Cyrus Night, a large man for his young age, ran across the park as fast as his legs could carry him toward a black Maserati. On his left hand was a glass box that held a strange looking mask and on the edge of the glass in gothic red was the sentence “tumba del diablo”. He's coming from a building, the only bungalow in the expanse of area around him, any passerby would think of it as a private resort owned by a very rich tycoon who just wants to be left alone but Cyrus knows that's not the case. It's a facility owned by a secret organization called the Foundation, that's funded by the government to keep track of the unexplained or supernatural, they have many like this spread around the globe but this one is a research facility that he heads, well not anymore since he's running away with his latest research not that they've anyone that'd understand it. “They think this is very funny but it isn't,” Cyrus muttered to himself. They had ordered him to destroy his latest research and bu

Cyrus felt like he was walking in the clouds; his head hurt and he had just inhaled the most awful thing since his meal. A gas used to wake up victims that are put into a forced sleep. He groaned as he tried to register his new surroundings; the room was gone. He sat within the confines of a car. He looked around; everything in the car was black. The keys were attached to the ignition and a walkie-talkie sat on his lap. And beside him on the passenger seat were three guns: an automatic rifle, one shotgun, and a handy handgun. “ Pick up?" Anderson's voice echoed from the device. Cyrus just stared at it as he rubbed against his face, he imagined smashing it or throwing it out the window and flooring accelerator far from here but he shook his head and the idea away when he sighted an army of men with armored tanks and guns raised toward his direction from the car's side mirror. There was no turning back. "Pick up the goddamned device, I know you're awake." Through the mirror, he saw

The line of sick-looking villagers with hollow gazes started in the little room and extended further and further into the night. Cyrus had come outside the building and stopped. The village that looked empty when he arrived now had about four hundred people looking in his direction. He shook his head and kept to the path they created. Each person flanking the sides on the outside held a piece of weapon. The path led him through a curve that went out of the village and toward his car. Here, they covered all four entrances of the car except the booth, which was wide open, revealing neatly packed bags of food and a cooler on the side. The provisions packed by Anderson's team stared at him; he went forward and picked up a bottle of water, pouring the content on his face and letting it mix with the sweat on his shirt as it got soaked up—the coolness was what he was after. He sat down and threw the bottle on the ground. It was loud enough to draw a reaction but the faces he saw were lifele

The touchdown of the plane woke Cyrus from his slumber on his seat. He rubbed his face and massaged his forehead to ease his throbbing headache. He stood up, picked up an oversized brown-coated jacket, wore a dark shade and filed out of the plane like the rest of the folks. It took about ten minutes for him to check in. He had always loved traveling light, so no luggage came with him apart from the black ATM card in his pocket, a briefcase that held the documents Anderson had given him with some items he claimed would be useful and ten thousand dollars he had withdrawn on his way to the airport. The people that were meant to pick him up were easy to spot; all dressed in their annoying black outfits, they looked around the airport with trained eyes. He donned the oversized jacket and walked a curve that'd take him past them without an encounter, keeping his eyes straight ahead to avoid drawing attention to himself. He succeeded in leaving the building and hailing a taxi. “The name's R

Anderson claps were the only sound in the room. “I'm impressed at how you've managed the situation. I thought we'd have to retrieve your body lifeless and cold. But, you've proven resourceful.” Anderson said. Cyrus for the better part of himself ignored Anderson and stalked off to the bathroom. Inside, he locked the door and opened the basin's tap. He scoped a mouthful into his mouth and rinsed. He expected to see cut marks that usually remained on his tongue after an act like this when he opened his mouth in the mirror but there was nothing. It was spotless. If he had not rinsed the blood off himself he wouldn't believe it. “Hey, come on out here! There's no window to escape in that room.” Anderson called. Cyrus frowned. He proceeded to wash his face and step out. Anderson's men gave way for his path, their gun pointed downward as they watched him with extreme caution. With a raised eyebrow he looked around and spotted a laptop on the bed stand that showed the live footage of the