I had never heard of Section 77.
At first, I assumed I'd been snatched by some mafia organization and was about to be tortured for reasons I couldn't fathom.
I nearly bolted out of the chair, or I would have, if the zip-ties weren't so tight, when the door slammed open. Two people entered. The first was a young woman with dark red hair tied in a ponytail, she wore a doctor's uniform and possessed piercing yellow eyes that seemed to read my very soul.
Following her was a fit, blonde man, no older than twenty-two, with cold gray eyes. He wore an all-black tactical jacket with a large eye emblem on the back, encircled by the words: "SECTION 77 – NEW ORLEANS".
Neither of them spoke.
The man tilted my chin up, studying my face in silence. The woman reached for the medical tray beside me, selecting a needle. They didn't explain themselves or offer a greeting; they treated me like a specimen in a jar.
'This day couldn't possibly get any worse' I thought.
The situation felt so surreal I half-expected to wake up in my bedroom in San Isidro.
But the sharp sting of the needle sliding into my vein brought reality rushing back.
The woman didn't count down or warn me, she simply drew my blood while the man held me down to prevent me from squirming. When she finished, she turned to a machine behind me, out of my line of sight.
The man kept his hand on my forehead. His brow furrowed. "Weird..." he muttered, handling my face as if it were a common object rather than a kidnapped sixteen-year-old. Finally, he spoke up:
"Results, Layla?"
His voice was deep and raspy, the kind of voice that suggested a heavy cigarette habit.
"I'm examining the sample now" the woman, Layla, replied. "What about his mind, dear psychic?"
The man rolled his eyes at her tone and finally pulled his hand away.
"Impossible to tell, Doc. I couldn't read it."
Layla's eyes widened slightly, though she kept her cool.
"Oh, really? Our guest has already built up mental resistance? Julie warned us he was peculiar, but I wasn't expecting this—"
A sharp 'beep' from the machine interrupted her.
I couldn't see the screen, but I heard her horrified gasp.
"It... it's not possible."
The blonde man, Henry, looked at her with a perplexed frown.
"What is it, Layla?"
"He has both Chthonoids and Rhohonoids,"
she whispered, her voice trembling.
"We need to tell the Chief. If he has both..." Henry trailed off, a look of realization crossing his face.
He suddenly gripped my neck, his thumb pressing against my pulse, and began mumbling in an ancient language I didn't recognize.
Suddenly, I felt a foreign presence, like someone was leafing through my thoughts.
It lasted only a few seconds before Henry pulled back with a hiss, as if my skin had burned him.
"It can't be, right Henry?"
Layla asked, visibly uneasy.
Henry, who looked like the type of man who never showed emotion, seemed lost for words.
He stared at me for a long beat, then began undoing my restraints.
I was confused. Wasn't it a mistake to free a prisoner? As if reading my mind, he glared at me with a look so cold I flinched.
"Well, Nico, you've found yourself in a shitty situation," Henry said. "If I were you, I'd follow every order I give without question. We'll explain what's happening... maybe... if you prove useful." He paused, his voice dropping an octave. "And if you even think of escaping, we have enough men to shoot you the moment you step out of line."
He didn't sound like he was exaggerating. Grandpa always told me to cooperate with kidnappers to stay alive, so I stayed still.
Henry put a firm hand on my shoulder and ushered me out, with Layla trailing behind us.
"We should cover his eyes," Layla suggested.
Henry stopped, looked at her, then down at me, and sighed.
He pulled the pitch-black armband from his jacket and wrapped it around my head, plunging me into darkness. He guided me into an elevator.
We ascended rapidly, the trip took about a minute, but the speed made my stomach drop.
When the doors opened, Henry pushed me forward and ripped the blindfold off. We were standing before a massive white door.
"The Chief isn't someone to mess with," Henry warned. "Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't interrupt. Answer every question truthfully. If he tells you to do something, you do it. Got it?"
"Yeah," I croaked. "Got it."
Henry knocked.
"Come in," a low, husky voice answered.
The office was clinical: white walls, white curtains, and a desk buried under a mountain of files.
A man sat in a large black chair, his back to the window.
He looked to be in his fifties, wearing a tuxedo, but his face was completely blurred, uncannily pixelated and distorted, exactly like a censored photo in a video edit. Despite his age, he looked even more physically imposing than Henry.
"Oh... what do we have here? A boy," the man said, scanning me. "Please, sit. Make yourself comfortable. I'm sure Henry didn't give you a very warm welcome."
"Well, actually, I'd rather—"
Before I could finish, Henry shoved me into one of the chairs.
"So, Henry," the Chief began, leaning back. "Why bother your busy Chief with a teenage boy?"
Henry tensed, a rare sign of nerves. "During her patrol, Julie encountered a Grade D anomaly. This boy saw it and punched it. The entity twisted unnaturally and disappeared. Also, the boy's eyes were bleeding."
The Chief went still, processing. "You conducted the test?"
"Yes, sir."
"And?"
"In his blood, Chthonoids and Rhohonoids coexist," Henry replied. "That should be impossible for any living or paranormal being... aside from two."
The Chief's voice dropped.
"Yuri... and the Child of the Prophecy."
He stood up, walking around the desk until he was inches from me. He stared directly into my eyes.
"You read his mind. What did you find?"
"I had to use the technique meant for entities," Henry said.
"He's broken. Useless. Name is Nico García. Lived in Argentina and China. Witnessed his parents' deaths firsthand. He was a selective mute for years. A shut-in. The only thing he cares about is his older brother."
"Using an entity-read on a Rhohonoid carrier?" The Chief remarked, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"Careful, Henry, that'll mess with your brain."
The Chief reached out and gripped my chin, tilting my head back.
"I need light."
Henry clicked on a tactical flashlight, shining it directly into my pupils. It burned, but I didn't dare pull away.
The Chief pulled a photograph from his pocket, holding it up next to my face, comparing the two.
I could've sworn his blurred face contorted into a smirk for a few seconds as he spoke:
"Well... looks like we have a new rookie," the Chief whispered. "And none other than the Child of the Prophecy."