A calm night has just passed.
Ruairidh is already awake. He casts a quick glance at the window: the snow has stopped falling.
Hannah is still asleep on the bed; her face is peaceful, her breathing slow and steady.
A faint smile softens her lips—the labor is finally over.
From a corner of the room comes a thin, metallic voice, like that of a small radio.
“And now on air, the twelfth episode of Wild Nature with Mika Holand and his fearless crew!”
A rough, embarrassed voice follows.
“Sir, I’m sorry… it’s my favorite program. I’ll turn it off right away.”
Ruairidh hesitates. Until the previous evening, there had been no other patients besides the two of them.
“Strange…” he murmurs to himself, taking a step forward.
Then he notices something wrong.
The bed is no longer flat as it should be. The upper part is curved, as if something enormous were pressing from the other side.
His breath catches.
His heart jolts in his chest.
His voice trembles.
“Who… who are you?” he whispers.
No answer. Only that massive shape—motionless, yet unmistakably alive.
Ruairidh steps back. His palms begin to sweat. Every fiber of his body screams run, but his eyes remain locked on that thing.
Then he notices a subtle detail: the blanket rises ever so slightly, in a slow, steady rhythm. Like breathing.
The mass on the bed is not merely large.
It is alive.
Suddenly, without a sound, enormous hands burst forth and clamp around Ruairidh’s throat. The grip is terrifying—a vise of iron that nearly lifts him off the floor.
“No… let… go…”
The words come out strangled. The hold is too strong. His lungs burn as the darkness begins to creep in at the edges of his vision.
Olafson makes a simple gesture—terribly eloquent.
He presses a finger to his lips. Then points at Hannah.
“Scream softly,” he says. “You wouldn’t want to wake a lady.”
Ruairidh gasps, fighting for air without making a sound. His eyes dart to Hannah, to her chest rising and falling, unaware.
The grip loosens just a fraction. Not release. A warning.
“Good,” Olafson murmurs. “You learn quickly.”
The finger lingers on his lips for another moment, then slowly lowers.
“She’s suffered enough already.”
Olafson smiles.
“And I wouldn’t appreciate… complications.”
That smile is something that should not exist on a human face.
A faint moan escapes Hannah in her sleep. Olafson tilts his head slightly, listening.
“See?” he whispers. “It’s already working.”
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.