Corrie Holt's POV

At the funeral, the black suits and hushed whispers blended into a blurry haze.

Then, I saw him.

Braden Holt. My cousin.

He was standing on the edge of the crowd. It had been ten years since I last saw him, yet somehow, he looked exactly the same.

He had been living in Japan and was always a distant figure in our family. His return was completely unexpected.

He caught me looking at him. He smiled. A warm, inviting smile.

But my mind screamed.

A wave of pure, unfiltered terror washed over me.

It was the exact same feeling I had when Hoover showed me the photograph of "Elias."

My stomach tightened into a knot, bile rose in my throat, and goosebumps erupted across my skin. My legs turned to jelly, barely able to hold my weight. It was an icy dread, fundamentally different from any natural fear. It bypassed my brain entirely, striking directly at my most primal instincts.

This was not a normal reaction.

It was instinct.

Braden started walking toward me. He moved with a graceful, unhurried elegance. He looked like a magazine model.

Despite the passing years, his face retained a boyish charm, yet possessed an unsettling, perfect symmetry.

Perfect. Too perfect.

That subtle incongruity Hoover had described—the feeling I had brushed off as a child—was now hitting me like a blaring siren.

My mind raced, desperately trying to rationalize.

It's just Braden. He just hasn't aged much. He's always been handsome.

But my body refused to listen. Every single nerve ending was screaming danger. My heart pounded against my ribs like it was trapped in a cage of terror.

Braden stopped in front of me, his smile radiant. "Corrie, it's been a long time."

He reached out to grab my hand. Instinctively, I flinched and pulled away. My body moved entirely on its own.

He paused. His smile froze for a fraction of a second, a tiny crack appearing in his flawless mask. Then, the smile returned, calm and unwavering.

"Oh, Corrie," he chuckled softly, withdrawing his hand. "I see you're still the same shy girl."

My mother, Cherise, walked over. She was a warm, bubbly woman, and she pulled Braden into a tight hug. "Braden, honey! Look at you! Still as handsome as ever! The girls in Japan must be all over you!"

She hugged him tightly. Braden hugged her back, that same smile plastered on his face.

I stood there shivering. She couldn't see it. She couldn't feel it.

That night, I had a nightmare.

Braden was there, standing in my bedroom. His face was completely immobile, but his eyes glinted with an eerie light. He didn't say a word; he just stared at me. Then, his chest began to heave, a sickening rippling motion visible beneath his shirt. The fabric stretched, then tore open, revealing a gory, gaping maw filled with razor-sharp teeth and writhing meat. He reached out to grab me, his perfect hands morphing into long, clawed tentacles. I screamed, but no sound came out. The vision was utterly horrifying, visceral, and incredibly real.

I woke up in a cold sweat, gasping for air.

The room was pitch black, but the memory of the nightmare clung to me like a burial shroud.

I forced myself to sit up, my heart hammering like a drum. That wasn't just a dream. It was a warning.

Braden was here. In our house. He was staying with us because my mother insisted he be comfortable. He was right down the hall.

My grandfather's dying words echoed in my head: "Your instinct will know before your brain does."

Braden was a Reptilian.

A nightmare creature was sleeping in our guest room right now.

The stories were true.

All of it. My grandfather's trauma, and the taste of the meat. It was all real.

The mere thought of my grandfather's description of Reptilian meat made my mouth water.

I got out of bed, my movements stiff. I needed answers. I needed to understand.

My grandfather's notebook. He had left behind a small, leather-bound journal, filled with his messy handwriting and strange doodles.

One entry caught my eye: "Tells. Humans shift, fidget, leak emotions. Reptilian, they do it too perfectly. They lack those subtle, unconscious micro-movements. They are posed statues, not living people."

I stared at those words, a chill settling into my bones as the terror flooded back.

The stillness. It was true. Braden had that unsettling stillness about him. His perfection. It was nothing but a mask.

But how could I see the truth without exposing myself? How could I prove it? My mind raced, trying to piece it all together.

Reptilian were real. Braden was a Reptilian.

Grandpa had said: "Your instinct will know before your brain does. Because those who couldn't react in time... are all dead..."

My gut was telling me Braden was wrong; that he was a Reptilian.

But.

What if I was wrong? What if Braden was just human?

The thought made my blood run cold.

I would be trying to murder a human being!

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.