The Sky — Inside the Helicopter
The helicopter vibrated.
A vibration that settled in the bones and reminded you of the altitude.
Early leaned against the window.
His forehead was pressed to the cold glass, and his eyes searched for something below — perhaps a house, perhaps a road, perhaps just a point he could stare at and not think.
He raised his voice, but its volume was lost against the noise of the helicopter — he had to say it again, this time with a shout:
“Ma’am… do you think this information is real? I mean, did someone named James Dean actually exist?”
Veronica didn’t look up from her laptop.
Her fingers danced across the keyboard — fast, relentless, as if pausing for even a moment would cause all the information to spill out and be lost.
Her voice was dry, professional, emotionless:
“According to the information I’ve found… a few years ago, James Dean was a government employee. But when his mother disappeared… he went mad.”
A brief pause — her fingers on the keyboard stopped for a second.
“He kept raving that there was a demonic organization… that they sacrifice a million humans a year. These ravings are from five years ago.”
Gary, who had been staring at the helicopter ceiling as if talking to himself, suddenly turned.
“Five years ago?”
Veronica, ignoring his comment, continued:
“But when Miss Lisa ordered us to investigate him… we found he wasn’t in his apartment. His belongings had been left there. There was no sign of him.”
She lifted her eyes from the laptop.
She looked at Gary — the first time on this flight.
“And a Colt 1911 was found in his house. We were able to find the clues… and finally, the final destination.”
Gary slapped his hand on his knee.
Not from despair, from exhaustion:
“Alright, I get it. But why did we come ourselves?”
Lisa, who until now had been staring out the window saying nothing, turned.
A smile was on her lips — a smile that held no warmth.
“This way… I get promoted.”
And before anyone could answer — a voice came from the back.
From the end of the helicopter, from where the shadows were deeper and the light less.
Gabriel Laurent.
An old man with thinning white hair and blue eyes that gleamed with madness.
He was dressed like a scientist — a white coat, pockets full of pens, and brown stains on his chest.
He laughed.
A laugh that grated on everyone’s nerves inside the helicopter.
“I would truly love to investigate this demonic organization!”
Lisa shot a look at Early.
Her voice rose — not a scream, but close:
“Who on earth said this mad scientist could come?!”
Early shrugged.
A shrug that said, “Me? Never.” But his smile gave him away.
“You did.”
Lisa fixed her gaze on Gabriel.
Then on Early.
Then back on Gabriel.
And suddenly — she laughed.
A short, quick laugh, like a dog’s bark.
“See? I deserve it!”
Early dropped his gaze.
To the floor of the helicopter.
Then lifted it again.
His voice this time was serious — more serious than ever.
“Ma’am… forget the promotion. The world is descending into chaos.”
The helicopter shuddered — a larger jolt than ever.
Perhaps it was turbulence, perhaps something else.
Perhaps the world itself was trembling to confirm Early’s words.
Lisa unbuckled her seatbelt.
It clicked — click — and she stood.
At the same time, she grabbed Early by the collar.
The fabric bunched under her fingers.
Early’s face was just a few centimeters from Lisa’s.
Her voice was no longer loud.
It was quiet.
Quiet and cold and cutting.
“Shove that talk of yours… back into your empty head. For years… I was Miss Nobody. It took forever to make a name for myself.”
Gary raised his hand — not surrender, not interference — just a gesture.
“But your father is already a high-ranking official…”
Without taking her eyes off Early, Lisa answered: “Shut up, Gary.”
Silence.
Only the sound of the engines and the wind.
Lisa turned her gaze.
To Veronica, to Gabriel, to the two agents sitting behind who were pretending they hadn’t heard anything.
“Does anyone have rebellious ideas?”
No one answered.
The helicopter began its descent.
The Old Mansion — The Grounds — A Few Minutes Later
The trees had dried.
Not autumn-dry, not winter-dry — death-dry.
The branches rose toward the sky like fingers that invited no one, only warned.
There were no leaves, not even decayed leaves.
Only branch and trunk and bark from beneath which black wood was visible.
The helicopters landed.
Three of them.
Large, black shadows on the yellow, dry grass.
The FBI agents disembarked.
Dressed in black, helmets, rifles ready, full gear.
Their steps were firm and disciplined — there weren’t many of them, perhaps thirty, perhaps forty.
But their presence filled the road.
Lisa stepped down.
The wind stirred her black hair.
Her simple black suit nearly vanished in the dim morning light.
“Everyone take your positions! If anyone is there, arrest them… and be careful!”
The agents dispersed.
Some went toward the main door, some around the mansion, some looked up at the roof — up, at the black, empty windows that stared at them like dead eyes.
Gary stepped out of the helicopter.
His boots made no sound on the dry grass — they just crushed under his weight.
He looked at the mansion.
An old, large, decrepit mansion.
From the upper windows, no light came.
From the lower windows, no shadow moved.
Only silence.
And the smell of damp and rotten wood and something like closure.
Early stepped out too.
He placed his hand on Gary’s shoulder.
“It’s here. Exactly where it should be.”
Gary didn’t answer.
He just looked.
Chicago — A Café — The Same Hour
Sofia sat on a chair — an old wooden chair, with a straight back, not comfortable.
The café was small, cozy, with the warm yellow light of old lamps.
The walls were full of photographs — black and white photos of people no one knew.
Sofia held her coffee cup.
Her gaze was on the cup — but she wasn’t seeing it.
She was seeing something else: an image.
The image of Lisa, Gary, Early, Veronica, and that old mansion.
The image wasn’t in the coffee — it was in her mind.
But it seemed visible on the surface of the coffee too.
She smiled.
Quietly.
From the heart.
From a place no one could see.
“Clever James… you really are smart.”
She ran her nail along the rim of the cup.
It made a thin, high sound.
“Although I’m the one who made sure those documents weren’t destroyed… and that the FBI would find out about the Comson Organization.”
She picked up the spoon.
Stirred the coffee.
Calm.
Calculated.
“An organization that’s been hidden for thousands of years…”
She fixed her gaze on the window.
On the street, on the people coming and going, none of them knowing any of them might be the next sacrifice.
“I no longer need the Comson Organization.”
She picked up the coffee.
Drank.
Her smile grew wider — not bigger, deeper.
“Poor James…”
She set the cup on the saucer.
The sound of china on china.
“You were just my puppet from the very beginning. The Comson Organization had kidnapped your mother for sacrifice. And you were searching for your mother… slowly discovering the organization.”
She tilted her head.
Her golden eyes glinted.
“When I noticed you… I decided to use you. I let you find the documents. I sent a supernatural being to you to give you power — at no cost. And you thought it was free…”
She drew a deep breath.
Satisfied.
“But in truth, it was me giving a hundred souls a year to that being. On your behalf. And in that very first year…”
She picked up the spoon.
Spun it.
“…among those hundred people, one of them was your mother. Poor James.”
She drank the coffee.
Closed her eyes.
Savored it — the coffee, the memory, both.
The sound of footsteps — a man came from behind.
Not young, not old.
Muscular, greasy black hair, an open-collared shirt.
He looked at Sofia — a look she knew very well.
The look of the hunt, the look of ownership, the look that says, “You belong to me before you even know it.”
He leaned forward.
Over the table.
“Hello, beautiful lady… want to go somewhere private together?”
Sofia looked at him.
She smiled — a smile in which there was nothing.
Only emptiness.
“Let’s go.”
She extended her hand.
The man took it.
His fingers in Sofia’s hand — cold, very cold, like marble.
Then — nothing.
The man and Sofia vanished.
The Mobile Factory — The Same Moment
The man’s eyes went wide.
He looked around — rusted metal walls, a high ceiling with neon lamps half of which were on and half off, cracked concrete floors, the smell of oil and metal and something burned.
“Where… wh… where are we…?”
Sofia released his hand.
She stepped back.
She sat on a wooden crate — calmly, like someone waiting for a party.
“A place where your voice reaches nowhere.”
No laughter came.
It wasn’t a joke.
White threads — from the tips of Sofia’s fingers — emerged.
Thin, luminous, like spider silk but stronger, like silk but sharper.
They coiled around the man’s wrists.
Around his ankles.
The man looked.
He tried to scream —
Snip.
Four sounds.
Simultaneous.
Not loud, not faint — sounds that would easily be lost in the factory space if it weren’t for the fact that they were soundless.
The man’s hands and feet separated from his body.
They fell to the floor — upper arms, forearms, hands, thighs, calves, feet.
Blood sprayed onto the metal wall — droplets that looked black in the neon light.
The man screamed.
Not with his mouth — with his entire body.
A sound that came from the bottom of his throat and had no way to escape because there was nowhere for it to escape.
It just stayed in the factory and coiled around the walls and came back and went into his own ears again.
“It hurts! It hurts!”
Sofia rose from the crate.
She slowly walked toward him.
She grabbed the man’s hair.
From the back.
Pulled.
His hands and feet — from the stumps where they had been cut — began to grow back.
Bone burst through flesh, muscle coiled around it like a snake, skin stretched over all of it.
A few seconds — less than a few seconds.
But the pain remained.
In the bones, in the joints, in a heart that was no longer there.
The man was crying.
His face was wet with tears and sweat and blood.
“You… who are you…”
Sofia tilted her head.
Her gaze was like a teacher whose student had asked a very simple question.
“Didn’t your parents teach you respect?”
She brought her hand to the man’s face.
Two fingers — index and middle — plunged into his eyes.
Not with haste, not with violence.
Like someone turning a key in a lock.
The man’s eyes — she pulled them out.
Completely.
With the optic nerve, with the muscles, with everything that connected the two spheres to the brain.
The man screamed — but the sound of his scream was different from the previous screams.
It was disorienting.
As if he didn’t know what he was screaming for — was it for the pain or for the sudden darkness that had swallowed his entire world.
A few seconds later — new eyes.
The same two spheres, the same color, the same terrified gaze.
Restored.
Whole.
Perfect.
The man blinked.
He looked.
The darkness was gone.
But the trace of that darkness — had settled into his brain.
Sofia pulled her hand back.
She took hold of the man’s tongue.
With two fingers — the same fingers — she pulled it out from his throat.
With the same calm.
With the same indifference.
The tongue trembled in her hand.
The man couldn’t scream — because he had no tongue.
Only a muffled, wet sound came from his throat, like water caught in a pipe.
“With this very tongue you said to me… let’s go somewhere private?”
She tossed the tongue aside.
Onto the concrete floor.
The tongue twitched — a few times — then dried and stilled.
And the man — was restored again.
Hands and feet budded anew.
Eyes filled again.
The tongue settled back into its place.
Each time faster than the time before.
But the pain — the pain accumulated.
In every cell.
In every breath.
She threw the man into molten material — a vat of molten metal that was in the corner of the factory, as if it had always been there.
The man’s body sank beneath the surface of the magma — fast, silent.
A few seconds later — he was pulled out.
Sofia, with the same white threads, like a fishing hook.
The body was burning.
Flesh melted and dripped from bone.
Bone blackened and cracked.
The man’s eyes — again — had melted.
Sofia sighed.
Like someone who had bitten into a sandwich and wasn’t satisfied with the taste.
Restoration.
Again.
“Every time you get hurt… I’ll heal you again myself… with my own supernatural power. With the previous pain.”
Two hours later.
There was no more crying.
No more screaming.
No more whimpering.
There was only a body.
On the concrete floor.
Hands and feet in their places — but the man was no longer there.
Only a shell.
An empty shell.
Like a garment whose owner had pulled it off and set it aside and left.
Sofia counted.
She didn’t need to — but she liked to.
146 times the eyes.
233 times the tongue.
567 times the molten material.
She freed the man from the chains.
The threads retracted.
Wrists and ankles free.
She took his hand.
Again.
The same cold hand.
The same marble touch.
And they vanished.
The Same Deserted Alley — A Few Seconds Later
In the place of those two people — now there was only one person.
The man.
He had fallen into a dumpster — not half-alive, not dead — nothing.
Neither this, nor that.
He just wasn’t.
He was a shell.
Sofia removed the disposable gloves — when had she put them on?
It didn’t matter — and dropped them on the ground.
“From now on… show respect to women.”
She turned.
Walked away.
Her heels made little sound on the old cobblestones — click, click, click — and then were lost in the noise of the street.
She sat back down on the café chair.
The chair was still warm.
The waiter came.
A young man with an empty tray and tired eyes.
“Ma’am, what can I bring you?”
Sofia looked at the waiter.
At his eyes.
At the empty tray.
At hands whose owner didn’t know they might, in just a few months, be in a farm, in a room, for a sacrifice whose name they would never hear.
“Just coffee… black.”
The waiter left.
Sofia looked out the window.
At the street.
At people who didn’t know how much they owed to their ignorance.
The Old Mansion — FBI — Around the Same Hour
The agents in full gear were searching the mansion.
Their footsteps echoed in the old wooden corridors — creak, creak, creak — the sound of wood trembling under heavy steps.
Gabriel and Veronica were in the central room — a large library with empty shelves and dust on everything.
On the central table, leather folders — brown, cracked, with writing that wasn’t in any language ordinary people could read.
Gabriel picked up one of the folders.
He leafed through the yellow, brittle pages.
He looked.
He blinked.
He looked again.
“Miss Lisa… look at this.”
Lisa took the folder.
She read.
Silence.
Heavy.
Long.
Lisa smiled.
A smile that filled her entire face — big, genuine, like people on magazine covers.
“Veronica… contact the Department of Defense. Tell them to ready the army.”
She placed the folder on the table.
She looked at Gary.
“We’re about to start a historic war.”
She placed her hand on the folder.
Firm.
“And also… I’m going to become the head of the FBI.”
Gary said from behind — quietly, as if talking to himself:
“Your ambitious side is acting up again…”
Lisa fixed her gaze on Gary.
But she said nothing — as if she hadn’t heard the words.
As if she had heard them but they weren’t worth a response.
Under her breath, only to herself, she murmured:
“The North Pole… the human breeding farm.”
To be continued…