BREW

Over the next few hours, residents around the neighborhood began reporting strange dreams, bouts of sleep paralysis, or sightings of a tall man with a scorched face and stitched hands—always seen lurking near the swing. Others claimed to hear a child's voice whispering "Help me..." in their ears late at night.

One drunken man was found curled up in an alley, clutching his own severed tongue, whispering over and over, "The barista... with no eyes..."

To the public, it became just another creepy story—another urban legend. But at Maharlika HQ, alarms were raised. They knew this wasn't mere hysteria. Something crossed over, and it shouldn't have.

A branch from three cities away reported a high-danger zone that had mysteriously shifted to Valen's city—a phenomenon never documented before.

Maharlika Vanguard deployed three teams, disguised as police officers, to assess the situation. To avoid panic, they informed the public it was a case of mass hysteria. But internally, they were baffled: the lingering nightmare energy from the Child Swing had manifested without a fissure and it was already sealed—terrifying theories came up.

At the same time, Valen—unaware of the true scale of what was happening—was selling his street food just across from the playground. He positioned his cart carefully, wanting to keep the cursed swing in his line of sight.

To his surprise, several "police officers" arrived, but he noticed something others didn't—one of them knelt near the swing, and his hand began to glow faintly. No one else reacted, but Valen felt it—the energy from the swing disappeared in an instant, as if snuffed out.

He wanted to approach and ask questions, but his cart was swarmed with customers.

"I'll just ask at the station later… They must know something," he muttered.

Tuesday, a student from the same school Valen had dropped out of, stopped by his cart. She didn't know him personally, but she recognized his face from school.

She felt a twinge of sympathy watching him work. "He dropped out, and now he's selling fishballs just to survive... Life really isn't fair."

While waiting for her food, her hand brushed against something hard and round near the edge of the cart. A stone? She casually flicked it off, unaware that it was a coffee bean—infused with anomaly energy.

It bounced off the pavement and, unnoticed, slipped into her school bag.

Later that night, Tuesday stayed late at school due to her varsity training. After practice, drenched in sweat, she went to the school restroom to change clothes.

The first three cubicles were occupied, so she went to the one at the far end.

As she hung her bag on the hook, she noticed the coffee bean inside.

"How did that get there?" she murmured.

Before she could finish her thought, the bean began to sizzle, dissolving into a wisp of black smoke.

A sharp chill licked her skin.

The temperature dropped.

The flickering lights buzzed. And worst of all—everything went silent. No footsteps. No students. Not even the humming of fluorescent lights.

Then…

THUD… THUD… THUD…

Heavy footsteps echoed from the hallway.

"Hello?" she called, her voice trembling.

The footsteps stopped—then slowly approached.

Then, a new sound. Dragging. Mopping. Wiping. As if someone were cleaning… and whispering prayers.

She dared not move. Not even breathe.

Then came a BANG!

The door to the first cubicle slammed open.

Seconds later—another BANG.

The second cubicle burst wide.

Frozen in fear, Tuesday could hear a soft muttering:

"Am I pure now?"

"Am I clean enough this time?"

The third cubicle slammed violently. And then…

She looked down.

The floor waste drain bubbled—its metal shifting, reshaping, forming twisted features.

A mouth. Hair. Hands. Human. But wrong.

It was climbing out of the drain.

And that's when her instinct kicked in.

She screamed, flung open her cubicle door, and ran without looking back.