EASRS: The Cycle of Hatred I
Chapter 4
September 12th, 1995
Three days had passed.
But the world had not recovered.
It had only… quieted.
The kind of quiet that comes after something breaks—
not because it is over,
but because no one knows what to say anymore.
---
The television flickered.
A faint distortion crawled across the screen, thin and restless, like something trying to slip through the cracks of reality but failing—over and over again.
Then—
the image stabilized.
A woman stood there.
Centered.
Still.
Too still.
Her black hair fell neatly along her shoulders, dark and heavy, absorbing the light rather than reflecting it. Her skin carried a pale tone touched faintly by warmth, but under the harsh lighting, it felt distant… almost unreal.
Her eyes were focused.
But not calm.
There was something beneath that focus—
a hesitation.
A quiet resistance.
As if a part of her did not want to be standing there.
---
Reporter #2 (Tanaka)
> "Good morning… I'm Tanaka… reporting live from Franta City Broadcasting…"
---
Her voice was steady.
But it didn't breathe naturally.
Each word came out just a fraction too controlled—like something rehearsed too many times in too little time.
---
> "Following the recent escalation of incidents…"
---
A pause.
Her gaze shifted—just slightly—past the camera.
Not enough for most people to notice.
But enough.
---
> "At approximately 8:50 AM… a violent crowd forced entry into the Angle Shopping Center… owned by Mr. William Kennedy…"
---
Her hands tightened together.
Almost imperceptibly.
---
> "Sixty-two confirmed dead…
One hundred and eighteen injured…"
---
The cameraman slowly adjusted the angle.
And the background revealed itself.
---
The shopping center was no longer a place meant for people.
It felt… abandoned.
Not empty—
but left behind.
The white tiles stretched across the floor, but they no longer reflected light the same way. Dark stains had spread unevenly across the surface, breaking its symmetry, turning something clean into something… uncertain.
Shelves lay collapsed.
Not as if they had simply fallen—
but as if something had moved through them without caring what stood in its way.
Objects were scattered everywhere.
Ordinary things.
Things that should have belonged to a normal day.
Now they felt misplaced.
Like memories that didn't fit anymore.
Figures moved in the background.
Police.
Paramedics.
Their actions were fast—but not confident.
There was hesitation in their movements.
A slight delay between seeing and reacting.
As if the space itself made thinking slower.
Heavier.
---
And then—
something shifted.
---
A sound.
Soft.
Close.
Too close.
Tanaka reacted instantly.
Her voice changed—just enough to break the illusion of control.
---
Reporter #2 (Tanaka)
> "Sir… please… stay calm…"
---
She turned slightly.
The camera followed.
---
A man stood there.
Or at least—
something shaped like one.
His posture was wrong.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
His weight didn't settle naturally.
His movements lagged—like his body was receiving instructions a moment too late.
His eyes—
didn't focus.
They reflected light…
but gave nothing back.
---
Tanaka raised her hand instinctively.
---
> "You need to lie down… medical staff are here—just—please—"
---
He took a step forward.
Slow.
Dragging.
The distance between them shortened.
Not quickly.
But inevitably.
---
There was a moment—
a very small moment—
where everything felt suspended.
Sound dulled.
Movement slowed.
Even the light seemed to hesitate.
---
Then—
something broke.
---
He moved.
Not faster—
but without warning.
---
The camera shook.
The frame twisted.
Tanaka's voice cut sharply—
then fractured.
---
What followed—
was not shown clearly.
Not completely.
Only fragments.
A sudden collapse of motion.
A struggle that lasted too short to understand—
but too long to ignore.
Something fell.
Something shifted.
And the space—
lost its structure.
---
The cameraman stumbled back.
The image tilted violently.
Figures rushed into frame.
Then out.
Voices overlapped.
Urgent.
Panicked.
But distant—
as if heard through water.
---
And then—
the screen cut.
---
---
Static filled the room.
Not loud.
But oppressive.
Like a low hum that settled into the bones.
---
Harry didn't move.
He sat on the sofa, a blanket draped loosely over his shoulders. The fabric gathered in his hand, fingers tightening unconsciously—as if holding onto something real in a space that no longer felt stable.
The light from the television flickered across his face.
But his expression did not change.
No shock.
No confusion.
Only something quieter.
Something heavier.
Recognition.
A slow breath left him.
Not relief.
Not fear.
Something in between.
---
Behind him—
the door opened.
A soft creak.
It felt louder than it should.
Erwin stepped inside.
His jacket damp.
His hair slightly disheveled, clinging to his forehead.
In his arms—
a box.
Heavy.
Filled with canned food.
The metal shifted faintly with each step.
clink… clink…
A hollow sound.
Repetitive.
Almost rhythmic.
---
He stopped.
Just inside the doorway.
Something felt off.
The air—
too thick.
Too still.
Like the room had been sealed.
---
His eyes moved—
to the television.
To the static.
To Harry.
---
Neither of them spoke.
Because something had already been said.
Not in words.
But in what they had just seen.
---
Something was wrong.
Not just out there.
Not just in the city.
---
It was closer now.
---
And neither of them—
knew how to name it.
---
At the same time…
Central City Hospital.
---
Glass towers rose like mirrors that refused to reflect the truth.
From the outside, the hospital looked immaculate—its surface polished, its structure precise, its geometry almost elegant under the pale daylight. Sunlight slid across the glass panels in long, sterile streaks, breaking into fragments that shimmered like something artificial.
But beneath that surface—
there was no life.
Only function.
Only containment.
The building did not feel like a place meant to heal.
It felt like something designed to hold things in.
---
The sky above it churned.
Not visibly.
Not violently.
But something in the air felt disturbed—like an unseen current pressing downward, flattening everything beneath it.
Then came the sound.
Low at first.
Almost mistaken for distant thunder.
But too rhythmic.
Too controlled.
Rotor blades.
---
Helicopters carved through the sky in slow, circling paths, their silhouettes cutting across the pale clouds like dark wings. They did not rush. They did not scatter.
They observed.
Their movement carried a strange patience—as if waiting for the exact moment to descend.
And when they did—
they came down heavily.
One after another.
Not chaotic.
Not urgent.
But inevitable.
---
The courtyard below did not react the way it should have.
No alarms.
No shouting.
No confusion breaking into panic.
Only motion.
Silent.
Disciplined.
Doctors emerged from the building in measured steps.
Their white coats fluttered faintly in the downdraft of the descending helicopters, but even that movement felt restrained—as if the air itself had been dulled.
Each of them carried a box.
Large.
White.
Sealed tightly with thick black tape that wrapped around the edges in overlapping layers, crossing over one another like crude barriers.
The boxes were too uniform.
Too clean.
Too deliberate.
No labels.
No markings.
Nothing to indicate what lay inside.
And yet—
they handled them carefully.
Not like fragile items.
But like something that should not be dropped.
Not because it would break—
but because it might open.
---
They did not speak.
Not a word passed between them.
Their eyes avoided each other.
Their steps never hesitated.
One by one—
they loaded the boxes into the helicopters.
Stacked.
Secured.
Contained.
---
Nearby—
an engine idled.
Low.
Steady.
Almost forgotten beneath the weight of the rotors above.
A transport vehicle waited at the edge of the courtyard.
Behind it—
a long container trailer loomed.
Its metal surface was dull, reflecting nothing clearly, as if even light refused to settle on it.
The rear doors were already sealed.
Thick locks.
Heavy hinges.
Edges lined with faint scratches—as if something had once tried to get out…
or in.
No insignia.
No documentation.
Nothing to explain its purpose.
---
Slowly—
it began to move.
Not toward the main entrance.
Not toward any public road.
It turned.
Quietly.
Disappearing along a narrow service route that curved behind the hospital—
away from sight.
Away from questions.
---
At the far edge of the courtyard—
patients stood.
Watching.
From a distance.
Not close enough to understand.
Not far enough to ignore.
Some leaned weakly against the walls, their bodies thin, their movements slow. Others sat in wheelchairs, hands resting limply in their laps, eyes fixed on the unfolding scene without truly comprehending it.
They were not told anything.
No one explained.
No one reassured.
They simply… existed there.
Observers without context.
Witnesses without meaning.
---
Inside the hospital—
the air changed.
The deeper one went, the quieter it became.
Not peaceful.
Not calm.
Muted.
Like sound itself had been absorbed into the walls, leaving behind something hollow in its place.
Footsteps echoed too softly.
Voices felt distant, even when spoken nearby.
Every corridor seemed longer than it should be.
Every turn felt slightly misaligned.
---
In a secluded office—
she sat alone.
---
Eliza Wu.
---
Her hair was tied neatly behind her head, every strand secured with precision. Nothing about her appearance was careless. Every detail was intentional—controlled.
But control has limits.
And hers was beginning to show.
Her face bore the structure of someone strong—sharp lines, defined features—but beneath that was fatigue.
Not the kind that comes from lack of sleep.
The kind that settles deeper.
That lingers.
That changes how a person carries themselves.
She looked like a woman in her forties.
But her stillness—
her silence—
made her feel older.
---
Her brown eyes were fixed forward.
Not at anything in particular.
But not unfocused either.
They held something.
A calculation.
A weight.
A decision already made.
---
On the desk—
a radio.
Old.
Military-grade.
Functional.
Unforgiving.
---
Her hand moved toward it.
Slowly.
As if the act itself required effort.
She picked it up.
Held it close.
For a moment—
she did not speak.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the device.
The faint sound of helicopters seeped through the walls—dull, distant, but persistent.
Then—
she began.
---
Eliza Wu
> "This is Eliza Wu… Director of Site 18…"
---
Her voice was calm.
Too calm.
Not natural calm—
forced stillness.
---
> "The underground sectors have been completely overrun…"
---
No hesitation.
No correction.
Just fact.
---
> "Signs of UTA UN 083—'The Streptococcal Strain'—have breached containment… spreading through internal pipe systems…"
---
Her gaze lowered slightly.
Her hand tightened.
---
> "…reaching upper facilities… and surrounding residential districts…"
---
A pause.
Not doubt.
Acknowledgment.
---
> "We are initiating final evacuation protocols…"
---
Her voice slowed.
Each word placed carefully.
---
> "All records… experimental samples… and anomalous entities… are being transferred out of Site 18…"
---
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Unmoving.
---
> "Additionally…"
---
A slight shift.
Almost imperceptible.
---
> "Dr. Animal K remains unaccounted for…"
---
The name lingered.
Longer than it should have.
---
> "The only confirmed sightings… originate from civilian reports near the outbreak zone…"
---
Her fingers tapped lightly against the desk.
A soft, irregular rhythm.
Out of sync.
Like a second heartbeat.
---
Outside—
the helicopters began to lift.
One after another.
Rising into the pale sky.
Leaving.
Taking something with them.
---
But not all.
Some remained grounded.
Waiting.
Patient.
As if the departure was incomplete.
---
Eliza inhaled slowly.
Then—
continued.
---
> "Process 654E… is now in effect…"
---
The air in the room felt heavier.
Even without movement.
Even without sound.
---
> "No individuals—other than designated personnel and their immediate families—will be permitted to leave the city…"
---
A pause.
Longer.
Colder.
---
> "Twelve days… until full execution."
---
Static cut through the line.
Sharp.
Violent.
---
---
Then—
a voice emerged.
---
13-1 "The Old Man"
> "Your service is acknowledged, Director Eliza Wu…"
---
The tone was steady.
Emotionless.
As if the words had no weight.
---
> "Process 654E has been approved by the Council…"
---
A brief silence.
---
> "The designated list has been delivered to your terminal…"
---
Another pause.
Measured.
---
> "We extend our formal regret regarding the loss of Dr. William Jh. Kennedy…"
---
The words sounded correct.
But empty.
---
> "This incident… has exceeded projected parameters."
---
The line cut.
Abruptly.
Without farewell.
Without closure.
---
Eliza lowered the radio.
Slowly.
Her body leaned back into the chair.
For the first time—
she allowed herself to stop.
Not completely.
But enough.
---
Her hand reached for the phone.
She dialed.
Each number pressed with quiet precision.
---
The line connected.
A voice answered.
Soft.
Familiar.
---
Jenny
> "Mom…? It's me… Um… is something wrong…?"
---
There was hesitation.
A faint unease.
Something she could not name—
but felt.
---
Eliza closed her eyes.
Just for a moment.
Then spoke.
---
Eliza Wu
> "Jenny… go to the Smith house tonight…"
---
Her voice was softer now.
But not weaker.
---
> "Stay there."
---
A pause.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the phone.
---
> "I love you."
---
Silence.
A breath that never fully formed.
---
> "I won't be home tonight."
---
She ended the call.
Without waiting.
Without explaining.
---
The phone slipped from her hand.
Rested against the desk.
---
Eliza leaned forward.
Her elbows pressed against the wood.
Her hands rose slowly—
covering her face.
---
Outside—
the last helicopter lifted into the sky.
Its shadow stretched briefly across the hospital walls—
then disappeared.
---
Below—
the city remained.
Unaware.
Unprepared.
Unchosen.
---
And somewhere—
beneath the concrete…
beneath the pipes…
beneath the quiet—
something continued to move.
---
Not loudly.
Not quickly.
---
But steadily.
---
[To be continued]