Corrie Holt's POV
The next day felt like a grotesque, twisted play.
We were sitting in a brightly lit diner, the smell of pancakes and coffee mingling in the air.
My mother, Cherise, was chatting happily with Braden, who sat across the table. Her laughter was light and carefree. She had absolutely no idea she was sitting face-to-face with an unspeakable horror.
"Oh, Braden," she giggled, "Corrie used to be such a drama queen. Remember when you came over as a kid, and she thought you were a robot because you didn't blink enough? We still tease her about it!"
Braden laughed, a smooth, natural sound that sent shivers down my spine. "Yeah, Corrie's always had an active imagination. A bit wild, even." His eyes met mine, and that unnerving stillness clung to him—a deep, unsettling calm that completely contradicted the casual nature of his words.
I forced a fake smile.
She couldn't see it. It was impossible for her to see it. She was too vulnerable.
A wave of despair washed over me. My mother—so loving, so rational—was completely blind to the horror sitting right across from her. She was like a lamb waiting to be slaughtered.
I had to confirm it. I needed to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that Braden was a Reptilian.
The journal, the stories, my own instincts—they all pointed to the same conclusion. But I needed proof. Irrefutable proof.
"Corrie, sweetie, don't stare at him," Mom scolded gently. "It's rude. Braden's going to think you're still scared of him."
I forced myself to look away.
I picked up my fork, my hand trembling slightly. The diner food, usually so comforting, tasted like ashes in my mouth.
My mind drifted back to Hoover's description of the mimic meat.
That otherworldly flavor, that flawless texture.
He had said that once you tasted it, all other food became dull and meaningless.
As I chewed on my tasteless toast, a strange, morbid curiosity bubbled up inside me.
What did it actually taste like? Could any food truly be that delicious?
Even in the midst of my terror, the thought was irresistible. A dark, forbidden craving.
My fear of Braden was overwhelming, but a new kind of hunger was beginning to rise, echoing my grandfather's macabre obsession.
Just then, my father, Hamilton, walked into the diner.
His smile vanished instantly. His eyes went wide, and his body went rigid.
The exact same terror that had gripped me was now etched across his face.
His eyes, normally warm and tired, were blown wide with a feral panic, his pupils dilated. He looked like he had seen a ghost—or something far worse.
Goosebumps erupted on the back of his hands, the hairs standing on end.
He gave his head a tiny shake, as if trying to clear it, but the fear remained. It was a raw, primal terror, an exact mirror of my own.
He saw it. He felt it. My father was just like me.
He walked over to the table with heavy steps and sat down next to Braden, his movements stiff and mechanical.
He didn't look directly at Braden. Instead, he stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched tight. The air around us grew thick, suffocating beneath an unspoken dread.
My mother, utterly engrossed in her menu, noticed nothing.
