The Whitmore estate looked untouched from the outside.
Like the world hadn't collapsed beyond its walls.
Warm lights glowed softly through tall windows framed by expensive curtains. Marble floors reflected chandelier light across enormous open rooms filled with polished wood, antique paintings, and furniture worth more than most people's homes.
But the illusion broke the moment you looked closer.
Blankets covered the living room floor where families had been sleeping.
Empty food containers sat stacked near the kitchen entrances.
Extension cords ran across hallways from humming generators deeper in the mansion.
Rifles leaned beside expensive furniture.
Fear lived here now.
Just like everywhere else.
Near the massive fireplace in the center lounge, John still lay unconscious across the long leather couch where they had placed him earlier.
Bandages wrapped tightly around his left shoulder and upper arm, though faint red stains still bled through the white cloth.
The grimoire remained nearby on the coffee table.
Still.
Silent.
No one sat too close to it.
Kendra sat in a chair not far from the couch, arms folded tightly around herself as she watched John breathe.
Slow.
Uneven.
But breathing.
Beth sat beside her quietly, occasionally glancing toward the unconscious boy and then quickly back toward the fireplace.
Neither of them had spoken much since seeing the footage.
Across the room, Richard Whitmore stood near the windows speaking quietly with two guards while his elderly father rested in a nearby armchair beneath a blanket.
The old man hadn't taken his eyes off John for long.
Like he was afraid the boy might disappear if he stopped watching.
Then—
The front doors opened.
Cold night air swept briefly through the mansion foyer as two armed guards stepped inside escorting another man between them.
Mid-sixties.
Gray-haired.
Thin-framed glasses slightly crooked from being hurried out of bed.
A large worn medical bag hung from one hand.
Dr. Benson.
He looked tired.
Stressed.
And more than a little irritated about being dragged through a monster-infested estate in the middle of the night.
Richard Whitmore stepped forward immediately.
"Doctor," he said firmly. "Thank you for coming."
Dr. Benson gave a short nod while removing his coat.
"Given the circumstances," he muttered dryly, "I assumed saying no wasn't really an option."
One of the guards shut the doors behind them quickly as the electric fence crackled faintly outside once more.
Dr. Benson adjusted the medical bag in his hand.
"Where's the patient?"
Richard motioned toward the fireplace lounge.
"Over here."
The doctor walked forward—
Then stopped abruptly.
His eyes widened slightly behind his glasses.
"…You."
Kendra blinked.
Richard frowned immediately.
"You know him?"
Dr. Benson stared at the unconscious John for another second before slowly exhaling through his nose.
"…Not exactly," he admitted.
His expression shifted into something between disbelief and embarrassment.
"But I may have pointed a shotgun at his head earlier tonight."
That got everyone's attention instantly.
Beth blinked rapidly. "You what?"
Dr. Benson rubbed tiredly at his forehead.
"He showed up in my backyard after apparently launching himself over the estate wall like some kind of lunatic."
Kendra immediately looked toward the unconscious John.
A few of the guards exchanged looks.
Dr. Benson continued.
"I thought he was one of those creatures at first."
His eyes moved briefly toward the grimoire resting on the coffee table.
"In my defense," he added dryly, "normal people don't glow blue and fly through the air."
Richard crossed his arms.
"So what happened?"
Dr. Benson gave a faint humorless laugh.
"I threatened him with a shotgun."
His eyes shifted back toward John.
"And he disarmed me without even touching me."
That caused several guards to visibly tense again.
But Dr. Benson shook his head immediately.
"He could've hurt me."
His voice turned more serious.
"He didn't."
Silence settled briefly across the room.
Then the doctor finally stepped fully beside the couch, setting down his medical bag.
"After that," he muttered while opening it, "he asked me where to find the Whitmores.. Specifically, he was looking for a Kendra Wilson."
Kendra swallowed slightly.
Richard noticed immediately.
"So he really did come here for you," he said quietly.
Kendra looked back toward John unconscious on the couch, struggling to process that.
Dr. Benson carefully pulled fresh gauze from his bag.
"He barely stayed five minutes," the doctor continued. "The second that thing screamed somewhere deeper in the estate…"
His expression darkened at the memory.
"…he ran toward it."
Several guards exchanged uneasy looks.
Dr. Benson frowned slightly as he began carefully removing the blood-soaked bandages from John's shoulder.
"What happened to the creature?" he asked absently. "The one outside?"
Silence.
The room shifted uncomfortably.
Finally, Richard answered.
"…The boy killed it."
Dr. Benson froze.
Slowly looked up.
"…I'm sorry?"
One of the guards gestured weakly toward the paused security footage still displayed on the monitor.
The doctor's eyes moved toward it.
Toward the image of John standing in the middle of the destroyed street glowing with golden light.
The realization visibly hit him.
"…That boy did that?"
Nobody answered immediately.
Because somehow saying it out loud still sounded insane.
Then—
The old man abruptly struck his cane against the floor.
THUNK.
Everyone looked toward him.
His sharp eyes locked onto the doctor.
"You can save the conversation for later."
His voice cut clean through the room.
"Because that boy is still slowly dying on my couch."
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
Dr. Benson snapped fully back into doctor mode.
"Right."
He immediately leaned closer to inspect the wound properly.
The cut across John's shoulder looked worse now under the brighter lights.
Deep.
Angled downward.
Too close to the collarbone.
John stirred faintly as the doctor carefully cleaned blood from the injury.
A weak groan escaped him.
Still unconscious.
But hurting.
Dr. Benson's expression hardened with focus.
"I'm going to need boiling water, clean towels, alcohol, and someone to keep pressure here when I tell them."
People moved instantly.
The old man leaned back slowly in his chair again, eyes never leaving John.
And beside the couch—
The grimoire flickered faintly once more.
The next hour passed in tense silence.
Not quiet—
Never quiet.
The Whitmore estate still groaned softly around them with the sounds of frightened people trying not to panic. Generators hummed through the walls. The electric fence crackled faintly outside. Every distant sound beyond the estate made someone look toward the windows.
But near the fireplace—
Everything centered around John.
Dr. Benson worked steadily the entire time.
Focused.
Precise.
Years of experience overriding exhaustion and fear alike.
The blood-soaked bandages were removed completely first, revealing the full extent of the wound beneath. The claw mark carved deep across John's shoulder and upper chest, jagged at the edges like something had tried to rip straight through him rather than simply slash him.
Beth looked away when the wound was cleaned.
Kendra didn't.
Even though her face had gone pale.
John drifted in and out only slightly during the process.
Never fully waking.
Sometimes he groaned faintly when the wound was disinfected or stitched.
Once his hand twitched weakly toward the grimoire beside him—
And the book flickered softly in response.
Nobody commented on it.
Not anymore.
Dr. Benson stitched carefully under the warm chandelier light while two survivors helped hold pressure where needed. Thread pulled through torn flesh one careful pass at a time as the older doctor muttered quiet instructions and worked to stop the bleeding fully.
By the end of it, exhaustion lined his face deeply.
But the bleeding had finally slowed.
Fresh clean bandages wrapped tightly across John's shoulder and torso now, replacing the soaked ones from before.
Dr. Benson slowly removed his gloves and let out a long breath.
"…Alright," he said tiredly.
Everyone in the room looked toward him immediately.
The doctor glanced down at the unconscious boy.
"He should live."
The tension in the room broke almost instantly.
Not completely.
But enough.
Kendra visibly sagged with relief in her chair.
Beth exhaled shakily beside her.
Even Richard Whitmore looked less rigid standing near the windows.
Dr. Benson rubbed his tired eyes before continuing.
"He lost a dangerous amount of blood," he warned. "And whatever adrenaline was keeping him moving is gone now."
His eyes shifted toward the stitched wound.
"But the claw missed anything immediately fatal."
The old man in the chair finally relaxed slightly at that.
Dr. Benson looked back toward John one more time.
Professional instinct more than anything else.
Just one final check before he stepped away.
His eyes moved across the bandages.
The breathing.
The pulse at the neck.
Then—
He frowned slightly.
"…Hold on."
The room quieted again immediately.
Kendra straightened in her chair. "What?"
Dr. Benson didn't answer right away.
His attention had shifted to John's left hand resting loosely near the edge of the couch.
Specifically—
The fingers.
The doctor leaned closer slowly, adjusting his glasses.
"…That's strange."
Richard stepped nearer. "What is it?"
Dr. Benson carefully turned John's hand slightly beneath the lamp light.
And everyone nearby saw it.
Thin cracks.
Running along parts of John's fingers and across the back of his hand.
Not cuts.
Not scars.
Cracks.
Like dried earth splitting apart in a desert.
Except they weren't on top of the skin.
They looked like part of him.
Beth immediately recoiled slightly.
"What the hell…"
The cracks were faintly discolored too—pale silver-blue beneath the skin, almost like dim light sat deep inside them.
Dr. Benson gently pressed near one of them.
John twitched faintly in unconscious discomfort.
"…They're real," the doctor muttered quietly.
Kendra stepped closer despite herself, staring.
"Was that there before?"
"No," Dr. Benson answered immediately.
"At least not that I noticed."
The old man in the chair leaned forward slowly, eyes narrowing.
The grimoire on the coffee table flickered once.
Softly.
Almost reacting.
Everyone looked toward it instinctively.
Then back to John's hand.
The cracks spread just slightly past his wrist too, disappearing beneath the sleeve of his shirt.
Dr. Benson's expression shifted uneasily now.
"…I don't think this wound is the only thing happening to him."
Richard looked between the doctor and John's cracked hand uneasily.
"…What do you mean?"
Dr. Benson stayed focused on the pale fractures running beneath the skin.
Carefully studying them.
Then he slowly exhaled.
"I mean," he said cautiously, "I'm a medical doctor—not an expert in…" he gestured vaguely toward the grimoire, "…whatever any of this is."
Nobody interrupted him.
The doctor looked back toward Richard.
"But if you want my professional opinion?"
His eyes shifted toward the glowing cracks again.
"…This looks like overuse."
Kendra frowned immediately. "Overuse of what?"
Dr. Benson hesitated briefly.
Then answered honestly.
"Power."
The word settled heavily across the room.
He carefully turned John's hand again beneath the light.
"The body can only endure so much stress before something starts breaking down."
His fingers hovered carefully near the cracks without touching them again.
"And whatever this boy is using…"
His expression darkened uneasily.
"…I don't think it's natural to the human body."
The grimoire flickered softly again on the table.
Dr. Benson glanced toward it.
Then back to John.
"I think whatever power he's drawing from—wherever it comes from…"
He paused.
Choosing his next words carefully.
"…comes with a price."
Silence followed immediately after.
Beth looked unsettled now.
Kendra looked downright terrified.
Richard slowly crossed his arms tighter.
"You're saying those cracks are because of what he did out there?"
Dr. Benson nodded slowly.
"That would be my guess."
Kendra stared at the faint glowing cracks running across John's hand.
Her expression slowly shifted from confusion…
To fear.
Real fear.
"…What if he keeps using it?" she asked quietly.
Her voice almost sounded afraid to hear the answer.
Dr. Benson didn't respond immediately.
The room stayed silent around him.
The fireplace crackled softly nearby while the grimoire rested motionless on the table.
Then the doctor slowly looked up from John's hand.
And answered flatly.
"Death."
The word hit the room like ice water.
Beth visibly paled.
One of the guards shifted uncomfortably near the doorway.
Kendra just stared at John.
At the bandages.
At the cracks spreading beneath his skin.
"…No," she whispered instinctively.
Dr. Benson's face softened slightly.
"I'm not saying immediately," he clarified carefully. "But the human body has limits."
His eyes moved toward the shattered-looking lines again.
"And from what I saw on that footage…"
He exhaled slowly.
"…this boy pushed far beyond them tonight."
Silence settled heavily afterward.
The old man in the chair looked toward the grimoire quietly.
Toward the unconscious boy lying beneath the warm chandelier light.
Toward the cracks slowly spreading beneath his skin.
His weathered fingers tightened slightly around the top of his cane.
Then he spoke.
Low.
Certain.
"And if that boy dies…"
Everyone in the room looked toward him.
The old man's tired eyes never left John.
"…then God help us all."
No one answered.
Because deep down—
Every single person in that room believed him.
The fireplace crackled softly nearby.
Outside the mansion walls, something distant screeched somewhere beyond the electric fence.
And unconscious on the couch—
John's hand twitched faintly beside the grimoire.
As though somewhere deep beneath the pain—
Something inside him was still fighting.
Season 1 End...
Thanks for Reading.
Please Leave feedback what you think of the story so far.
Season 2 will begin on Tuesday July 7th.