock. His body was mangled beyond recognition, and in the center of the carnage, his spine was ripped clean from his back, left dangling like some grotesque trophy. Yet, somehow, he was still alive, his chest rising and falling in shallow, painful breaths.

The sheriff took a step back, horrified. "What are we going to do now?" he asked, his voice shaking. "He's…he’s still alive. What do we do with him like this?"

The leader of the CIA, cold and unflinching, walked over to Mike's twitching form. He glanced down, eyes void of emotion, as if he had seen this sort of thing before—or worse. He reached into his holster and pulled out a gun, moving with a disturbing calm. Grabbing a pillow from the bed, he placed it over Mike's head with a deliberate slowness.

Without hesitation, he pressed the barrel of the gun into the pillow and fired. The muffled shot was dull, almost as if the room itself absorbed the sound. Mike’s body jerked once, and then lay still, lifeless. The pillow soaked with blood, and the room was once again silent.

The sheriff stared, his mouth agape. "You…you killed him," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "Just like that."

The CIA leader turned to face him, his expression unreadable. "It was the only way. There’s no saving him—not like that."

The sheriff swallowed hard, trying to make sense of it all. His hands trembled slightly, his mind racing. He glanced back at the lifeless body on the bed, then turned to the agent.

"What about Jacob?" the sheriff asked. "What do we tell him?"

The agent’s face hardened. "You tell him nothing. You breathe a word of this, and Jacob loses his job. Understand?"

The sheriff hesitated, then nodded slowly.

As the CIA men moved toward the door with Lydia, her small hand slipped out of one of the agent’s grip. She wriggled free with a sudden burst of energy, darting back toward the master bedroom.

"Lydia!" one of the agents shouted, lunging forward, but it was too late.

The girl bolted into the room and froze when her eyes fell on the horrific sight before her. Her father’s lifeless body was sprawled across the bed, his spine grotesquely removed. Blood still soaked the pillow that had been used to end his suffering. She stared in disbelief, her small body trembling as the reality of the scene sunk in.

“No…” Lydia whispered, her voice quivering. She took a shaky step toward the bed, her face pale with shock. "Daddy? Please don’t go. Please don’t take him away from me, Mr. Boiled..." Her voice cracked as she said the words, her mind slipping into a mix of confusion and terror.

She screamed—a heart-wrenching, piercing scream that echoed through the room, shaking everyone who heard it. "Daddy, no!"

Before she could get any closer, one of the agents rushed forward and grabbed her. He swiftly covered her mouth with his hand to muffle her screams, and with the other, he injected her with a sedative. Lydia’s body went limp, her cries fading as she collapsed into the agent’s arms.

They carried her out of the room, her tiny form lifeless in their grip, and headed to the waiting car where Jacob was being held. Jacob watched in silence as they placed Lydia beside him in the back seat. She was still unconscious, her breathing shallow but steady.

The CIA leader turned to Jacob, his expression unreadable, and said, "Mike didn’t make it. He died instantly from Phen-228, a powerful compound we used to sedate him. It was quick and painless."

Jacob looked at Lydia, then back at the CIA leader. His brow furrowed in doubt, but he didn’t say anything. Deep down, he didn’t believe them. He had seen too much, sensed too much. Something far worse than sedatives had happened in that room. He could feel it in his gut.

The car started moving, the quiet hum of the engine doing little to drown out the tension that filled the air. Lydia remained unconscious beside Jacob, her head resting against the window. The sheriff sat silently in the front, his face pale, as if the weight of what had just happened was too much to bear.

Behind them, a second car stayed with a small squad of agents. Their orders were clear—stay behind and handle the aftermath. As Jacob, the sheriff, Lydia, and the CIA leader drove away, the remaining team went back into the house, gathering any last remnants of evidence.

Once the agents ensured everything was accounted for, they set the plan into motion. One of the agents stood outside, looking at the sky as the sun began to dip behind the horizon, casting long shadows across the yard. Another agent placed a gas canister down in the kitchen and began pouring its contents over the floor, drenching everything in sight.

The smell of gasoline filled the house, overpowering the stench of blood that lingered from Mike’s death. The agents moved methodically, pouring the fuel across every room, every corner, making sure there would be nothing left when they were done.

With a final look around, the lead agent gave the nod. A lighter was flicked open, and within seconds, flames roared to life, greedily devouring everything they touched. The fire quickly spread, engulfing the house in an intense blaze that lit up the night sky. Within minutes, the once-grand house was reduced to a raging inferno.

The squad stood outside, watching the fire burn with cold detachment. Their mission was complete. Nothing would remain of Mike Phillips or the horrors that had unfolded inside those walls.

As they watched the house crumble into ashes, the leader of the squad turned to his men. "It’s done," he said flatly. "Let’s move out."

Meanwhile, the car carrying Jacob, the sheriff, Lydia, and the CIA leader sped down the highway, heading toward the central headquarters. Jacob’s mind raced as he stared out the window, his thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and anger. Lydia lay still beside him, completely unaware of the nightmare that had just unfolded.

Jacob clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. He knew something wasn’t right. The story about Mike’s death felt like a cover-up, a lie to protect whatever dark forces were at play. He wanted answers, but every time he tried to piece things together, the memories of what he had seen clouded his mind—the Boiled One, the spine ripped out of Mike’s body, the strange connection between all these deaths. It was all too much.

The CIA leader glanced back at Jacob through the rearview mirror, noticing the detective’s tension. "You did what you could," he said calmly. "But now, this investigation is in our hands. We’ll take it from here."

Jacob didn’t respond. He simply stared ahead, his jaw clenched in frustration. He wasn’t ready to give up, but for now, he was powerless. The CIA had taken control, and there was little he could do to fight back.

The rest of the drive was silent, the weight of everything that had happened settling over them like a dark cloud. The road stretched out ahead, leading them further away from the house that was now nothing more than smoldering ruins.

As they approached headquarters, the CIA leader turned to the sheriff and spoke in a low voice, "Remember, don’t tell Jacob about what happened to Mike. If you do, he’s out of a job. We need him focused, not chasing ghosts."

The sheriff nodded stiffly, his lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t like it, but he knew there was no other choice. Jacob was already on edge, and the truth about Mike’s brutal end would push him over the edge.

They pulled into the lot at the headquarters, and the car came to a stop. The CIA leader got out first, then opened the door for Jacob and Lydia. The girl was still unconscious, her small body slumped against the seat. Jacob gently lifted her out of the car, cradling her in his arms as they walked inside.

The officers at the headquarters didn’t say a word as the group entered. They had been briefed on the situation, and there were no questions asked. The agents led them to a private room, where Lydia was placed on a couch to rest.

Jacob sat down across from her, his mind still reeling from everything that had happened. The sheriff stood by the door, his expression unreadable. The CIA leader gave them both a curt nod before stepping out, leaving Jacob and the sheriff alone with the sleeping child.

"She’ll wake up soon," the sheriff said quietly. "We’ll have to figure out what to tell her when she does."

Jacob nodded absently, his thoughts elsewhere. He couldn’t shake the image of Mike’s spine being torn out, the screams that had filled the room, the Boiled One lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike. He had seen too many things that couldn’t be explained by logic or reason. And now, the truth was slipping further out of reach.

As the minutes ticked by, Jacob’s mind raced with questions, but there were no answers to be found. He knew that this was far from over. The Boiled One was still out there, lurking in the shadows, and the dark secrets that connected Mike, Antonio, Joshua, and Lydia had yet to fully unravel.

And now, with the CIA in control, the clock was ticking.

He had to act fast—before it was too late.

As the car sped along the dark highway, the silence inside was thick with tension. Jacob stared out the window, his thoughts racing while Lydia lay next to him, still unconscious from the sedative. The sheriff sat quietly in the front, glancing back every few minutes at the small, fragile figure of the girl and the grim-faced detective.

The CIA leader, sitting next to the sheriff, broke the silence after a while. "We’re almost there," he said in a low, steady voice. "You’ll get your answers soon, Jacob. And when you do, you might wish you hadn’t."

Jacob didn’t respond. He was too busy trying to make sense of everything—the Boiled One, the spine-ripped corpse of Mike, the strange connection between all the deaths. The more he thought about it, the more it felt like he was trapped in some nightmarish puzzle, with pieces that didn’t quite fit together. And now, with the CIA taking control, his hands were tied. For now.

After what seemed like hours of driving, the car veered off the main road onto a narrow dirt path. They drove past rusted signs and derelict buildings that seemed abandoned for years. Up ahead, an old, decaying car shop came into view, its windows broken and walls crumbling. The place looked like it hadn’t seen life in decades.

The car rolled to a stop in front of the shop. The CIA leader stepped out, motioning for Jacob and the sheriff to follow. He walked over to a rusted metal panel next to the garage doors and pressed a button hidden beneath the grime.

Without warning, the ground beneath the car began to rumble. Jacob’s heart skipped a beat as the floor slowly descended like a giant elevator, taking them underground. As they descended, the dilapidated car shop disappeared from view, replaced by the sight of something much larger and more sophisticated.

The elevator shaft opened into an enormous underground base, bustling with activity. It was a hive of agents, military personnel, and scientists—each one busy, working under the dim glow of overhead lights. Dozens of rows of cubicles stretched out as far as Jacob could see, and in the center of it all, a massive screen loomed above, displaying a live broadcast.

The sight of the Boiled One filled the screen. His dark, shadowy figure stood motionless, his face partially obscured, but the voice that came through the speakers was unmistakable.

"The sky will open...the spines of the damned will bend under the weight of what’s to come...you cannot escape it...you cannot outrun me...I see you all...I see you..."

The voice droned on, eerie and unrelenting, as if it were speaking directly to Jacob. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as the words echoed through the base. Some of the agents glanced up at the screen nervously, but most continued working, as if they had grown used to the disturbing broadcast.

"That’s live," the CIA leader said, his voice grim as they stepped out of the elevator. "We’ve hacked into their feed, but it doesn’t matter. He wants to be seen. Wants to be heard."

Jacob stared at the screen in horror, the image of the Boiled One burned into his mind. His words kept repeating, over and over again, like some twisted prophecy. He felt a chill run down his spine as he realized that this wasn’t just a local case anymore. The Boiled One, or whatever this creature was, was worldwide.

The CIA leader led them through the massive underground facility, passing rows of armed soldiers and intelligence officers typing furiously on computers.

"Where are we?" Jacob asked, his voice strained as he tried to take it all in.

"Classified," the leader responded curtly. "But this is where we handle things like this. Phenomena that go beyond standard protocol. Things like the Boiled One, or as we’ve dubbed it: PHEN-228."

"PHEN-228?" Jacob muttered, almost in disbelief. The Boiled One had a name, a classification. Whatever this thing was, it wasn’t just some urban legend or supernatural entity. The government had been aware of it for longer than Jacob realized.

They reached a small section of the base where a cubicle was set up, furnished with nothing but a table and two chairs. The CIA leader gestured for Jacob to take a seat while another agent carried Lydia, still unconscious, to a separate cubicle nearby.

Just as Lydia’s body was gently placed on a cot, her eyes fluttered open. The moment she realized she was in an unfamiliar place, her body tensed, and she let out a blood-curdling scream that echoed through the entire base.

“Daddy! Where’s Daddy?!" Lydia shrieked, her small frame shaking as she fought to escape the agents who held her back. "Where are we? Let me go!"

The agents moved quickly, trying to calm her down. Jacob stood up instinctively, wanting to go to her, but the CIA leader’s hand on his shoulder kept him in place.

“She’ll be fine,” the leader said flatly. “Focus on the task at hand. We’ve got bigger problems.”

Jacob reluctantly sat back down, his heart heavy with guilt as Lydia’s cries continued to echo in the background.

The leader sat across from him and leaned forward. “Now, tell me everything. Every detail you remember from the past few days… no matter how small.”

Jacob took a deep breath, his mind racing as he tried to organize his thoughts. He began to recount everything—how the investigation started, the strange deaths, the Boiled One’s appearances, and the horrifying scenes he’d witnessed. He left nothing out, even the parts that seemed too unreal to be true. The leader listened in silence, his expression unreadable.

When Jacob finished, the leader sat back, crossing his arms. “You’re the Boiled One’s main target. Do you understand that?”

Jacob blinked, confusion flashing across his face. “What?”

The leader leaned forward, his eyes locked onto Jacob’s. “You’ve escaped him multiple times. More than anyone else. That’s why he’s fixated on you. That’s why the broadcasts always seem directed at you, why you keep seeing him. You’ve survived when you weren’t supposed to.”

Jacob shook his head in disbelief. "This is insane. Why me? I’m just a detective. I’m just trying to solve this—”

“You’ve already figured out more than most,” the leader cut in. “That’s why we brought you here. You’re not just some detective caught in the middle of this. You’re part of it now.”

Jacob felt a cold chill running down his spine. He had never asked to be part of this, but somehow, it seemed like he was at the center of it all. The Boiled One—PHEN-228—had marked him, and there was no turning back.

The leader stood up, motioning to the agents. “Keep him here. We need to regroup and assess the situation. The Boiled One won’t stop until he gets what he wants.”

Jacob remained seated, his mind spinning with everything he’d just learned. Lydia had quieted down, but her sobs still echoed faintly through the cubicle walls. The massive screen continued to display the live feed of the Boiled One, his dark figure standing still, whispering his cryptic warnings about the sky opening up and the spines of the damned.

For the first time, Jacob truly realized the scale of the threat they were facing. This wasn’t just about the deaths in his town anymore. The Boiled One was everywhere, lurking in the shadows, ready to strike. And somehow, he was the key to stopping it—or becoming its next victim.

The hours ticked by the eerie broadcast playing on the big screen never stopping.