© 2025 Anastasia Amare

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Nami Comi Edition

It’s a cold sensation, being in an empty dimly lit hallway. An eerie calm that picked up every small noise. I tried not to think about it as my eyes scanned the portraits of men in their uniforms and medals on the walls. The hallway felt cold, an unsettling sensation that crept along my skin as I stood in the dim light. Every small noise echoed unnaturally in the eerie calm, amplifying the sense of isolation. I tried not to linger on the feeling as my eyes drifted to the portraits lining the walls—men in their stiff uniforms, decorated with medals, staring out solemnly from another time.

My peripheral saw an armed guard walking by, not the man I was waiting for. I was waiting for a senior and sitting on one of the benches. This place made me shudder. This place made my skin crawl. I’d heard stories about the facility—about the entities it housed, beings beyond comprehension. Now, standing inside one of those very places, every subtle sensation felt overwhelming, each sound magnified. A natural anxiety response, perhaps I should listen to it. Every instinct screamed at me to run, but curiosity is a killer. 

Click.

I jolted upright when the door creaked open.

"Doctor Serenity Collins?" A man with dark hair and a white coat peered out.

"Yes, that's me." I managed a smile of relief—finally.

"Apologies for the wait. We’ve been... taking care of the details. This way, please." He turned and walked ahead, his posture stiff with professionalism.

I followed, and as we moved down the hallway, he handed me a clipboard. This was it—my first day. I kept my guard up, watching as the portraits on the walls gradually gave way to sterile, polished surfaces. At the end of the corridor, heavy metal doors groaned open, then slammed shut behind us with a hollow thud. In the small metallic room, we were scanned briefly, the monitor confirming we were human. Beyond this threshold lay something else. Something I’d never fully understand.

We quickly passed through the next set of doors and halls until we reached a room. Large, imposing doors. A keycard was required to enter. Unease prickled my skin as we stepped inside. The room was larger than I had expected, and it was just us. My eyes swept over the space—sections for labs, the usual monitors, and cameras. Everything seemed standard, but then, I saw it.

A dark figure.

I froze, feet rooted to the spot. A man? His red, intense eyes locked onto mine from behind a glass-like prison. There were engravings on the glass—large, intricate symbols that I could make out from a distance, giving it an ancient, unsettling aura. I thought I was here to study a creature, something non-human. But instead, there was a man... locked inside what looked like a glass voodoo box.

 

"Doctor Graves," I turned to the older man, his brown eyes settling on me. "I thought I was here to study creatures—abnormal animals. Why is there a man in there?"

"Ah," he nodded, as if expecting the question. "Subject 003 is..." His voice trailed off as his gaze shifted to the pale, seemingly ordinary man behind the glass. "An animal. In his own way, of course."

"An animal?" I echoed, unconvinced.

"Not exactly," he replied, glancing back at me with a hint of caution. "But be warned—he’s not human either." Graves turned back to the desk, rifling through papers before handing me a clipboard. "Here's your schedule."

I glanced down at the clipboard, which contained a detailed list of data points to collect, drugs to administer, times, dates, even his meals. But what stood out to me most was the name. Pray.

"Subject 003... is called Pray?" I asked, flipping through the sheets.

"That’s what it calls itself," Graves corrected, leading me toward a fridge stocked with syringes. "You’ll need to administer these by hand. And on schedule. Otherwise, he gets... cranky."

"What are they?" I asked, staring at the clear, cold liquids in the packaging.

"A sedative. It doesn’t put him to sleep, but it makes him more... tolerable." Graves closed the fridge, then, to my surprise, reached under the desk and pulled out several guns.

"Is... is that really necessary?" I asked, feeling a wave of nervousness. I had little experience with weapons.

"Yes, Doctor Collins, it is," he replied, his tone turning serious. He took out one of the magazines and held it up for me to see. "However, we don’t kill our subjects." He tapped the bullet, which was clear and filled with liquid. "It’s the same sedative as in the syringes. Enough rounds to knock him out if it comes to that."

"Right..." I swallowed, my hands clammy as a wave of regret washed over me. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for this job after all. But what choice did I have? I’d already signed the documents, sealed under layers of secrecy with the FBI. I knew there were highly classified abnormalities out there, hidden among us—like the common thought of ‘Is there life on another planet?’ But standing here, face to face with the possibility that something could go horribly wrong, made my discomfort hard to ignore.

I shook off the feeling as best as I could, nodding. Maybe I was overthinking it. Maybe this man in the glass prison was just a special kind of psychopath. Whatever he was, I needed to be ready to face him.

"Collecting data is crucial," Graves’s deep voice snapped me out of my racing thoughts. "We’re trying to understand what Pray is."

"You don’t know what he is...?" Concern crept into my voice. "But he’s a person, right?"

"No," Graves corrected, his tone firm. "We don’t know exactly what it is, but it’s far from human. Though, I suppose you could call it a ‘he’ since we believe it’s male. As far as we can tell."

"Right," I murmured, lips pursed.

"That’s all there is to it," Graves said with a forced smile, trying to sound reassuring. "Nothing you can’t handle. I’ll be on call if you need me." He gestured toward an old landline phone. "Dial 30 if you run into any problems or have questions."

"Wait... it’s just me, alone?" I asked, trying to mask the rising panic in my voice. My hand tightened around the clipboard, trembling slightly.

"Don’t worry," he said, his tone dismissive. "We have cameras—someone’s always watching." And with that, he left.

I was alone.

"Okay, Serenity, you can do this," I muttered to myself, taking deep breaths to calm the prickling anxiety spreading through my arms and legs. I felt the loneliness closing in, the eerie silence pressing against my chest.

It all came to a standstill when I heard it—footsteps, faint and steady from within the quiet prison. My breathing stopped as the man in the glass prison drew closer. 

Serenity… 

It was a hushed whisper. I jerked toward the entrance, half-expecting Graves to have walked back in. But no—there was no one. Just me. Yet, I was certain I had heard my name. I shook my head, trying to dismiss it as my anxiety playing tricks on me. I couldn’t let myself fall apart, not now. I had a job to do. I sat down and forced myself to focus on the task.

At first, the work wasn’t so bad. Mostly recording data from the monitors, my pen gliding across the pages as I filled in his vitals. But none of it made sense. A body temperature of 80 degrees Fahrenheit—colder than any human. Low blood pressure. After sifting through the old documents, I realized this was normal for him—or for it. I kept trying to remind myself that he only looked human, but the more I watched him, the harder it was to keep that distance in my mind.

He just stared. Never blinking, always standing near the glass, his eyes locked on me. Every time I glanced over, there he was—motionless, but watching. His gaze made me tense, and the longer it went on, the more I questioned if he was even alive. A statue, perhaps? But then his eyes would follow me, slow and deliberate, like a predator tracking its prey.

And then it hit me—had he spoken? There had been nothing but silence between us. The only sounds in the room were the low hum of the computers and the steady drone of the ventilation system. He never said a word.

The longer he watched me, the more paranoia crept in. His constant gaze weighed on me. I started imagining that the next time I turned around, he’d be there—standing right behind me. Close enough that I could feel his breath on my neck, whispering my name in that smooth, low voice. Serenity. Just like that—quiet and sinister.

Then it was time. I washed my hands, pulled on gloves, and took a steadying breath. This was it. I retrieved the syringes and one of the vials from the fridge, my fingers gripping the cool metal. With the syringe and vial in hand, I made my way to the glass prison. The metal steps clinked beneath my shoes as I ascended the cold steel toward the door. As Pray’s dark figure came into focus, I noticed he was dressed simply—black pants and a black turtleneck. His hair was neat, almost unnervingly so.

I stopped short as I neared the door. Pray was standing close—too close. Even though the chamber had safety checks, seeing him so near made my heart race. He stood inches from the glass, the barrier between us feeling disturbingly paper thin. I exhaled softly, startled as he lifted a hand and pressed his fingers against the glass. Thin, bony fingers, blackened at the tips. The sight made my skin crawl. He looked even less human now. What was he?

His head tilted slightly, and for the first time, he moved with a strange, eerie grace. His eyes, bright and intense, roamed over me, scanning me up and down. I froze. I didn’t want to go in. There was something disconcerting about his gaze—as if he was trying to solve a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out. I shifted uneasily. How dangerous was he? They hadn’t told me if he was prone to attack, and now, standing here, I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out.

I forced myself to take a step forward, and he reacted instantly. His movements mirrored mine, his hands pressing harder against the glass. He was so close now, I could see his breath fogging the surface. Was he... panting? I leaned in slightly, my eyes narrowing. His chest rose and fell in a shallow rhythm, like an animal scenting the air. His nostrils flared ever so slightly. Could he... smell me? That’s when I noticed them—small, almost invisible holes in the glass.

I stepped closer again, and this time, I saw it—his impatience. He wasn’t angry, nor did he smile. He simply watched, his curiosity sharp, unblinking.

It was now or never. My throat tightened as I swallowed and swiped my keycard. The scanner confirmed I was human, and with a hiss, the heavy metallic door groaned open.

I was in his world now. Stepping into the prison room, I walked over to the table, trying to steady my nerves. A quick glance over my shoulder revealed something unsettling.

Where did Pray go?

Confusion surged through me. My head whipped around, scanning the room. I could see his bed, the in-built restroom, and a small area with various activities. But Pray? He was gone. He couldn’t have just vanished. I hurried back toward the heavy doors, thinking maybe he’d slipped through somehow, but there was no sign of him.

"You’re different."

The voice was low, dark, and chilling. I spun on my heel, my heart leaping into my throat, and there he was—standing directly in front of me.

He could talk.

“Y-yes, I’m Doctor Serenity Collins,” I stammered, trying to maintain some semblance of professionalism, though my nerves were frayed.

"I know."

He knows? My mind raced. How could he know me? This was our first meeting—how could he recognize me when I didn’t even know him until a few hours ago?

"Anyway," I began, forcing a professional tone, "it’s time for your daily medication." I gestured toward the table, trying to steer the situation back to protocol.

Pray moved silently to the table and sat down. I mirrored him, settling across from him as he presented his arms. So far, it seemed normal. Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as I feared. But then I glanced at his skin, and a chill washed over me. His skin... it moved. For a brief moment, it seemed to writhe, worm-like shapes curling just beneath the surface. I froze, my breath catching in my throat. His gaze remained fixed on me, silent and steady.

Swallowing hard, I pushed through the moment and quickly cleaned the area before administering the shot. I pressed a cotton ball over the injection site and taped it down, my hands shaking slightly. As soon as I was done, I breathed a sigh of relief.

That wasn’t so bad, I thought.

“Serenity.”

His voice snapped me out of my thoughts. I looked up sharply, my heart racing. He said my name again—this time with a quiet intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. As I placed the used materials into a disposable bag, I tried to keep my hands from trembling.

“I want to mate with you.”

The words cut through the silence, and I froze. Did I hear that right? I blinked, my mind struggling to process what he had just said. The certainty in his voice was unsettling, like a statement of fact—calm, foreign, and completely unpredictable.

“What...?” I managed, the word slipping from my lips as my body locked up. I couldn’t form any other response. My mind stuttered, stuck on his words, while my body stiffened in disbelief.

“You’re compatible with me,” he said, his tone unwavering, his eyes scanning me with that same emotionless intensity.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I stammered, swallowing hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “I think—"

“What is there not to understand?” His voice carried a quiet seriousness, as if he was stating the obvious. “Your scent tells me everything...you will ovulate soon.” 

I was appalled. My stomach knotted, my hands trembling at the realization of what he was saying. And yet, at the same time, something else stirred within me—fascination. That dangerous curiosity that had always kept me tethered to this line of work, the very thing that had kept my sanity intact in the face of the unknown.

“You can detect... subtle hormonal changes through scent?” I asked, my voice shaky but edged with intrigue.

“Yes,” he confirmed, as calm as ever.

This should have been the moment I left, the moment I turned and never came back. But instead, my fear was overshadowed by something else—a burning desire to know more. A creature this attuned to human pheromones was beyond anything I had ever encountered. My rational side screamed at me to leave, to run, but it was drowned out by the insatiable need for understanding.

 Slowly, I pulled off my glove and, against all better judgment, reached for Pray. My bare hand hovered just above his skin. It felt wrong, every instinct in me screaming to stop, but I ignored it. The clinical part of my mind wanted to understand what he was—what he could be. And yet, deep down, I knew this was a mistake.

My fingertips made contact with his wrist, and the coldness of his skin sent a jolt up my arm. It wasn’t just cool like a breeze—it was unnaturally cold, like touching a block of ice. I expected him to recoil or tense up, but he didn’t. Instead, he remained completely still, his eyes never leaving mine, watching. Waiting.

The skin beneath my fingers felt strange. Too smooth, almost slick, but with a subtle shift beneath the surface—like something writhing, moving. I jerked my hand back slightly but not before I felt it—a faint pulse, slow and measured, as if his heart beat to a different rhythm than any human’s.

Pray’s eyes followed the movement of my hand. His lips parted slightly, but no words came. He just stared, red eyes flicking between my face and the hand I had dared to place on him.

I should have pulled away completely. His arm twisted beneath mine, a soft rustling noise like fabric brushing against itself. No, not fabric. His skin—shifting. I couldn’t stand it and pulled back. He moved so quickly I didn't react. His hand shot forward, catching my wrist in an iron grip. I gasped, my heart thundering in my chest as his long blacked fingers wrapped around my skin, firm but not painful. He pulled my hand closer, and his head tilted to the side, his gaze dark with curiosity.

“What…are you…?” The words came out in a shaky whisper before I could stop them.

For a moment, he didn’t respond. Instead, his grip loosened ever so slightly, his dark fingers tracing the inside of my wrist, almost…gently. Like he was testing something, feeling for something underneath my skin. His eyes dropped to my pulse point, and I swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of the rapid thumping of my heart against his touch.

“You’re soft,” he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent. “So fragile.”

The way he said it made my stomach twist. There was no emotion in his tone—no warmth, no cruelty—just cold observation, like he was noting a simple fact. My breath trembled with a barely audible gasp. He slowly pulled my hand toward his chest, pressing my palm against the fabric of his shirt. I could feel the slow, methodical rise and fall of his breath beneath my touch, but it wasn’t like anything I’d ever felt before. Too slow. Too steady.

My pulse quickened, but I sat still, forcing myself to breathe, to think rationally. He’s just observing. That’s all. His eyes seemed to search for something, his nostrils flaring slightly as though testing the air around me. Then, without warning, his fingers brushed my shoulder—light, almost tentative, as if he were…exploring. A cold shudder rippled through me. I fought the urge to jerk away, my mind racing. What is he doing?

His hand lingered there, fingers curling slightly as they grazed my skin, then moved—tracing a line down my arm, slow, deliberate. I was suffocating. His fingers brushed against the curve of my waist, and I stiffened. His movements were gentle, but sinister. Like an animal studying a meal. My mind spun, trying to rationalize his actions, but deep down, the realization clawed at me: he wasn’t just observing. He was figuring me out.

I barely had time to process before something else happened. A strange sensation crawled along my arm—something cold, slick, and alien. I widened my eyes, looking down in horror as a thin, black tendril coiled around my wrist.

A choked gasp escaped me. I tried to pull away again, but the tendril tightened, slithering up my forearm like a serpent. It wasn’t just his hand holding me anymore—his body had started to change. The tendrils were part of him. I could feel them moving, cold and sinuous, like living extensions of his will.

"Oh my God," I breathed, panic rising as I watched more tendrils emerge from his arms, writhing and twisting in the dim light. They curled and snaked around my waist, binding me to him with a terrifying strength. My pulse hammered in my ears as I struggled, my mind screaming for escape, but there was nowhere to go.

"Mate with me," Pray said again, but this time his voice was softer, more insistent. It wasn’t a request—it was a demand.

The tendrils coiled tighter, one slipping coldly around my neck, another snaking down my leg. He pulled me up effortlessly, pinning me against him in a way that felt both smothering and petrifying. My breath came in shallow gasps, my skin prickling with a mixture of fear and revulsion. This wasn’t just an embrace—it was a violation.

"No!" I managed to gasp, pushing against him with all my strength, but he didn’t budge. Rock solid, immovable, as though he were anchored to the floor. The tendrils flexed, holding me in place, their cold, slick touch sliding across my skin.