Daddy was twitching on the ground. His blood came fast, urgent, and unwilling to stop.

  His head was broken. The bone looked sharp—a jagged, pale shard exposed. One eye was swollen shut. The other stared at nothing, rimmed in red. His jaw hung crooked. His teeth were slick with blood.

  I could hear the wet sound of him trying to breathe, as if he was drowning in his own body.

  “Mikaela, what did you do!?” My mom’s scream ripped through the air, hurting my ears. It felt sharp, a fracture too sudden to name. Her face was twisted. Mad. Sad. Scared. All at once.

  I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. It smelled like pennies...

  I looked at Daddy’s watch and tried to see the little arms move. But the glass was all cracked...

  I looked away.

  Anything to not see the blood pooled beneath him, dark and spreading with a hungry intensity.

  “WHAT DID YOU DO!?” Her voice cracked in the last word, like it couldn’t hold the weight of it.

  I jolted awake as my mother's scream chased me back across the dream. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat that seemed to be trying to outrun the echo of her voice.

  The phantom smell of pennies still clung to the air. My hands still shook, and I didn’t know if it was from the cold or not. I wanted to cry, but I didn't. Not then. Not now. Monsters don't cry—they break. They remember.

  [“Smile like you mean it,”] a show on the TV buzzed. My eyes, still adjusting to the dim light, caught a flicker of movement on the cushion beside me. It took a moment for the shape to resolve into a person, sitting with an unnerving stillness. Ripper was gone, and so was everyone else, it seemed. Only this one girl remained.

  She was watching the fashion show with the kind of focus people reserve for autopsies.

  It was her. The girl from the Coliseum. She sat motionless beneath the room’s light, her pale face framed by brown hair that refused to soften her expression. Her sleeves were white: smooth, thick, stitched tight around her forearms. Her hair was less so. The ends had begun to split and fray.

  She glanced over, smiling faintly. "So, you've decided to wake up," she said, her voice smooth, almost amused.

  I didn’t answer. Still, I sat up slowly, keeping my eyes on her.

  “You’re the new student, right? The one trailing the Midwich Ripper.” She tilted her head, her big hazel eyes piercing through me, leaving me unsure if she wanted to help or eat me.

  "You're brave," she said, her gaze shifting away from me. "But if Ripper sees you with his eyes… really sees you…" Her tone wasn't sharp, just certain. Like the way my mom used to warn me about touching hot surfaces.

  "If it gets too loud near him," she murmured, her voice barely reaching me. “You can sit with me instead. I don’t mind the quiet.” She adjusted her sleeve, thumb grazing the seam.

  A part of me wanted to accept her offer, but then the image of that guy getting blown away by her beam came back. My fingers pinched the seat cushion. What if I broke that silence, too?

  "I don't want you to end up like the others," she said, her focus returning to the show, the judges' comments echoing through the empty room. She then turned off the TV. Now only the hum was there. I followed her gaze. The screen was blank, but I saw her reflection—her eyes seemed to absorb the dim light rather than reflect it.

  I swallowed, rubbing my fingers together. “You mean the guy in the coliseum?” I asked, turning my eyes away from the TV.

  She shook her head. “No. I mean the Midwich Ripper.”

  Her voice didn’t rise. But they still made the hairs on my arms prickle.

  Then she looked at me—really looked. Her eyes seemed to bore right through me.

  “You think I’d hate you.” She stated it as though she were reading a clock.

  I blinked. Hate? No. Recognition. That's what I'd anticipated. Like Ripper.

  She didn’t explain it further. Instead, the girl smoothed her sleeves with a practiced touch, then stood and walked away.

  "Come," she said, turning to look at me for a moment. "You should see this." Then she started to walk away slowly from the rec room.

  I stood up eventually and followed, placing my hands in my pockets.

  I didn't trust her, not really. The image of her power in the Coliseum flashed in my mind. But there was something about her calm, her knowing gaze, that pulled me forward. Was it curiosity? Or just the desperate need for someone, anyone, to explain what was happening?

  After passing through several corridors with that older girl, I noticed the absence of other students. The whole place felt deserted—only a few staff members drifting past; silent, vacant-eyed… barely there.

  They moved like automatons, and for a second, I wondered if they were just another kind of broken thing, like me.

  “Um,” I said, trying to fill the silence. “What’s your name?” My fingers fidgeted inside my pocket.

  For a moment, she just kept walking. "Queen," She said it offhandedly, like it was a label she'd stopped trying to peel off. "And you?"

  “Mikaela. But you can call me Mika if you want.”

  She nodded once. "You always introduce yourself like that?"

  I blinked. "Like what?"

  "Like you're asking permission."

  I opened my mouth, then closed it. “I don’t know, I just thought..." I murmured. Though I hadn't meant it as a question, I wondered if it had come out that way. "Some people don’t like nicknames.”

  Maybe I just wanted the familiarity of someone calling me Mika again.

  Queen didn’t answer. But her pace slowed, only half a step.

  I looked at her. “Do you?”

  She shrugged. “Depends on who’s asking.”

  We walked without speaking further, my words having already failed to ease my tension.

  The corridor seemed to stretch longer than it should have. I kept counting the floor tiles: some were wider, some thinner; they didn’t stay still. Or maybe they did, and it was just me.

  The air felt charged, wrong. Still, but not empty. Something was there. I think.

  Queen didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she had, and learned not to care.

  The walls were matte gray, but their color shifted when I looked away, becoming cooler, then warmer. A faint scent hung in the air. Not bad, but strange: metal, citrus, and something else. It reminded me of the dentist’s office, or maybe the beach.

  An odd combination.

  The older girl stopped in front of a door that blended seamlessly into the wall. It didn't smell like anything, but the air immediately around it felt wrong. Too still. A faint hum came from the cracks, vibrating against my shoes.

  “…this way,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of inflection. The surface of the metal didn't properly reflect her face, as if refusing to retain any memory.

  I nodded, lips tight. Places like this weren't built for people, but monsters like me.

  The door opened without a sound.

  I stepped inside and felt the weight of the crowd before I saw them. Students all dressed like me—a sea of white uniforms. I could almost feel the heat of their breath as I tried to move more than a few steps. The space itself felt wrong… too tall.

  A second-level curved above them, a narrow balcony with a railing where other students leaned, loud, disruptive, and rowdy. They laughed like they were watching a spectacle.

  I pressed my thumb against my palm as I stared up at them. They leaned over the railing, eyes cold, surveying the pit as if it owed them something.

  The room felt forced into place. A big screen glowed on my left. Its light didn't just shine; it felt like a cool, invasive touch, tracing the contours of your very being.

  "Stay close." She didn’t push through. Her presence seemed to carve space around us. Bodies moved when they saw her, not out of fear, nor mere obedience. I understood then why they called her Queen. The room parted like the sea, as if it respected her.

  I did as told, not out of trust, but because the crowd itself felt wrong to me.

  They sat like statues, rows and rows of backs and necks all turning towards the light.

  The screen flickered. A face appeared, too smooth, too pale. A ghost, rendered in pixels.

  The older girl's breath caught, only once. Then she was still again.

  It was Ripper.

  He stood in the Coliseum, dwarfed by its scale, facing a girl whose outline tugged at something. A jolt went through me: I saw her when I arrived.

  The last chamber.

  She’d met my eyes while the Director spoke, just for a second—as if she knew I would, though I didn't yet know why.

  Now she was standing across from Ripper, her posture stiff, her eyes firmly glaring at him.

  "You can cry if you want, Lian. Go ahead. No one’s coming to help." His voice was dry and monotone. The words weren’t new; they were almost the same as when we first met.

  She didn’t answer. Just looked at Ripper.

  Then she let out a big sigh. "Yeah, yeah, I know…" Her voice wasn’t loud, but steady. "No one’s coming." The girl called Lian said, mimicking Ripper's tone. She then casually brought a finger into her ear, digging in with a slight frown etched on her face.

  "You done, Rip?" She said, withdrawing her finger from her ear and examining the result with a faint wrinkle of her nose.

  "No, no, you don’t," Ripper’s voice cut in, copying her cadence in return. "Let me guess," he sneered, "this is the part where you start flitting around like a pixie that's eaten too much sugar?"

  Lian tilted her head, her thumb circling her index finger as if it were rolling something. “Aw, you’re always this dramatic, Rip?” She said with a grin, but the room didn’t laugh. It leaned closer. “Seriously, so tortured. So… twelve.” She flicked something towards the boy in front of her. Whatever it was, Ripper remained unaffected.

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  She didn’t raise her voice. “Is this where you do the thing? What was it? Collapse??” Still, the silence leaned toward her, as if it had seen this before. “Or wait, are we calling it the Brood Pulse now?”

  Lian offered no smile; her expression unreadable. “No? The Big Shrug? The Crumple?" She snapped at Ripper, "Come on, Rip! Give me something fresh!”

  The room leaned closer, waiting for him to flinch. She didn’t sound brave, just angry. But a familiar type of anger, raw and tight, like a coiled spring finally snapping. Her previous attitude felt like a mask in a play, cracking into pieces under the pressure of genuine fury.

  "Not yet," Ripper said, a smirk barely twitching at the corner of his mouth. "First, you do your thing." His voice still mirrored her previous demeanor.

  "Wow. So scripted," she said without flinching, her voice now dripping with venom. The air around her seemed to shift, "but I already did mine. You just didn’t notice."

  At that moment, it lunged—a wave of air surged toward Ripper. A pressure front, sharp and sudden as though the room exhaled in her defense.

  On the screen, Ripper’s eyes flickered towards Lian, flaring like embers as his expression shifted. 'Oh? So, what is it called? ‘Pushing?’

  The surge fizzled midflight, dissipating as it came close to Ripper. A storm collapsed inward. His leer didn't vanish; it lingered like a still mask. "So that's it?" His voice was low, leaving the air charged. "Then I suppose it's my turn." The echo of Lian's voice, unnervingly precise, still clung to his tone.

  Then the world on the screen began to warp and distort.

  The Coliseum didn't shake—it rippled. The floor tiles buckled. not from impact, but from... something pulling and pushing them back and forth. Walls pulsed, their angles flexing as if in pain. Even geometry seemed unsure; its lines wavering.

  Light fractured, bending in ways that made shadows writhe sideways, uncertain where to land.

  The air thickened, not with heat, but with the heavy weight of memory. The room braced itself. The sound didn't echo; it staggered, each note faltering. Each footstep, each breath, landed wrong; the acoustics warring themselves.

  'Bastard,' Lian hissed, clenching her teeth tight. 'I'll break that smug smile! I'll break you!” A guttural sound escaped her as her head throbbed. Her eyes blazed with light, her hair billowing like a dark halo caught in a tempest.

  The very space seemed to ripple in response, as if struggling to contain the sheer force unleashed. Even gravity seemed to hesitate; its pull shifting, favoring Ripper, then Lian, then no one. The fight wasn't just between them. It was in the walls, the floor, lights; the Institute itself seemed to waver, uncertain on who to favor.

  I shifted my weight from foot to foot as the coliseum roared to life. Queen and I stood shoulder to shoulder; eyes fixed on the screen above us.

  "They're not holding back…" I said, my fingers clenching tighter inside my pocket.

  “No.” The older girl shook her head, her knuckles white around the railing. "He is..."

  A shadow moved behind, a subtle shift in the air, an awareness that settled next to us. He looked wiry, built for speed, not strength, with long limbs and a tension that never left his shoulders. His tan skin still held the warmth of someone born above ground, even though it looked like Halden had tried to bleach that history out.

  The white uniform (shorts and short sleeves) that made others look the same framed him like a question. The loose fabric was arranged neatly, showing no defiance, just precision.

  His forearms bore faint, symmetrical lines. His dark hair curled slightly at the edges, softening his sharp features. His eyes were deep-set, steady, the kind that made me lower my gaze.

  Yet, despite the attempt to blend in, he never truly disappeared.

  His eyes flicked at me, then went back to the pit.

  "You're late," Queen said, her voice flat.

  He shrugged. "I’m always late."

  I glanced sideways. "You two know each other?"

  The slight softening of her gaze as she turned to meet my eyes was unexpected. "We've met…"

  He offered no corrections. "Lian must be pretty confident to go and try her luck against the Midwich Ripper," he said, rolling the 'R' slightly when he named Ripper, “Huh, Queen?”

  When he said “the Midwich Ripper,” her jaw tightened slightly. Her eyes, fixed on the screen, seemed to lose focus for a moment before she quickly blinked it away.

  "Overconfident is more like it," Queen's voice was measured, a quiet note entering her voice as her shoulders lowered slightly. Her gaze remained fixed on the screen, her attention entirely on the fight.

  “Yo, Cassian, how much do you want to bet Lian can take that freak down?” An older teen leaned over the railing, grinning as he stared at us.

  Cassian, glancing back for a second, leaned back slightly and grinned. “Oh, screw you, Julian!” His words came tumbling out in a familiar rush. “You seriously think I'm gonna bet anything on a fight like this!?"

  Then, without sound or warning, Julian was beside us. “What about you, Queen? Think she’s got a shot?”

  I didn’t see him move; the room seemed to skip a beat.

  My breath caught. One moment, he was up there; the next, he was close enough to touch. He was pale and lean; his smile crooked, brief—not emotion, just punctuation.

  Queen remained still, a rigid statue. But I could see her jaw set tight, her fingers curling near her sleeve. Her gaze remained fixed on the screen, a wall against Julian's presence.

  "So, you won't bet on your friend then? You really are an Ice Queen…" the tall teen stated, his tone flat as he shook his head slightly.

  The crowd around the railing buzzed, not just with the spectacle below, but with hushed words. I saw a younger student press a worn comic into an older one's hand, receiving a small pouch of something in return. I didn't understand what it was back then, but later I came to learn that in Halden, everything had a price, even watching someone bleed.

  The ground rumbled beneath my feet. On screen, Ripper’s stomp had fractured the floor, cracks racing from his foot toward Lian like the ground had been waiting for a signal.

  Lian's eyes widened. She surged upward before the ground could catch her, fast and fluid, gravity forgotten. Her limbs sliced through the air, outrunning the ground's verdict.

  Below, the seams clawed upward, the cracks ripping through the chamber floor before moving eagerly into the walls, as if the room itself was trying to devour itself.

  Ripper held his posture steady, even as the cracks expanded slowly and deliberately, his eyes following her ascent.

  The air thickened, the room arguing with itself in a way it hadn't before. The light fractured, brittle as memory. The walls trembled, then froze, as if they couldn’t decide whether to scream or listen.

  Above, Lian’s face contorted. Her arms swung wildly. Shimmering, thin, translucent filaments of air lashed toward Ripper, each one a desperate plea for impact. They sliced through the chaos, fast and sharp.

  He didn’t dodge or flinch. The walls sagged as if they were tired. With a lazy lift of his arm, the filaments shattered mid-flight—dissolving into nothing.

  “Of course,” Lian breathed, the words a weary exhalation, her eyes narrowing as they landed on Ripper, “You don’t block things. You break them until there’s nothing left!” Her voice cracked loudly as she sent another filament towards him.

  Ripper’s presence seemed to steady the space; though the cracks kept expanding, they faltered, their furious crawl softening into a hesitant pause, as if the room itself held its breath.

  But like before, the filament shattered as the air around Ripper seemed to solidify.

  The fissures continued their outward crawl, moving in impossible directions, as if space itself twisted around Ripper like a funhouse mirror.

  Wh-what is this place?" The words stumbled out, a choked sound that frayed in my ears. The walls had just rippled, and the silence felt warped, thinning at the edges.

  Queen turned to me. "It's not just you," she murmured, a small smile touching her lips. "The first time I saw it, I thought I was losing my mind." She looked at the rippling walls. "Turns out, it's the place that's broken."

  "They...we call it Field Wrestling," Cassian said, voice flat. "When we use our powers, the place doesn't know what to do. It reacts to the energy, and it makes everything...” He gave his hair a quick, absentminded scratch. "So, everything starts going—like it's reacting to what's inside us as much as what we're doing."

  “Wait…so it's not just me feeling...off?” I glanced at the walls, their surface shifting like breath. “Is that why everything feels wrong? Because it sees inside?”

  “I thought I was losing it. Since I got here. But maybe it’s the place.” My voice dropped. “Maybe it’s not breaking me. Maybe it’s just… showing me… what’s already cracked.”

  ”More like you're the one showing it...” Julian chimed in, his grey eyes usually so quick to dart around, now locked onto mine.

  Cassian studied me for a moment, his gaze unwavering. “Who are you?”

  “…I’m Mikaela.”

  Julian leaned forward slightly. "Don't let the resident Don Quixote of Frowns scare you," he said, his voice playful yet sarcastic. After shooting a quick, pointed glance at Cassian, he turned back to me, his expression softening into a quick, easy grin. "We're all wonderfully cracked up here."

  "Ignore the Sancho Panza of Sass, he just loves to mess with people." Cassian's earthy eyes didn't bother to turn to Julian; instead, they held me with quiet steadiness. "This place... it leaves its mark on everyone. You'll find your place," his voice was softer now.

  "Yeah, and that place is with the Midwich Ripper of all places.” Julian gave a lazy wave in my direction. “So, if anything, it’s her head that’s cracked.” His grin was still in place even though his eyes carried something there that I'd seen in the mirror lately.

  Cassian let out a low breath. "Yeah, well," he said, his voice a quiet rumble, "you're smug, she's cracked, and I'm the pendejo who keeps showing up anyway." He tilted his head towards the screen. His arms crossed tight around his chest as he made a show of not looking at anybody else.

  The screen pulsed, then snapped back to the coliseum.

  Lian hung in the air, her breath a ragged sound. "Come on," she choked out, her movements jerky. "Just... land!" Her telekinetic strikes whipped out, dissipating as if swallowed by an unseen void.

  Ripper didn't move. Not an inch, just watched her as if every frantic flutter was a reminder of something he desperately wanted to unsee, cataloging each one with a grim, internal count.

  Lian darted around the chamber like a caged bird. Each one of her attacks was no more effective than a bird flapping its wings against the metal bars around it.

  The sterile walls of the chamber seemed to press in, offering no escape; no further secrets revealed, only this suffocating stillness.

  ” I didn’t want to follow him,” I said, rubbing my thumb against my forefinger. “It's just… I ended up near him…”

  "Yeah, that's the Midwich effect." Julian's head tilted slightly as his eyes remained on screen. "Proximity-based unraveling. Makes sense, right?” His tone was flat and even, like a prerecorded message on the phone. "Gets everyone eventually. Especially those around him."

  “That’s enough,” Queen said, her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly as she shifted her weight and stepped closer to those two.

  Cassian turned to her, surprised. Julian’s smirk faded just a touch.

  The hazel-eyed girl's gaze snapped to them, sharp and unwavering. “She’s not cracked. She’s observant. Maybe that’s why she sees what the two of you keep missing.”

  ‘Observant.’ Queen said it as if it were armor, a shield against the world. But to me, it felt like glass, thin and ready to shatter. I didn’t feel smart, just a cold dread as tremors ran through me. Just like when I watched my father's chest rise and fall—too slow, too wrong. He used to say time was fragile, like it could snap like a thin cord. I didn't get it back then. Now I do. Every second here felt like a weight, pressing down, waiting for something to break.

  "Ah, the classic 'gifted and traumatized' routine. How original." Julian gave a short, sharp scoff that sounded more like a sigh caught in his throat. His gaze drifted past me, unfocused, as if he were looking at something far away, something he couldn't quite grasp anymore.

  I turned back to the screen.

  "You bastard…"Lian's breath tore from her lungs, a raw, animal sound. "You don't even flinch," she crouched on the roof like a spider, her voice low, shaking. "Not even for her!" She plunged headfirst, leaving a wake of displaced air as she hurtled towards Ripper. Her body twisted midair, slicing through thickened light. A filament, a sliver of her will, trembling to exist, formed.

  Ripper didn’t move. Not even his eyes. The filament reached him and unraveled. Not shattered or deflected; it simply vanished in on itself, its intent absorbed and neutralized.

  The Coliseum groaned under the sheer, overwhelming absorption of the attack. Its walls slumped, and the lights dimmed as though a memory had finally released.

  Lian was flung back, hitting the ground hard and sliding on her back like a broken plane. Her limbs twitched once, then stilled; her breath shallow.

  Everyone remained transfixed on the screen; a sea of unmoving figures, their collective silence a palpable weight pressing down.

  But Lian didn't stay down. She pushed herself up, trembling, her breath ragged. "Wait, I'm not done!" Her voice cracked open, raw, and desperate. "What did you do to Anne!?" She screamed, the name a raw shard of glass, tearing through the air. "Rip! What did you do!?"

  Ripper didn't flinch or speak; his face set in a blankness as he turned and walked away.

  "Don't turn your back on me, you cocky prick! What did you do to her!?"

  I knew that scream. Not from Lian. From my mother. The moment she saw my father after what I'd done. The same rhythm. The same broken cadence, a faltering, desperate sound. The same look of someone who couldn't believe what had happened—and hated herself for clinging to hope.

  Lian's fist slammed the floor once, twice. Then she crumpled, the fight draining out of her.

  Cassian turned, his gaze fixed on me. "That's why you need to stay away from him," he said, his voice a low rumble. "You know why they call him the Midwich Ripper, right?"

  Two staff members entered the Coliseum. Their movements were precise, economical, as they silently lifted Lian, handling her as if she were fragile glass. The screen flickered one last time, then went dark, leaving the Coliseum in heavy silence.

  Cassian's voice was low, as if he were forcing the words out of his lips. "They say he killed dozens... kids, the elderly." He didn't look at me, his gaze fixed on some distant point. "So yeah. Stay clear of him."

  Queen flinched, a barely perceptible tremor. Her jaw tightened, her eyes flicking toward Cassian, then away, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. Her fingers curled slightly near her sleeve; a gesture I'd come to recognize in the short time I've met her.

  My breath caught, a sudden, sharp intake of air. I opened my mouth to say that he wasn't as bad as they thought. That he hadn't harmed me, but the collective glare on me tightened my throat. The weight of their eyes pressed down, stealing the air from my lungs. The words wouldn't come.

  A faint, humorless smile touched Julian's lips, eyes holding mine a little too long. "…but hey, maybe you'll be the one to redeem him," he said, offering a small, almost imperceptible shrug and turning away. "That always works out—until it doesn't."

  Queen's eyes lingered on the screen, a flicker of concern crossing her face before she turned and hurried away from the spectator's room, her jaw tight. "Mika," she said, her voice clipped as her gaze darted from her path forward and the screen. "I'm sorry, I have to go. Now." She tugged her sleeve once, a sharp gesture, and then she was gone, a blur of motion heading out of view.

  Queen's hurried departure left a new kind of void, a sharp absence in the air that the lingering accusations couldn't quite fill. Was she running from this, too? Or was it something else entirely?

  The older boy's words echoed in my head, sharp, accusing. The Midwich Ripper... I hadn’t grasped the full meaning, not yet.

  But I knew how it felt to be watched like a ticking bomb, every second a potential detonation. As if no matter what you said, they already decided what kind of monster you were.

  And maybe they weren't entirely wrong about the danger, even if I hadn't really seen it.

  Maybe my head is cracked; that's why I keep hearing the silence scream.