It had been six long years. Six years of staring at the same concrete walls, making the same marks with a broken piece of chalk she found under her bed. Noel carved her story into the walls, piece by piece, day by day, as if doing so would keep her from losing herself completely. The cold prison cell was her entire world, and those chalk marks were her only way of keeping track of the passing time.
Her fingers traced over the most recent tally she had etched into the wall, but something felt off today. She paused, her hand hovering over the next space she was about to mark. The air in the room felt thicker, heavier. She blinked, trying to shake the feeling, but it clung to her like a second skin. Her heart began to race, though she couldn’t say why.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, through the narrow window bars high above her, she saw it. That face. The Boiled One.
It was there again, staring in through the bars like it always did. Its face was twisted, dark and sunken, its skin mottled and gray. But it wasn’t moving—just shaking violently, without sound, without words, as if caught in some horrible fit. Noel’s breath caught in her throat. She tried to ignore it, to keep her focus on the wall in front of her, but she couldn’t resist. Her body turned of its own accord, her head following the invisible pull. She looked directly at the window, expecting it to still be there, but it was gone. Just like that.
She bit her lip, stifling a scream that threatened to rise up. This had been happening for years now, maybe even longer. The Boiled One always watched her, always shook as if its body could barely contain whatever was inside it. And every time, she’d look, and every time, it would vanish. But this was the closest it had ever been. Right outside her cell window. It was getting bolder, more present, and she knew what that meant.
It was waiting for something.
The loud clanging of metal broke her thoughts, pulling her back to the reality of the prison. The guard who stood by the cells announced that it was mealtime. His voice was gruff, unfeeling. “All right, ladies, it’s chow time. Move.”
Noel stood up slowly, still shaking off the lingering sense of dread from her encounter. She walked out of the cell and joined the rest of the women in the line heading toward the cafeteria. It was always the same routine. The same cold, tasteless food. The same stares from the other inmates. The same gang of women who hated her guts for reasons they didn’t even understand.
As soon as she sat down at one of the benches, the hostility in the air grew thicker. They surrounded her—the same group of women who had made it their mission to make her life miserable in this place. Their leader, a tall woman with short-cropped hair and a deep scar running down her cheek, sneered as she approached Noel’s table.
“Look who’s here. Little Noel, all alone again,” she mocked. “Still thinkin’ you’re better than us, huh?”
Noel didn’t respond. She knew better than to engage. But it didn’t matter. The leader of the group wasn’t looking for a reason. She just wanted a target.
The first punch came fast—right across Noel’s cheek. Her head snapped to the side, and before she could recover, another fist struck her stomach, knocking the wind out of her. She stumbled off the bench and hit the floor hard, the taste of blood filling her mouth as the kicks began to rain down on her. She curled up into a ball, shielding herself as best she could, but there were too many of them.
“Thought you could just hide from what you did, huh? Thought we wouldn’t find out what kind of monster you are?” one of them spat as she kicked Noel in the ribs.
Noel wanted to scream, but the pain was too much. She could hear the others shouting around her, the sound of their feet pounding against her body, their hatred pouring out in every blow.
Then, out of nowhere, there was a deafening bang. A gunshot.
The room fell silent.
The women scattered like roaches, backing away from Noel’s crumpled form. She lay on the ground, her body shaking, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Through the haze of pain, she looked up and saw two figures standing at the entrance of the cafeteria—one of them with a gun still smoking in his hand.
It was the CIA leader, flanked by the sheriff.
“Everyone, back to your cells,” the CIA leader barked. “Now.”
The guards quickly rounded up the inmates, herding them back to their cells without another word. Noel felt a hand on her shoulder and flinched, but when she looked up, it was the sheriff, his face filled with concern. Gently, he helped her to her feet.
“You okay?” he asked, though his tone was all business.
Noel nodded, though she wasn’t sure if she meant it. The pain in her body was nothing compared to the gnawing dread that still lingered from seeing the Boiled One earlier.
The CIA leader didn’t waste any time. “Noel,” he said, stepping forward. “We need to talk. You’re coming with us.”
Noel’s legs were wobbly, her mind still in a fog from the beating she’d taken. But she followed them out of the cafeteria, through the narrow halls of the prison, until they were outside. The fresh air hit her like a shock, reminding her of how long it had been since she’d seen the outside world.
As they walked toward an unmarked car parked just outside the prison gates, the CIA leader turned to her, his expression serious. “You’ve been in here for six years, Noel. But we know what’s been going on with you. We know about the Boiled One.”
Noel flinched at the name. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The CIA leader exchanged a glance with the sheriff before continuing. “It’s been watching you, hasn’t it? Appearing in places just outside your vision, but always there. Shaking, but never saying anything.”
Noel swallowed hard. “How do you know about that?”
“We’ve been monitoring this entity for some time. PHEN-228. The Boiled One. And we’ve been monitoring you. It’s not just after you, Noel. It’s after your daughter, too.”
At the mention of her daughter, Noel’s chest tightened. She hadn’t seen Lydia since the day she was born, and now this creature—this thing that had haunted her every moment in prison—was after her child, too?
The sheriff’s voice was softer, more compassionate. “We know what happened between you and Mike Phillips. What he did to you. What you tried to do to him. But right now, we need you to help us stop this thing before it takes more lives.”
Noel shook her head, her voice trembling. “I... I don’t know how to stop it. It just watches me, like it’s waiting. Sometimes it’s at the window, sometimes it’s in the corner of my cell, but it’s always there. And I know... I know it’s waiting for something, but I don’t know what.”
The CIA leader sighed. “That’s what we need to figure out. We need your help, Noel.”
Noel closed her eyes, her mind racing. All she cared about was seeing Lydia. That was the only thing that mattered now. She didn’t know how to fight the Boiled One, but if it meant protecting her daughter, she would do whatever it took.
“Take me to her,” Noel whispered, her voice barely audible. “I need to see my daughter.”
The CIA leader nodded. “We will. But first, we need to get you out of here.”
They walked her to the car, and as soon as she was inside, she let out a long breath, trying to calm her nerves. The sheriff climbed into the passenger seat, while the CIA leader took the wheel. As they drove away from the prison, Noel’s thoughts drifted to Lydia. What kind of life had she lived without her? Did she even know who her real mother was?
The Boiled One was out there, waiting, watching. But Noel knew that whatever came next, she had to face it. For Lydia.
For her daughter.
During the car ride, the atmosphere was tense and heavy, though the silence between Lydia and Jacob was almost comforting. The hum of the engine was a constant reminder that the world outside was still spinning, even as everything inside felt like it had collapsed. Lydia sat with her arms crossed, staring blankly ahead, her mind clearly somewhere else. Jacob could feel the weight of everything she had been through, but he didn’t know how to ease it—until she spoke.
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“My father… he didn’t die in vain, did he?” she asked quietly, her voice wavering just slightly.
Jacob turned his head towards her, softening his tone. “No, Lydia. He didn’t die in vain. I promise you, what happened to him… it wasn’t for nothing. We’re going to find out what’s really going on. We’ll stop this.”
Lydia hesitated, her hands gripping the seatbelt tightly. “I saw it, Jacob. I saw what happened. The CIA leader… he finished him off. He shot my father.” Her voice cracked as she spoke, tears welling up in her eyes. “He put a pillow over his head and pulled the trigger. I saw everything.”
Jacob’s heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t known this—hadn’t even suspected. He opened his mouth to say something, but Lydia cut him off.
“And there’s something else. That CIA leader… he’s not who he says he is. I can feel it. There’s something wrong with him.”
Jacob took a deep breath, his mind racing. The CIA leader wasn’t who he seemed? This revelation turned everything on its head, but there was no time to think about it now. They had to keep moving forward, and he had to protect Lydia. That much was certain.
In an attempt to break the tension, Jacob forced a smile. “You know, for what it’s worth, I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere. We’ll figure this out together.”
Lydia managed a small, hesitant smile in return. “Thanks, Jacob… I mean, big brother.”
Jacob blinked, surprised at the nickname. He wasn’t expecting her to say that, but it warmed him in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. “Big brother, huh? I think I can live with that.”
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Lydia laughed—a soft, genuine laugh that filled the car with a bit of much-needed lightness. It wasn’t forced, and for just a moment, things didn’t feel so hopeless. They kept talking, joking, and even playing little word games to pass the time. Lydia seemed to relax, at least a little, and Jacob was grateful for that.
After a few hours, though, exhaustion began to set in. Jacob felt his eyelids growing heavy, his body begging for rest. He looked over at Lydia, who was fighting sleep as well.
“I think I’m going to sleep today off,” Jacob said, leaning back in his seat. “Let’s get some rest. We’ll need it.”
The CIA agents, FBI members, and other staff at the headquarters agreed and led Jacob and Lydia to a small room with two beds. It wasn’t much, but it was better than the back of a car. The room was quiet, safe—or at least as safe as any place could be with the Boiled One lurking somewhere out there.
Before they settled in, Jacob turned to Lydia. “How about a bedtime story?”
Lydia, already lying down, smiled. “Sure.”
Jacob told her a simple story about a brave knight who fought monsters, not so different from the ones they were facing now, except his story had a happy ending. By the time he finished, Lydia’s eyes were barely open. She turned her head to look at him, her voice a whisper. “I’m glad I met you, Jacob.”
Then, tears silently rolled down her cheeks, and before Jacob could respond, she was fast asleep.
Jacob lay in his own
bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about everything that had happened. His mind drifted back—far back, to a time when things were different. A time when he had a family.
It was five years ago. A sunny day, perfect for a family picnic. Jacob’s wife had packed everything—sandwiches, fruit, even a blanket to sit on. His two sons were running around, chasing each other, while his daughter giggled, trying to keep up. It was one of those moments that felt perfect. But then it happened.
A car. A drunk driver. The vehicle veered off the road, straight towards them. Jacob tried to shield his family, tried to grab them, but it was too late. The car hit, and everything went black.
In the dream, Jacob relived the surgeries, the endless hospital visits. The doctors telling him again and again that the operations had been successful, but they were hollow victories. His body was repaired, but his heart wasn’t. His wife, his children—they were gone. And when he asked the doctors about his family, their faces fell. One doctor, her voice shaking, told him the truth.
“They didn’t make it. We… we used their organs to save you. Your heart, your lungs, your kidney—those are all from them. They didn’t survive, but we couldn’t let them all die, not when they could save you.”
Jacob remembered the empty feeling that followed him after that—how he ate only enough to survive, how the world had lost its color. Days turned into months, and Jacob felt nothing. It was like he was just a shell, hollow and aimless.
Then, one day, the man who had caused the accident—the drunk driver—came into his hospital room. He had been labeled a murderer, shunned by society. His son had to move states because of the shame, and now he stood before Jacob, his hands shaking, his eyes filled with regret.
“I didn’t mean to,” the man had said, his voice cracking. “I’ve been living with this… with what I did. I’ve been labeled a murderer, and my own child hates me for it.”
The room grew louder—the officers who had come with the man were trying to console Jacob, telling him to move on, to live. But the words blended together, growing more chaotic, more overwhelming. On the television, a strange Japanese commercial played—a mascot danced cheerfully across the screen, as if mocking the horror of the moment. Everything became too much. The man who had taken Jacob’s family pulled out a knife, his hands trembling.
And with one swift motion, he slit his own throat.
Blood splattered everywhere—on the officers, on the walls, on Jacob. The scene was horrific, but in that moment, something else caught Jacob’s attention. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw it.
The Boiled One.
It was dancing in the strange foreign ad looking like it was aware that I could see it, it had slowly walked up to the camera and crouched down to disappear. And as blood filled the room, as the screams grew louder, the Boiled One’s showed up right beside his side reaching its hand over his face and ripping it off then boom. It was a dream.
Jacob bolted upright, drenched in sweat. His heart pounded in his chest, and his breath came in ragged gasps. It took him a moment to realize where he was—in the CIA’s base, in the room they had given him and Lydia.
But something was wrong. He looked towards the door, which was slightly ajar. Standing there were the detective, the CIA leader, and Noel. They were all staring into the room with wide, horrified eyes. Jacob followed to where they were looking.
He turned slowly, his body heavy with dread. His eyes landed on Lydia’s bed, and the world seemed to tilt beneath him.
Lydia was gone. What remained of her was nothing more than a bunch of meat her body chopped into pieces, her insides thrown across the bed and the floor. Bits of her flesh had been eaten, her bones and guts scattered around the room. The sight was so horrifying that Jacob’s mind struggled to comprehend it. The Boiled One had come for her.
The sheriff’s grip on the CIA leader tightened as he yelled violently, and for a moment the room was thick with tension. The sheriff turned to the FBI agent who had been standing stiffly in the corner. “Why the hell are you so tense?” the sheriff demanded, his voice still laced with rage but now also edged with a creeping suspicion.
The FBI agent swallowed hard before speaking. His voice was low, barely more than a whisper. “I... I opened the door connecting the HQ to the living quarters. Sheriff—everyone’s dead. Every last one of them. Their spines... ripped out.”
The sheriff’s eyes widened, his grip finally releasing the CIA leader, who crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath. The weight of the FBI agent's words settled over the room like a dark cloud, and a cold chill ran down the sheriff's spine. He spun around, his face pale. “Noel, Jacob—get the hell out of here, now!” he yelled, his voice rising above the oppressive silence that had settled in.
Noel, still in shock and drenched in grief, was slow to react, but the sheriff grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to her feet. “We don’t have time! Move!” he barked, his eyes wild with urgency.
Jacob, still processing everything, hesitated for only a moment before springing into action. They bolted from the room, their footsteps echoing in the narrow hallway as they ran for their lives. But as they fled, a voice—inhuman and terrifying—suddenly filled their ears, drowning out their frantic breathing and pounding hearts.
“Listen closely," the voice whispered, chilling and almost intimate, as if it were whispering directly into their minds. "Do you hear it? You will hear the laughter of thousands as the sky opens up. You will hear the trumpets play their happy sounds. The scalding blood of life will pour down onto us all. Together, we will be still. Together, a feast fit for a king. Together, welded by love and purest connection. Be still. Let this—”
The voice abruptly cut off, leaving behind an eerie silence. Jacob’s breath caught in his throat, and an unsettling feeling crept over him. He glanced over his shoulder, and what he saw froze him in place.
There, at the end of the hallway, stood the Boiled One. Its grotesque, twisted form loomed over the body of the CIA leader, who was being devoured alive, his flesh ripped apart in terrifying silence. The Boiled One’s spindly arms twisted and stretched as it tore the man apart, its jagged teeth sinking into his skin. In its mouth, Jacob noticed something that sent a wave of nausea through him—Lydia’s blood-soaked clothes.
“No!” Jacob gasped, his stomach turning as the full horror of what was happening sank in.
Noel, sensing Jacob’s reaction, turned and saw the creature too. Her grief and rage exploded in an instant. Without thinking, she snatched the gun from the sheriff’s holster and fired wildly at the Boiled One, screaming in fury. The bullets hit the creature, but it didn’t flinch. The Boiled One's many stick-like arms reached out with unnatural speed, and one struck Noel, knocking her backward with bone-crushing force. She hit the wall hard, slumping to the ground, unconscious.
“Noel!” Jacob yelled, rushing toward her limp body. But before he could reach her, the sheriff stepped forward, holding a flare he had grabbed from the CIA leader’s bag.
“Get away from her!” the sheriff roared, igniting the flare and hurling it toward the Boiled One. The creature let out a guttural hiss as the flare burned against its skin, causing its form to writhe and twist. For the first time, it showed some reaction to pain, its long, stick-like arms recoiling slightly.
The sheriff, his face now set in grim determination, turned to Jacob, his voice hoarse but filled with authority. “Jacob, take Noel and get the hell out of here! Drive! Don’t look back!”
Jacob hesitated, his eyes wide with confusion and fear. “What about you? Come on, we can still make it!”
The sheriff shook his head, his expression grim. “I’m not coming, Jacob,” he said quietly, looking down at his leg. One of the Boiled One’s arms had already latched onto him, slowly draining the flesh and bones from his leg. He winced in pain but didn’t flinch. “I’m not making it out of this. But you can. Now go! Don’t let my death be for nothing!”
“No!” Jacob shouted, but the sheriff’s sharp glare silenced him. “Go now!” he bellowed, his voice filled with finality.
With no other choice, Jacob scooped Noel’s unconscious body into his arms and turned to run. He didn’t look back as he sprinted down the hallway, his heart pounding in his chest. The Boiled One’s hissing and the sheriff’s shouts faded behind him, but he kept running. He reached the exit, threw Noel into the back seat of the car, and slammed the door shut.
With shaking hands, Jacob started the engine and drove. He pressed his foot down hard on the gas, speeding away from the HQ as fast as he could. In the rearview mirror, the headquarters behind him erupted in a massive explosion, flames lighting up the night sky. The ground shook beneath the car as the force of the blast echoed across the landscape.