The sound did not fade.
It grew.
At first, it was just like a distant thrum. But then it becomes sharpened more, splitting into many layers of noise that scraped against Kael's skull. Wet footsteps and gnawing teeth, and a chorus of hunger which was whispering in a language, which his mind could not understand, but the body of his, recognises it.
Kael hold his head tightly.
"Stop… please… stop."
The walls seemed to be twisted from the centre. The air became thick, heavy and oppressive, as if something invisible was entered the room and pressed his chest down with strength. His ears range violently. And pain exploded from behind his eyes.
Then the blood came.
The blood first came from his ears, warm and sticky and trailing down to his neck. His nose also followed to bleed, and then tears of blood coming from the corners of his eyes. Kael screamed. He began to scratch his face from his nails tearing his own skin, trying desperately to remove the sound out of himself.
While in the living room, Mikhail was sat in his old, creaking wooden chair and having a cup of warm milk which was in his left hand. And the radio beside him on the side table, was playing a late-night broadcast.
But then he heard Kael.
Screaming loudly.
Not fear alone, but agony.
"Kael?"
The cup slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor. Milk spread all across the wooden floor as Mikhail sprang to his feet and ran.
He burst into Kael's room and froze.
Kael was thrashed on the floor and scratching on his face. His hands were full of blood, even his clothes and the bed were coated with blood. His eyes were wide and unfocused, and mouth was open in a scream that barely sounded like a human.
"Kael!" Mikhail shouted loudly as he dropped on his knees. "Kael, look at me!"
He grabbed Kael's shoulders to calm him.
But Kael bucked violently. His surged immense strength out of nowhere and knocked Mikhail back. Kael's breathing were ragged and broken.
"It's here!" Kael cried. "It's so loud—so hungry—I can hear it—I can see it-chewing—sometime"
"There's nothing here!" Mikhail yelled. His voice was creeping with terror. "Kael, there's nothing—"
Kael's head moved toward the corner of the room.
His eyes begin to follow something unseen.
And then he ran.
He passed Mikhail behind, crashing in the hallway and slamming into furniture as if he was fleeing from a predator which only he could see. His footsteps pounded toward the front door and opened the door with force.
"Kael, stop!" Mikhail chased him. His heart was hammering. "Please!"
Outside, rain-soaked ground squelched under Kael's bare feet as he staggered into the yard, while screaming and swatting at the air. He stumbled, rolled, and ran back to the house.
Mikhail followed him. He was helpless and shaking.
"Kael," Mikhail sobbed.
But Kael screamed more louder.
But across the road, beneath the dim glow of a flickering old streetlight, a man stood.
Tall and lean, a long coat clinging to his frame and rain dripping from its edges. And in his hand, he held a metal staff, its surface marked with faint lines worn smooth by time.
The man tilted his head slightly, watching. "So," he murmured, his voice was calm almost weary, "looks like we've got an another Aeri." He raised his hand and rang the small doorbell of the house.
But no one came, as the screams of Kael were loud.
Then he fused a bit of Rin in that metal staff and used on the front door. And the front door exploded inward, wood splintering as the force rippled through the house. The sound was sharp and clear. Mikhail stumbled back in shock with his shielding face.
The man stepped inside calmly.
His eyes were locked not at Kael, but at the empty space just behind him.
And without any hesitation, he drew a pistol from his long coat.
Mikhail's breath got caught. "Wait! What are you doing?! That's my son!"
The man ignored him, arm steady, gaze unwavering.
"Devouring-stage," he muttered. "Early manifestation. Aggressive."
Mikhail rushed forward, grabbing that man's arm. "You're pointing that thing at my child!"
The man pulled free easily.
"I'm not," he replied flatly.
And then he fired.
The sound was loud and deafening.
For Mikhail, it looked like madness—a gunshot fired at empty air.
But for Kael- the monster screamed.
A grotesque shape tore itself into view. And a mass of twisted flesh, with too many mouths and with eyes folded inward, and its hunger radiating like heat.
The bullet tore through it.
The scream cut off abruptly.
Kael collapsed.
When Kael woke, the pain was no longer with him but it felt like an echo of something terrible that had already passed.
He was laying on his bed and blankets tucked around him. His face felt tight and crusted with dried blood. His head throbbed, but that awful sound from before was gone.
He turned his head slowly.
And saw a man, sitting beside the bed on a wooden chair, cleaning his gun with methodical calm. His movements were precise and practiced. And behind him stood Mikhail with arms crossed tightly over his chest, eyes were red and his face drawn with exhaustion and fear.
The man glanced up at Kael.
"Hey," he said casually. "You're tougher than you look kid."
Kael swallowed up, his throat was dry.
"Who…?" Kael said.
The man stood up and offered a small nod. "Name's Jake Clinton," he said.