Clutching his bleeding hand, missing fingers and all, the boy’s gaze shifts to the two shadowy figures approaching at a slow, deliberate pace. A wave of dread courses through him.

“This can’t be any good…”

It’s clear: no ordinary people should be here. The boy’s eyes dart around, searching for any route of escape. But before he can react, a gunshot shatters the silence, and a searing pain tears through his right shoulder. His vision blurs as he stumbles, on the brink of collapse.

He fights the urge to scream, gritting his teeth and hunching down, clutching his shoulder. In the pretense of succumbing to the pain, he reaches into the box, grasping the small hearing aid machine. It’s his only leverage, his last hope.

With fumbling, blood-slicked fingers, he struggles to put it in his ear, but even the simplest task feels impossible. The seconds stretch, agony intensifying his every movement.

In desperation, he brings the small box to his mouth, forcing it down in one painful gulp. It lodges in his throat, making each breath a struggle, but at least he’s concealed it.

Just as the two figures quicken their approach, he forces himself to stand, though his legs feel like they’re made of lead.

“Bastard!” A boot slams into his side, sending him sprawling across the cracked ground. He crashes down, pain radiating through his body, every nerve screaming.

“What did you just do?” demands one of the men, his voice ice-cold.

The boy lifts his head, blinking away blood and sweat, and sees the two men now looming over him. They wear dark coats, marked with a crow emblem, and eerie, expressionless masks. He knows exactly who they are—and just how bad his luck truly is.

“I—” he starts, but the man with the gun drives his foot into the boy’s stomach, cutting him off with a choked gasp of pain.

The other man crouches down, inspecting the can of coffee still lying by his side. He picks it up, shaking it slightly, turning it over.

“He drank all of it,” he mutters, giving his partner a hard, suspicious look.

They turn their attention back to the boy, eyes boring into him through the emotionless masks.

“He must know something,” the man with the gun mutters, his voice thick with frustration. “No way he’d come here otherwise.”

The man with the gun, Robert, casts a skeptical look at the boy, taking in his battered state, the bloodied fingers, and the hearing aid.

“A disability?” he mutters, noticing the device in the boy's ear. He reaches to pull it off, but as soon as he tugs, the boy lets out an anguished scream.

“Arghhh!!!”

Irritated, Robert abandons the attempt, wiping the boy’s blood from his fingers and examining the faint stains on the department store’s entrance.

"Missing fingers... dried blood at the store’s front…” he murmurs, piecing together the scene with a sinister satisfaction.

The other masked man gives Robert a short nod, his voice calm and commanding. “Robert, get more information from him.”

Robert’s lips curl into a dark smile as he steps forward, grabbing the boy by the throat and lifting him slightly. The boy’s legs thrash as he struggles for air, his face twisted in pain and desperation.

“Argh…” The boy’s voice is hoarse, his strength fading as he tries in vain to pry Robert’s grip away. Realizing he’s at his limit, he gasps, “I… I’ll talk!”

Satisfied, Robert releases him with a shove, sending the boy crumpling to the ground.

“Tell me everything,” Robert sneers, leaning close with expectant eyes.

Barely catching his breath, the boy complies, disclosing the rules he knows—though he omits critical details, weaving in small lies he hopes will buy him time and maybe a slim chance of survival.

The other man listens intently, then glances at Robert. “We’ll verify his claims later. Eliminate him, Robert.”

“Right away,” Robert responds with perverse enthusiasm, raising his gun to the boy’s head.

“Wait!” the boy yells, panic lacing his voice. “Wait! I know something else… something you’ll want to know…”

His voice quivers, but there's a fierce desperation in his eyes, the only thing keeping him alive as he tries to bargain with the shadowed figures looming over him.

The boy takes a shaky breath, his mind racing as he crafts a story to deceive the two men towering over him.

“I… I know a place,” he begins, choosing his words carefully. “People come out of it stronger… even though they’re changed, twisted.”

His gaze flickers to Robert’s widening eyes, catching the glint of intrigue as Robert’s hand tightens around his gun, and he exchanges an eager look with his partner, Rowen.

“Is he telling the truth, Rowen?” Robert asks, barely able to contain the excitement in his voice.

Rowen nods slowly, though his eyes narrow, watching the boy with a trace of suspicion. “Something’s off,” he murmurs, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Why does this one seem to know exactly what we’re after?”

Robert’s brows furrow as the realization dawns. “Could this be a trap…?”

Their laughter erupts suddenly, echoing through the desolate streets with a manic edge. The boy shivers, feeling the weight of their unsettling anticipation pressing down on him. But then Rowen’s voice, sharp with excitement, slices through the laughter.

“What if it is a trap? Power comes with risk. As long as we have a hand in it…”

With a ritualistic flourish, Robert and Rowen each raise a gloved right hand, their voices harmonizing in a chilling chant. “The power will be given to the lost crow who usurps the order.”

Rowen steps forward, his eyes gleaming with purpose. “Lead us,” he orders, his voice a hiss of excitement and warning.

Swallowing hard, the boy nods, gritting his teeth against the throbbing pain of his wounds. He turns away, feigning composure as he starts down a shadowed path.

As they follow, their eyes catch something peculiar on the boy’s neck—a tattoo of an angel. But as he watches, the image begins to warp in an eerie, unnatural way. One of the angel’s wings darkens, its lines bleeding from pure white to inky black, as if tainted by some unseen force.

Ignoring the disturbing phenomenon unfolding before them, Rowen glances at the boy, sensing a darkness they share. "The fallen ones," he thinks, observing how these tainted beings, warped by anomaly power, have drifted beyond the boundaries of ordinary human form.

The Order has tried to exterminate their kind, but to Rowen and the rest of the "crows," it is they who are the true inheritors of the earth—a new evolution of humankind, one that feeds on fear and thrives in shadows.

A twisted hiss escapes from beneath Rowen's mask, his excitement barely contained.

The two men’s patience wore thin, their frustration simmering into something far more dangerous as the boy continued to lead them astray, each wrong turn tightening the noose around them.

The boy, trembling yet defiant, hesitates before them, uncertain. Robert, growing impatient, steps forward, his hand clenched around the grip of his gun.

"You little—" he growls, raising a fist, but Rowen stops him with a cold hand on his shoulder.

"Robert, wait. Let him lead…for now."

Reluctantly, Robert pulls back, kicking the ground in frustration. "Fine..."

The boy gulps, forcing himself to meet their gazes. "No…no, I just took a wrong turn.”

Rowen’s eyes narrow, a glint of cruelty flickering there. If he's mistaken, it’s not too late to finish him off. He nods to the boy. "Lead on."

With a quivering hand, the boy motions forward, his voice barely a whisper. "It should be…just up ahead."

Luck seems to finally favor him. He leads them to a fork in the road, where a strange, grotesque skull, painted with white symbols.

"This is it…" the boy mutters, his voice shaky.

Before he can continue, Robert pushes him forward, his voice sharp and dangerous. "Show us."

The boy bites his lip, his eyes flickering with dread as he approaches the skull. He kneels, pressing his wounded hand, still oozing blood, against the cold stone. Gritting his teeth, he drags his wounded hand over the rough surface, scraping flesh as he traces the symbols with his own blood.

He stifles a scream, tears streaming down his face, a guttural cry slipping out as pain flares.

When he’s finished, the skull is soaked in a fresh, glistening layer of red. With a rumble, the earth opens before him, revealing a narrow staircase leading down into pitch-black depths.

Rowen and Robert exchange a look, their anticipation palpable. Without a word, they rush into the staircase, leaving the boy alone in the dust.

Breathing heavily, the boy clutches his hand, a strange smile spreading across his face despite the blood pooling beneath him. He’s achieved his goal. As he watches their figures disappear, the angel tattoo on his back neck stirs, one of its once-pure wings now half-black, dark as midnight.

With a sinister grin, he whispers to himself, "The first step…to damnation."

Descending slowly, the boy hears the sounds echoing up from below—grunts, curses, the clash of metal, bodies thudding against stone. It’s chaos, just as he expected. “Crow,” he mutters to himself, recalling what he knows about the anarchic group.

“Like the game described—an unruly mob fighting over a single goal: the power of Anomaly.”

He waits on the stairs, listening as the noises below gradually die away. When silence finally settles, he presses forward, moving down the corridor until he finds a stone tablet embedded in the wall. Six stone buttons are set into its surface, four of them dim and lifeless.

His fingers graze the remaining two glowing buttons, and he murmurs, “The two hands and two legs… already claimed.”

He fixes his gaze on the massive stone door looming ahead, memories of Anomaly 00415—A-00415—flooding back to him. There’s only one rule for this anomaly…

Rule number 1: Don’t die.

From the other side of the door, he hears a faint scream, a guttural wail mingling with the unmistakable slither of something monstrous, tentacles scraping over stone as it hunts. Then, the brutal sounds of bones snapping and flesh tearing echo through the walls.

He closes his eyes and gulps, feeling a strange thrill amid his dread. He knows they’re dead because of him. And yet, instead of remorse, a twisted satisfaction bubbles up inside him.

Unknown to him, the angel tattoo on his back shifts, both wings darkening, a sinister smile stretching across its face.

Then, silence. The door creaks open, beckoning the next unfortunate soul.

He hesitates, then presses two buttons: one marked for “body” and another for “eyes.” With a low rumble, the stone gate glows a harsh, blood-red, casting an eerie light over him.

He steps through and finds himself in an ancient chamber dominated by a cold, sacrificial altar. In its center lies a dark puddle of blood, thick and stagnant.

The door slams shut behind him.

Cautiously, he approaches the altar, noting tattered clothes scattered on the floor—remnants of the men who came before him. Closing his eyes, he senses something moving in the shadows above. A slick, meaty scent fills the air. He feels it draw close, hovering inches from his face, questing, searching.

Then, a thin, wet tendril caresses his cheek before driving itself toward his eyes.

He screams, agony exploding as the tendril pierces his skin, digging deep, twisting and rooting itself inside his eye sockets. This pain is beyond anything he’s felt—a raw, searing agony far worse than bullets or knives.

Then, with a flicker, his vision darkens completely, like a television abruptly going dead.

The pain doesn’t ease; it amplifies, vibrating through him. He thrashes, wailing, but the thing isn’t done

The tentacle isn’t satisfied. It seems to sense that the boy is still clinging to life, drawing shallow breaths even through the agony. It hovers above him, twitching in gleeful anticipation, almost dancing as though it has waited for this moment, this suffering, for ages.

With slow, deliberate movements, the tentacle slips back into his eye sockets, twisting around the raw edges of the flesh, as if savoring the warmth left behind. The boy shudders, feeling the slick tendril curl deeper, its rough surface scraping against exposed nerves.

Then, he feels heat—a spark igniting within the empty hollows of his eyes. “Gahhhh!” he screams, a raw, desperate sound as his eye sockets begin to sizzle, the sickening smell of burning flesh filling his nose. The fire crackles within him, spreading from the hollows outward, and yet somehow he remains alive, each beat of his heart amplifying the searing agony.

The tentacle lingers until a hazy, ghostly fire begins to glow from his eye sockets—a strange, ethereal light that barely softens the agony, only intensifying his terror. The boy writhes, trapped in a burning darkness, haunted by the creature’s chilling joy.

"Survive... survive," the boy mutters, his voice a twisted whisper echoing in the empty chamber. Pain has shredded his mind, bending his thoughts into something dark and unrecognizable.

“I... I want to go home.” The words spill out, fragile and hollow. He doesn’t understand how he’s come this far—how he’s even still standing. A strange warmth pulses at the back of his neck, where an ancient tattoo glows, infusing him with a sudden calm. It feels wrong, like a shadow creeping into his bones.

"Something is amiss," he whispers, touching the worn edge of his hearing aid. When activated, the device floods his mind with waves, sketching a ghostly impression of his surroundings.

But this time, the vision is alien; it twists and rearranges the space in ways that make no sense. The altar is gone, replaced by the image of a vast ruin sprawled before him.

He stumbles, the faint residue of the illusion clinging to his senses. Without hesitation, he moves forward, crossing through what had appeared to be a solid wall, and finds himself in the heart of the ruin.

And there, waiting for him in silence, is a massive, slithering tentacle, pulsating with unnatural life.

It strikes, piercing his stomach in a heartbeat. His blood splatters against the cold stone, but his face contorts, not in fear, but in some deranged form of joy.

“Ahahaha…” His laughter echoes, jagged and hollow. The pain sears through him, far worse than when his eyes had been taken, yet his smile only widens as the tattoo on his neck flares, its glow almost blinding.

The tentacle burrows deeper, extracting organs with sickening precision, filling the hollow of his body with... paper. Sheets of strange white paper crinkle as they’re shoved inside him, as if binding his flesh with something beyond life.

His blood soaks into the paper, but instead of red, it turns an unnatural black, a color so dark it seems to consume the light around it.

The creature recoils, sensing that something has gone terribly wrong. But before it can retreat, a pair of dark, monstrous wings burst from the boy’s back neck. Each feather bears tiny mouths, filled with razor-sharp teeth, hungry and twitching.

With predatory precision, they lunge at the tentacle, tearing it apart with ravenous fervor. The creature writhes, but it’s futile—its flesh dissolves under the relentless assault of the boy’s wings.

A-00415 ceases to exist, its remnants scattered like dust.

As the creature’s last shreds fade, the papers in the boy’s body begin to shift, reshaping into something sinister. An image appears on a single black sheet, depicting an altar draped in tentacles—a haunting mirror of the monster it just consumed.

Then the wings curl around him, encasing him in a dark cocoon, like a shell waiting to hatch. Something ancient, something forbidden, stirs within, its essence spreading through the blood-soaked paper like ink. The transformation isn’t supposed to happen now.

Anomaly 00006, the Incubator of Destruction has awakened.

And the world may never be ready for what emerges.