Genesis. Volume 2

October 26, 1986. Brookfield. The Walkers' house. Night. Lisa woke because the cast on her right arm had grown hot. At first she thought she'd imagined it. Dreamt it. Since the hospital, she often woke in the middle of the night, and every time she felt like someone was standing in the corner watching her. But it was just fear. Just memory—the beam falling on her arm, the Maestro's black eyes, Arthur screaming her name somewhere far away, through smoke. But the cast—the cast was actually hot. She sat up in bed. Her left arm trembled as she braced herself on it to keep from falling. Her right arm—locked in its white, hard shell—throbbed with a dull, pulling pain. Not sharp. Dull. As if something inside the bone was turning over, slowly shifting from side to side. Outside, it was dark. The moon was hidden behind clouds, and the room was sunk in gray, pre-dawn twilight. The clock on the nightstand showed half past three. Lisa clenched her left hand into a fist, trying to stop the shaking. It didn't help. The cast grew warmer. First barely perceptibly—as if she'd pressed it against a warm radiator. Then stronger. Then so hot the skin beneath began to itch and burn, pricking with tiny needles. "What the..." she whispered. She swung her legs off the bed and stood. The floor was cold, but she didn't notice. She walked to the window, pressed her forehead to the glass. Outside—her reflection. Pale, with tangled hair, dark circles under her eyes. Her right arm in a cast, her left pressed to her chest. She looked like a patient who'd just been discharged and hadn't yet realized she was still sick. The cast burned her—sharply, like an electric shock. Lisa reeled back from the window, falling to her knees. The pain came not from outside—from inside, from the bone, from where the plates held the shattered pieces together. It felt like someone was squeezing her arm in a vise. Pressing. Breaking it all over again. "No," she whispered. "No, please..." She squeezed her eyes shut. In the darkness beneath her lids—not blackness. Something else. Gray, oily, pulsing. And in that gray—an eye. Huge. Colossal. It stared at her, unblinking. In its pupil—bottomless, black as a coal cellar—something was reflected. People. Houses. Cities. Entire worlds it had seen and remembered. The Sleeper. Lisa didn't know where the name came from. It simply surfaced in her mind—the way fragments of dreams surface after waking. The Sleeper. The one who sleeps beneath London. The one whose dreams become reality. The one who sees everything and everyone. She tried to open her eyes—and couldn't. Her eyelids wouldn't obey. Her body was frozen. She knelt in the middle of the room, and her right arm, encased in plaster, was burning as if on fire. "Lisa!" A voice—distant, muffled. Someone's. Arthur's? Mom's? She couldn't tell. "Lisa, open your eyes!" She tried. It didn't work. The eye in the darkness stared at her, and in its pupil she saw a face. Not her own. Someone else's. Without features, without eyes, without a mouth. Empty. Like those taken by the Sleeper. "You're next," the air whispered. Not a voice—a vibration that passed through her bones. "You, your brother, your friends. All who wear the red threads." The cast on her arm cracked. Not loudly. Quietly, like ice underfoot in spring. But Lisa heard that crack throughout her entire body. The skin beneath the cast burned, and she knew: if she looked at her arm, she'd see not just a burn. She'd see a pattern. A web of red lines pulsing in time with her heart. "Lisa!" The door burst open. Someone ran in—heavy footsteps, frightened breathing breaking. Arthur. He dropped to his knees beside her, grabbed her shoulders. "Lisa, can you hear me?" She couldn't answer. The eye in the darkness still stared. And then—a new sound. A clang. Not a heartbeat. Not a ticking clock. Strikes. Metal on stone. A hammer on an anvil. She recognized that sound instantly, with every fiber of her being. The forge. Where the dagger was forged. Where the man with tired eyes—Thomas Crowley, the blacksmith who became a monster—stood. The strikes came steady, calm. They didn't drown out the terror, didn't drive away the Sleeper's eye. But they gave something else. A rhythm. An anchor. A reminder—there are things stronger than fear. "Hold on," sounded in her head. Not her thought. Someone else's. But familiar. Jack. She didn't hear his voice—she felt it. The way she felt the hammer's blows, the heat of the forge, the way she felt those blows forging protection just for her. The Sleeper's eye twitched. It blinked for the first time. And in that blink, Lisa saw not malice—surprise. It hadn't expected interference. Hadn't expected an empty shell—Jack, who'd forgotten himself—to shield someone else. The hammer's blows grew louder. The eye began to close—slowly, reluctantly, like the lid of a terminally ill patient. "You will not take her," a voice whispered. Quiet, but firm, like a nail driven home. "Not tonight." The eye vanished. The darkness beneath her lids became ordinary—blackness, not an abyss. Lisa opened her eyes. Arthur knelt before her. Pale, his hair sticking up in all directions, in just a t-shirt. He held her shoulders, and his hands trembled—she could feel it through the fabric. "Are you okay?" His voice broke on the last word. "I don't know," she answered. "I think so." She looked at her right arm. The cast was intact. No cracks, no burn marks. Just the white, smooth surface. "He was here," Lisa said. "The Sleeper. He was looking at me." "Who?" "The Sleeper. The one beneath London. He... he chooses. Those who wear the red threads." Arthur sank down beside her, on his knees. He looked at his own arm—at the red thread pulsing in time with his heart. "What does he want?" "I don't know. But he knows us. All of us." Sofia stood in the doorway. In her old robe, hair loose, face white as chalk. "Lisa?" she called. "I heard screaming." "It's fine, Mom." Lisa tried to smile, and the smile came out crooked. "Just a nightmare." Sofia looked at her for a long time. She didn't believe it. But she didn't argue. "Go back to sleep," she said. "Tomorrow's a long day." She left. Lisa stayed with Arthur. "Jack helped me," she said. "He... he distracted him. With the hammer strikes." "How?" "I don't know. But I heard it. Strikes. Metal on stone. Like he was forging something. Protection." Arthur looked out the window. There, on the hill, the silhouette of the Genesis mansion stood black. "He's still there," he said. "Inside. And he remembers." "Remembers us?" "Remembers he has to protect." They fell silent. Outside, it was beginning to get light. The rain had stopped, and from behind the clouds, a pale, tired moon peeked through. "Go back to sleep," Arthur said. "Tomorrow we leave for London." "I won't sleep." "Try." He helped her up, laid her back on the bed. Adjusted her blanket. Lisa clenched her left hand into a fist. "Arthur." "Yeah?" "Did you hear the clang?" "What clang?" "The hammer. When I was screaming." He shook his head. "I only heard you screaming." "Then it was only for me." "Who?" "Jack." Arthur nodded, though he didn't understand a word. He stood for a second, then left, quietly closing the door behind him. Lisa was alone. She stared at the ceiling, at the yellow stain from an old leak, and listened to the silence. In that silence—distant, barely audible—the blows still sounded. Metal on stone. "Thank you, Jack," she whispered. The blows didn't stop. But they grew softer, calmer. Like a lullaby. She closed her eyes. And for the first time in many nights, she fell asleep without fear. October 27, 1986. Brookfield. The Walkers' house. Morning. She woke to sunlight creeping into her room. Faint, autumnal, but alive. It slipped through the gap in the curtains and lay on the floor in a narrow golden stripe. Lisa sat up in bed. Her right arm ached—familiarly, dully. But the cast was cold. No burning, no dreams of the eye. She flexed the fingers of her left hand. The trembling had stopped. Or maybe she'd just gotten used to it—learned not to notice. There was a knock at the door. "Come in." Max entered. Pale, with shadows under his eyes, but standing straight. He gripped his knife in his hand—not threateningly, but like a talisman, like a child clutching a toy. "Did you sleep?" he asked. "Yes. For the first time in a long time." "Arthur told me. About the Sleeper." "Did he believe you?" "He believed you." Lisa nodded. That was important—she felt something in her chest release. "We fly tomorrow," Max said. "Ready?" "No." She clenched her left hand into a fist. "But I'm going." "I know. That's why I asked." He left. Lisa was alone. She picked up her sketchbook from the nightstand, opened it to a blank page. Her left hand—still trembling—drew a circle. Crooked, uneven, jerky. But closed. "It works," she thought. "My protection works." She closed the sketchbook, tucked it into her backpack. Outside, the sun was rising. Somewhere on the hill, the Genesis mansion stood black and silent. No light burned in its windows. But Lisa knew: Jack was there. He was watching. Waiting. Protecting. The hammer blows had faded. But their echo remained—somewhere deep inside, beneath her ribs. She pressed her left hand to her chest and whispered: "We'll come back. I promise." In the hallway, the phone rang. Sofia answered. Her voice sounded agitated. "Lisa!" she called. "It's the hospital. They want to check you before your flight." Lisa stood, pulled on her jeans and a t-shirt. In the mirror—a pale face, tangled hair, dark circles. But her eyes—alive. Not empty. She smiled at her reflection. "I'm alive," she thought. "And I will fight." She stepped into the hallway. Arthur was already waiting by the door, backpack slung over his shoulder. "Ready?" he asked. "Almost." She walked over and hugged him with her left arm—tightly, like when they were kids, before the daggers, the Sleeper, the broken bones. "Thank you," she whispered. "For what?" "For coming." "I'll always come." They stepped out onto the porch. The morning was cold, but sunny. The rain had stopped. Somewhere on the hill, in the old mansion, a gray light burned. Faint, barely visible. Like a distant candle. Like a promise. Like a will-o'-the-wisp. Lisa clutched a piece of white chalk in her pocket. "I'll draw a way out," she thought. "For everyone." They walked to the car. Ahead lay London.