The red-haired youth's face twisted in anger and disbelief.
No one moved.
No one followed.
His bold declaration—his dramatic rebellion—
had been met with silence.
The silence of rejection.
He tried to pretend it didn't bother him.
Tried to convince himself it wasn't about face.
But in reality…
It was always about Amara.
And she didn't even spare him a glance.
She stood a short distance away, composed, aloof—
Her breathing calm. Her expression indifferent.
To her, he didn't even exist.
He clenched his fists.
Jaw tight.
Ego bleeding.
He wanted to curse them all.
Spit out some final, venom-laced line before storming off into the fog alone.
But he never got the chance.
Suddenly—
A sound tore through the mist.
Not a voice.
Not a human.
Not a language.
It was a wail.
A sound of something twisted.
Alive, but not right.
It was high-pitched, broken,
like glass grinding inside flesh,
like something dying and laughing at the same time.
