No Names, No Heroes

  A gaunt, emaciated figure sits in its containment cell, its skin a sickly, pallid white that glistens beneath the sterile overhead lights. It stares at the one-way glass, studying its own reflection with a detached, almost mournful gaze. Its bony fingers claw at its face, desperate to rid itself of the image it sees. After a moment, its head jerks upward, sensing the presence of an observer. It straightens its posture, its long, spindly arms lifting its frail body off the floor.

  At nearly seven and a half feet tall, the creature's unnerving size is even more imposing when seen up close. Its sharp, needle-like fingers remain pressed against its face, hiding its features in a grotesque gesture. The observer, a man in a standard-issue uniform, glances down at his files, distracted for just a moment. That split second proves to be enough. Without warning, the glass barrier shatters, and the creature lunges forward. Its claws sink into the man’s scalp, tearing the flesh away with horrifying ease. His scream fills the air, echoing through the building, a sound so shrill it sends a chill down the spine of anyone who hears it. Then, as quickly as it began, silence fell. The creature, unfazed by the blood dripping from its hands, steps back. It sits down in the corner of the cell, resuming its posture, its face once again covered by its long fingers.

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