Ephraein Romes grew up under cloudy skies, behind locked gates, inside the pale, cracked walls of the Ishama Foster Home. To most, it was a safe haven for lost children. To him, it was a cage—white-tiled floors, dusty windows, and too many voices in the halls at night.
From the outside, he seemed normal enough. Quiet. Polite. Focused. But the other children knew something was different. The caretakers whispered. And every child knew that Ephraein always—always—stared at the corners of rooms.
Not just once. Not just in passing.
He stared for hours.
While other children played or ate or colored their worksheets, Ephraein would sit cross-legged, back rigid, eyes locked on some far-off corner of the ceiling or behind a door, like he was watching something no one else could see.
At first, the others joked about it. They called him "Corner Creep" and "Wall Whisperer." But then they started to feel something too—whenever Ephraein stared, the air changed. A coldness slipped in. Lights flickered. Shadows deepened.
One day, a girl named Tilly dared another child to tap Ephraein on the shoulder while he was staring. The boy did—and immediately screamed, collapsing to the floor. No one saw what he saw. But he never went near Ephraein again.
The staff took action.
They brought Ephraein to the White Room.
No furniture. No color. No corners, even—the corners were curved, seamless. Just a glowing white cube with smooth floors, ceilings, and walls.
They watched him through hidden cameras. The speakers played soothing noises: rainfall, birdsong, ocean waves. They thought maybe isolation would help. Maybe silence would fix what was wrong.
It didn't.
Ephraein stood in the center of the room, shaking. At first, he tried to stay calm. He even closed his eyes. But then the sobbing began. Then the screaming.
He ran to one of the curved edges and dropped to his knees. He pressed his hands over his ears and shut his eyes tight. His body trembled violently.
Then, through the lens of the camera, they saw it too. A shape. A child, standing in the farthest curve of the white wall, darker than shadow. Small hand extended. The caretakers gasped.
"He's… he's not hallucinating."
"Are we recording this?"
"I don't think it's a hallucination at all."
That day, they didn't sedate him. They didn't try to medicate him. They opened the door and led him back to his room. Then they locked it. And Ephraein went back to the corners.
Weeks passed. One stormy night, a new child arrived at the foster home. Pierro Miller.
The file said he'd been found inside a collapsed garbage dumpster in the ruins near Gallagher Street. The bin had been half-buried in earth, like it had been swallowed. And inside, wrapped in torn cloth, was a baby boy with a name tag attached to a crumpled birth certificate:
Pierro Miller.
The name Nina Miller was scrawled in faded ink on the mother's line. She was dead, of course. Nina had vanished during the Fall.
No one knew who the father was. No one could explain how Pierro survived underground for years. But somehow, he did. He had no answers. Just a quiet smile and hollow eyes.
From the start, he was drawn to Ephraein.
They sat together in the mess hall. Shared desks in lectures. Paired up in every activity. For a while, Ephraein wasn't alone anymore. They became best friends. Two mysteries, side by side.
Pierro made him laugh—something no one else ever managed.
Ephraein even stopped staring at the corners.
Then came the day of the incident.
It started with a stomach cramp—deep, painful, unnatural. Ephraein gripped his gut and rushed toward the restroom during free hour.
The halls were empty. Rain tapped against the windows. He entered the bathroom, flicked on the flickering light, and slammed a stall door shut.
Then he heard it.
Footsteps.
Soft. Bare. Too gentle for an adult. Stepping slowly across the tiled floor.
He froze.
His heart hammered. The steps stopped right in front of his stall door.
Knock.
Knock.
A loud, deliberate pounding.
"Who's there?!" Ephraein shouted.
No answer.
Then—scratches. Something was clawing at the metal stalls. Not violently. Just… exploring.
And then the sound of something climbing.
Ephraein looked up slowly.
A boy's head peeked over the stall wall, mouth hanging open. Blood poured from his eyes, nose, and mouth. His skin was pale and bloated. His jaw hung wrong.
The creature grinned. Then it dropped into the stall like a beast, landing inches from Ephraein's feet. Its head bled freely. It retched—and vomited a thick stream of black-red liquid onto the floor. Ephraein screamed.
The stall door burst open—and Dantes, the old janitor, stood there with a mop in hand.
"What the hell's going on? You okay, kid?"
The creature was gone.
Only Ephraein remained—panting, drenched in sweat, blood on his shoes.
They brought him to the clinic.
Pierro arrived, worried sick. "What happened?"
Ephraein told him everything. Pierro listened. Then he shook his head. "That's not funny, man."
"I'm not lying—he was there!"
Pierro went pale. Then he did something unexpected. He left and went to the Head Council.
Minutes later, Ephraein's room was locked again. This time tighter. A doctor was summoned.
A tall man in a white coat, surgical mask on his face, entered. Cold eyes. Gentle tone.
But Ephraein knew that voice.
"Jasper?" he whispered.
The doctor nodded slowly.
"It's me," Jasper said. "I've been watching. Listening. You need to get out of here. They're watching you. Listening. There's more than just shadows this time. Something's waking up."
Ephraein's mouth opened—but a red light blinked from the wall.
A camera.
"They're recording this," he whispered.
Jasper looked up. "Shit."
The door opened and Jasper was dragged out. Screaming. Fighting. Thrown out of the foster home, permanently banned.
But in that moment—the door was left open.
Ephraein ran.
He sprinted down the hallway, past the clinic, past the assembly room. He didn't know where he was going—he just wanted out.
Then—
Thud.
He slammed straight into Pierro.
Pierro looked down at him. A smirk on his lips. "Where you going, buddy?"
Ephraein backed away. "You told them, didn't you? You sold me out." Behind Pierro—guards.
Pierro's smile widened. "You're not as smart as they say, huh?"
Ephraein was dragged back inside. Thrown into a locked basement room.
From that day on, Ephraein was alone again.
Pierro made new friends—loud, cruel boys with sharp laughter. They bullied Ephraein every day. Pushed him. Mocked him. Drew monsters on his walls. Called him "Freak."
And Ephraein said nothing. He endured.
Months passed.
Then, one rainy Thursday afternoon, a black car rolled up to the foster home.
A wealthy family stepped out. Clean suits. Sharp smiles.
"We're looking for potential candidates," the woman said. "Gifted children. We want to raise the next Albert Einstein."
The staff didn't hesitate.
"There's only one we'd recommend. Ephraein."
The family met the boy. Saw the way he calculated equations in his head. Saw the way he spoke in clear, quiet sentences. And—most of all—saw the sadness behind his eyes.
They adopted him on the spot.
Pierro watched from the second-floor window, lips curled into a frown.
He clenched his fists.
"He gets out. He gets everything."
He didn't say anything else.
But later that night—he and his friends vanished.
They snuck out, climbed the fences, and ran into the streets of Ishama. Hiding. Searching.
Knocking on doors.
Ding dong. A man opened the door. "The hell do you kids want?"
"Can we come in?" one boy asked.
Slam.
"Fuck you brats!"
They laughed and ran. Kept moving.
Then—one of the boys was gone.
No scream. No sound.
Just… gone.
They looked around. Nothing.
Another truck passed. Bright lights. Horn blaring.
When it disappeared down the road—another boy was missing. Pierro turned. The street was empty behind them. No one left. Except him.