BARRY

The woods stretched endlessly, gnarled trees casting long, spindly shadows beneath the dim morning light. Fog curled around the roots, clinging to the underbrush like a living thing, thick and unmoving. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed—sharp, discordant—then silence. Barry hated this silence.

He walked carefully, his boots crunching over damp leaves, his eyes scanning every shadow between the trees. He could feel her presence beside him—Lillian Hughes. The woman moved like she belonged here, like she could feel the forest breathing around them. Barry wasn't sure he liked that.

But he needed her.

That alone unsettled him.

"This isn't your kind of place, is it, Sheriff?" Lillian's voice was quiet but edged with amusement.

Barry shot her a glance. "Why do you say that?"

Lillian crouched near a fallen log, brushing her fingers over the damp bark. "You walk like you're waiting for something to lunge at you."

Barry didn't respond.

Because she was right.

They had been combing through the outskirts of Yuccavale for nearly an hour, following trails of disturbed earth and deep claw marks carved into tree trunks—signs of something unnatural. But unnatural didn't always mean what people thought.

Barry had seen enough to know that monsters weren't always the ones with claws.

Lillian lifted her head, eyes narrowing. "Over here."

Barry stepped forward. The moment he saw what she was pointing at, something cold slid down his spine. Blood.

Dark and thick, soaked deep into the soil. The scent hit him first—copper and decay. Not fresh, but not old either. The dampness of the earth told him it had been there since last night.

And beside it—footprints.

Not human. Not entirely.

Barry knelt, studying the prints, his stomach twisting.

Two-legged stride. Long. Almost graceful. But the claw imprints at the tips of the toes? The way the weight shifted in the step? No human moved like this.

Lillian crouched next to him. "You recognize it."

Barry's jaw tightened.

Too much.

Too well.

But he wouldn't say it. Not yet.

Instead, he exhaled slowly. "We're not dealing with a normal animal."

Lillian smirked, but there was no real humor behind it. "No kidding."

Barry stood. The woods felt wrong now. The air heavier. The silence sharper.

They weren't alone.

And whoever—or whatever—had left those tracks?

It wasn't done yet.

On the other side, Samuel Holt wasn't sure why Fletcher had called him out here. The old tavern was nearly empty this late, its lanterns casting weak pools of yellow light across the wooden floors. The smell of stale ale lingered, mixed with damp wood and something faintly metallic.

Samuel sat across from him, studying the man's sharp features—pale eyes, a thin scar across his cheek, a grin that never quite reached his eyes.

He didn't trust him.

But he was here anyway.

Because deep down, he was starting to wonder if there was something worth hearing.

"You've been thinking, haven't you?" Fletcher murmured, leaning back in his chair.

Samuel stiffened. "About what?"

Fletcher chuckled, swirling the drink in his glass. "About your boss."

Samuel's fingers curled into fists beneath the table.

Fletcher tilted his head, watching him carefully. "Come on, Deputy. You've seen it, haven't you? The way he moves. The way he reacts. He's not normal, is he?"

Samuel swallowed hard.

Because, damn it, he had seen it.

The way Barry had handled that man during the domestic dispute last week. The raw strength. The way his body had shifted—just for a second—his breathing turning too deep, his fingers twitching like they wanted to curl into something sharper.

Something inhuman.

And then there were the killings.

Another body. Another set of Calendar-like markings.

Samuel had told himself it wasn't possible. That Barry had changed. That whatever past he had… it wasn't here anymore.

But doubts had started to creep in. Dark, festering doubts that whispered in the back of his mind at night.

Fletcher leaned forward, voice dropping to a near whisper. "You want to trust him. I get that. But you need to ask yourself, Deputy—how well do you really know the man you're following?"

Samuel didn't answer.

Because for the first time since he had come to Yuccavale—he wasn't sure. The tavern was quieter now, the air thick with the scent of stale liquor and wood smoke. A single candle flickered between them, casting warped shadows across the scarred wooden table.

Samuel's hands were still, but his mind wasn't.

Fletcher sat across from him, relaxed, a smirk tugging at his lips like he had already won whatever game they were playing.

But this wasn't a game.

Not for Samuel.

"How did you know?" he asked, his voice low.

Fletcher raised a brow. "Know what, exactly?"

Samuel's fingers curled into a fist against the table. "That I was doubting Barry. That I was—" he hesitated, forcing the words out, "—starting to think he might be the Calendar."

Fletcher let the silence stretch between them, studying Samuel like a wolf watching a wounded deer. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, his grin fading.

"I know," Fletcher murmured, "because you're not the first."

The words were soft, barely a breath in the dim light. But they hit—like a blade sliding between Samuel's ribs.

His throat tightened.

"What the hell does that mean?"

Fletcher's fingers tapped against the tabletop, slow and deliberate. "You're a smart man, Deputy. Smart enough to wonder. But let me ask you something—when did those doubts start creeping in?"

Samuel swallowed. "The night of the attack. When he—"

"When he moved faster than a man should," Fletcher interrupted. His voice was smooth, but there was something wrong in his eyes. "When his strength wasn't quite human. When his breath caught just a little too long when he saw the body."

Samuel felt his stomach twist.

Because yes.

Yes, that was the moment.

That was when the thoughts started, when they dug in like splinters beneath his skin. When he realized that Barry wasn't just a man with a past—he was something else.

And Fletcher had known that Samuel would start thinking this way.

"How?" Samuel rasped. His voice felt too thin, too small. "How did you know?"

Fletcher's smile returned, but it was different now—hollow.

He leaned even closer, the flickering candlelight warping his features, making his shadow stretch long across the table like something inhuman.

And then, in the quietest voice imaginable, he whispered:

"Because the last man who suspected him ended up in a shallow grave."

Samuel's breath caught.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

A cold sweat prickled down his spine.

He opened his mouth, but Fletcher kept going.

"I watched it happen, you know." Fletcher's voice was almost fond. "The way the poor bastard figured it out. It started the same way it's starting for you—little doubts creeping in, little questions nibbling at the edges of his thoughts. And then?"

Fletcher exhaled slowly.

"Then he started digging."

Samuel's pulse roared in his ears.

Fletcher's eyes gleamed.

"He started looking into Barry's past. Into the killings. Into the Calendar." A pause. Then, softer, "Into things a man should leave buried."

Samuel's breath hitched.

"What happened to him?"

Fletcher's smirk widened.

"Oh, he found the truth."

The words sat heavy between them, suffocating.

Samuel's fingers twitched toward his belt—toward the comfort of his revolver.

Fletcher noticed.

He laughed.

But there was no humor in it.

"You won't need that," he murmured. "Not yet."

Samuel forced himself to breathe, forced himself to hold Fletcher's gaze.

"Where is he?" he asked, voice barely steady. "The man who figured it out."

Fletcher's grin stretched wider—too wide.

And then, in a voice that barely belonged to anything human, he said:

"I already told you, Deputy.

He's in a grave.

And the real question is—

—do you want to end up in one too?"

The candle flickered.

The shadows shifted.

And for the first time in his life, Samuel felt truly afraid.

While Samuel thinking about him. Barry search for more from Gideon. And the first thing Barry noticed about Gideon Blackwell's office was the smell.

Old paper. Cigar smoke. And something else.

Something… off.

Gideon sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, his dark eyes unreadable. The oil lamp between them flickered weakly, casting long shadows against the walls.

"I hear you've been busy," Gideon said smoothly.

Barry didn't sit. "I hear you have a habit of knowing things you shouldn't."

Gideon smiled. "People talk."

Barry exhaled through his nose. "And what are they saying now?"

Gideon studied him, tapping his fingers against the desk. "That you're looking for something. Or maybe… running from something."

Barry's teeth clenched.

Gideon's grin widened. "Don't look so tense, Sheriff. I'm not here to dig up old ghosts. I'm here to offer you something."

Barry raised a brow. "And what's that?"

Gideon leaned forward. "Help."

Silence.

Outside, the wind rattled against the window, pressing against the glass like something trying to get in.

Barry didn't move.

Gideon exhaled, shaking his head. "This town is changing, whether we like it or not. And whether you want to admit it or not, you're at the center of it."

Barry narrowed his eyes. "Why do you care?"

Gideon's smile didn't falter. "Because men like us? We have to look out for each other."

Barry's stomach twisted.

Because it wasn't a lie.

It was a warning. By the time Barry stepped back into the cold night, the air was thick with the scent of rain.

He pulled his coat tighter, his pulse hammering beneath his ribs.

Too many moving pieces. Too many shadows creeping closer.

Lillian was right—something was out there.

Fletcher was right—Samuel was starting to doubt him.

And Gideon?

Gideon was playing his own game.

Barry had spent years trying to bury the monster inside him.

But tonight, as he stared into the fog-drenched trees, a cold realization settled into his bones.

The past wasn't done with him. Not yet. And the next time the blood spilled? It might not be someone else's.

Journal Entry – 27 Kinbi, Mokhwa 1312 Third Age, Yuccavale

(The words are scrawled hastily, ink smudged in places as if the writer's hand trembled.)

It's happening again.

The walls are closing in.

I can feel it.

The weight of their eyes, the unspoken questions in their voices. It's subtle now—nothing more than flickers of doubt in their expressions, hesitation before they speak my name. But it's there. The beginning of the end.

Samuel knows something. He doesn't say it outright, but I see it—the way his gaze lingers too long, the way his fingers twitch near his holster when we speak. He's pulling at the threads. If he keeps going, he'll unravel everything.

And then what?

What will he do when he learns the truth?

Will he try to kill me?

Or worse… will he be afraid of me?

I can't decide which is more unbearable.

Then there's Helena. Cold, calculated, relentless Helena. If she suspects, she'll tear this town apart to confirm it. She'll hunt me like a rabid animal, and I won't be able to stop her. I won't be able to beg my way out of it. The CPG doesn't negotiate with monsters.

And I am a monster, aren't I?

I keep telling myself I've changed. That I'm not him anymore. Not the thing that marked calendars with blood and turned men into numbers. But Fletcher's words won't leave me.

You're not the first.

The last man who suspected him ended up in a shallow grave.

Is that what I'll be forced to do?

Kill Samuel before he figures it out?

No. No, I won't.

I won't.

Because I'm not that person anymore.

Right?

But then there's Lillian. And this is where the fear turns to something worse than fear—something primal, suffocating, unbearable.

She can't know.

She can never know.

I don't even want to picture it. What would her face look like if she found out? Would her hands tremble? Would she take a step back? Would she reach for something to defend herself?

Would she look at me the way they all did?

The way the Calendar's victims did—right before the end?

No.

No, I can't. I won't.

I tell myself I'm in control. That the past is buried, that the beast inside me has been chained. But then I hear those words again:

Because the last man who suspected him ended up in a shallow grave.

What if I haven't changed?

What if I'm still just a killer waiting to be unmasked?

What if, when the moment comes, I do what I've always done?

What if I bury them before they can bury me?

No. No. NO.

I won't.

I'd rather die first.

…Wouldn't I?

(The ink trails off, the last few lines written with unsteady strokes. The final sentence is almost unreadable, as if the pen dug too hard into the page.)

But monsters don't get to choose how their story ends.