In a therapist's office in Lafayette, Indiana, the hum of the air conditioner seeped in with the chill of late autumn. The scent of air freshener mingled with the patients' sweat, suffocating in the enclosed space. Scott Carey huddled in the farthest corner of the leather couch. His gray sweatshirt had been washed almost white, its cuffs frayed, and flecks of mud dotted his trouser hems. His face had the ghastly pallor of someone long ill, with heavy blue-black shadows beneath his bloodshot eyes. His fingers gripped the hem of his shirt so tightly his knuckles turned white, and his voice was disjointed. "I remember my twenty-second birthday. That night, I suddenly... electricity started coming out of my fingertips. It blew the bulb in my desk lamp apart..."
His body began to shake, his shoulders jerking violently. He lunged forward and grabbed the therapist's wrist, his nails almost digging into the man's skin. His eyes were wild, and spittle sprayed onto the doctor's white coat. "Then whenever I close my eyes at night, that yellow-eyed bastard gets in! He says I'm his soldier, that he's taking me to fight some bullshit war! I didn't kill the neighbor's cat! I really didn't! My power went out of control! The electricity shot out on its own! I don't want to be a monster! I can't tell what's real and what he's putting in my head! I can't tell!"
Scott's grip hurt terribly, but the doctor dared not pull away forcefully for fear of upsetting him. He could only soften his voice and soothe him. "Scott, calm down. These are hallucinations caused by post-traumatic stress disorder. With medication, things will gradually get better-"
"Get better?" Scott suddenly burst into hysterical laughter, shrill as glass scraping sheet metal. "They won't! He talks inside my head every day! He says I can't escape! Nobody like me can escape! Not one of us!"
By the time the session ended, it was completely dark. The streetlights had long fallen into disrepair, their flickering light barely illuminating the pitted concrete of the parking lot. The wind sent dead leaves spinning, whipping against his ankles like little knives cutting flesh. Scott pulled his coat tight and hurried toward his secondhand Ford with its peeling paint, his head lowered. His steps were unsteady, as though he were walking on cotton, and Yellow Eyes' cold, beguiling voice still echoed in his head. He had just touched the icy door handle when a dark figure suddenly sprang from behind a nearby trash can-lightning-fast, carrying a strong, pungent smell of sulfur.
Before Scott could even cry out, a cold, rough hand clamped over his mouth. A sharp dagger sliced across his throat. Warm blood splashed onto the car door, spreading into a glaring patch of red, then ran down his neck, quickly soaking his collar and wetting his cold fingers. His body struggled violently, his feet scraping two shallow grooves in the ground. At last, his strength drained away little by little, and his vision began to blur. In the final second before he fell, the corner of his mouth moved. At last, I can get some peaceful sleep.
Hundreds of kilometers away, in an apartment in downtown Peoria, Ava Wilson lay curled beneath her blankets, her forehead covered in cold sweat and her hair stuck to her skin. She was having another nightmare-the iron framework of an abandoned factory was mottled with rust. Wind passed through the gaps in its walls, making a sobbing sound like countless wronged souls weeping. A young-looking man in faded jeans and a black jacket, with a high nose bridge, a defined jawline, and the same fear in his eyes as hers, accidentally stepped on a thin wire on the floor. An explosion thundered the next instant. Flames shot skyward, the heat seared her cheeks, and thick black smoke choked her until she could barely breathe. When the smoke cleared, all that remained in the empty ruins was a bloodstained white sneaker.
Ava bolted upright, gasping for breath, her chest heaving. The burning sensation in her dream had been so real that her stomach churned. She stumbled out of bed, her bare feet landing on the cold floor, and picked up the phone from her nightstand with trembling fingers. The moment the screen lit up, a local news notification appeared-a man named Scott Carey had been killed in Lafayette that evening. Police initially believed it was a deliberate murder. A wound from a sharp weapon had been found on the victim's neck, but no murder weapon had been discovered at the scene.
Scott's features in the news photograph, and the name on the list of "Special Children" mentioned by the man in her dream, matched exactly.
Ava remained slumped on the floor, her back against the cold edge of the bed. Her phone's lock screen showed a photograph of her and her fiancé, Brady-standing outside a bridal shop downtown, both beaming, Brady's hand resting on her shoulder with extraordinary tenderness. Her fingers rubbed his face on the screen over and over. A sour swell of fear rose in her throat, and tears spilled uncontrollably. "No... please... I don't want to get dragged into this..." But the nightmare's details were too clear, and the news of Scott's death was like a bucket of cold water, chilling the last of her hopes for an ordinary life. She knew she had to find the man in her dream and warn him.
Outside the Blue Rose Motel, Bai Haorui stood beside the Impala's gleaming hood, holding three Five Emperor Coins worn smooth and bright, their edges bearing a mellow patina. He held them steadily in his palm in a Three Talents Formation, one above and two below. His fingertips rapidly rubbed their edges, feeling the patterns on the coins as he quietly recited the Qi Discerning Art he had just learned from the notes. His delivery was quick and steady, every word clear. "Five emperors gather righteous yang; discern baleful qi, divide yin from yang. Copper gleams blue-black; spirits have nowhere to hide."
As he recited the final line, the coins in his palm suddenly trembled violently, even jumping half an inch into the air before landing precisely on the map spread over the hood with a clink. Bai Haorui raised an eyebrow. The square holes in their centers tilted slightly toward Lafayette. He picked up the coins and brought them to his nose to sniff. His fingers formed the Midnight-Noon Hand Seal-his thumb pressed tightly against the noon position on his middle finger, his knuckles held rigidly straight. He closed his eyes and concentrated for a moment. A faint sulfur smell entered his nostrils, mixed with bone-chilling yin qi. That yin qi carried a familiar evil presence belonging to Yellow Eyes.
"Tch," Bai Haorui muttered, his brow deeply furrowed. "Something's wrong in the direction of Lafayette. The yin qi concentration is ridiculously high, and there's demonic qi from that old bastard Yellow Eyes mixed in-another Special Child may have been hit."
A palm-sized peachwood coin pouch hung at his waist, its opening tied with a slipknot of red cord dyed with cinnabar. The pouch had been carved and polished from the heartwood of a three-year-old peach tree, then soaked in cinnabar water for three days and nights. It was made specifically to hold Five Emperor Coins, preventing stray qi from contaminating their righteous yang qi.
Just then, Dean sauntered out of the motel, holding a steaming hot dog in one hand and a can of cold beer in the other. He was still chewing, sauce smeared at the corner of his mouth. He glanced at the coins in Bai Haorui's hand and the peachwood pouch at his waist, his tone teasing. "Having another fit, Xiao Bai? Sam's still inside scratching his head over the computer. Says he found a guy named Scott, twenty-two, living in Lafayette, died less than two days ago. Born in 1983 too. Same situation as him, Andy, and the others."
Bai Haorui tucked the coins back into the peachwood pouch, brushed the dust off it, and raised an eyebrow at Dean, a trace of gravity in his eyes. "Funny coincidence. The yin qi these coins picked up was right in Lafayette. Looks like Scott's death has something to do with Yellow Eyes' anchors-this case our little brother's digging into probably isn't that simple."
Dean's smile vanished instantly. He stuffed the rest of the hot dog into his mouth, finished it in a few bites, crumpled the wrapper, and threw it into the nearby trash can. He pulled the tab on his beer and took a deep swallow. The cold liquid slid down his throat but did nothing to suppress the chill in his heart. "Yellow Eyes' Special Children plan... is he about to close the net?"
He paused. A barely perceptible trace of worry crossed his eyes, and his voice dropped, tinged with helplessness. "Ever since I told him Dad's last words, Sam's been like a man possessed. He's practically killing himself investigating these cases, staying up past midnight every day. And he's always been the type to get stuck on things."
Bai Haorui said nothing. He only looked up at the lit window on the motel's second floor. The curtains were drawn, but he could faintly make out a figure moving inside. He knew Sam was holding something fierce inside him behind that window-defiance against fate, fear of his own abilities, and a stubborn determination to control his own life.
Early the next morning, dawn had barely broken. A fish-belly white streak appeared along the eastern horizon, and pale blue daylight filtered through the mist, draping the lake in a hazy veil. Damp mist clung to the reeds along the shore, cool against their eyelashes. The cold, wet wind brushed their cheeks, carrying the fishy scent of water and the smell of earth, rustling the reed leaves.
Sam crouched beside the Impala's front end, clutching John's battered hunting journal. His fingertips rubbed the worn leather cover repeatedly. Tucked inside was a yellowed photograph of him, Dean, and John from when he was little, all smiling without a care. He looked up at Dean, who leaned against the car door smoking. Morning light outlined Dean's rugged profile; a blue shadow of stubble covered his jaw, and his eyes showed the fatigue of a sleepless night. Sam's voice was tight, filled with long-suppressed exhaustion and pain, like a taut string that would snap at a touch. "Dad's last words... I keep thinking, had he already decided I'd turn into a monster? Why else would he tell you to kill me? To kill me yourself before I lost control?"
Dean paused, looking at Sam's reddened eyes. His voice was terribly hoarse, like sandpaper scraping wood, filled with helplessness. "Dad hadn't decided you'd become a monster. He was scared! Scared Yellow Eyes would control you! Scared you'd become a killing machine against your will! Scared we'd all end up watching you destroy everything, destroy yourself!"
"Scared?" Sam sprang to his feet, his voice rising sharply. His eyes went completely red, tears pooling in them, though he stubbornly refused to let them fall. "Just because Yellow Eyes fed me blood? Just because I have those damn abilities? Did it never occur to him that I could fight back? That I could choose not to be controlled? That I could choose to be a good person?"
He lunged forward and seized Dean's collar, almost lifting him with the force of his grip. His chest heaved, his breathing rapid. "What about you? Dean! Do you believe in me or not? Or do you think I'll turn into a monster you have to hunt sooner or later? Just like those evil spirits and vampires we've killed?"
Dean pried his hands away, veins bulging on his forehead. His tone held anger and heartache, and his voice was loud enough to hurt their ears. "Sam! Of course I believe in you! I didn't tell you Dad's last words so you could turn into this! Look at yourself! You're like a hedgehog, guarding against everyone, even me! You think I wanted to hear those bullshit last words?"
Sam abruptly stepped back and shook off Dean's hand. The light in his eyes dimmed little by little, like stars obscured by clouds, leaving only a deathly gray. He looked at Dean, the older brother who had protected him since childhood. His voice was thick with despair, each word cutting into both their hearts like a knife. "Even I don't know if I can get free of all this crap. But if I really do get controlled... Dean! Promise me! Kill me! Don't let me become a monster. Don't let me hurt innocent people!"
"Shit, what the fuck kind of bullshit are you spouting?" Furious, Dean kicked the tire beside him with a dull thud that made the ground tremble slightly. "Not a chance! You're my little brother! I'd die before I laid a finger on you! I'd die first!"
Their fierce argument echoed over the open lakeshore, startling several waterbirds out of the reeds and sending them flapping toward the sky. Bai Haorui sat on the grass nearby, holding a foxtail stem and twirling its tip between his fingers. He watched everything silently, his face expressionless, but he understood perfectly-this argument had been inevitable. Their father's last words were a thorn lodged in Sam's heart and Dean's alike. If they did not pull it out, sooner or later it would fester.
He watched Sam pick up the journal from the ground and turn away, his retreating figure as resolute as a wall, without the slightest reluctance. He watched Sam run to the roadside and stare at an old pickup parked there. After hesitating for a few seconds, Sam opened the door, climbed in, started the engine, and drove away, the tires kicking up dust. He watched Dean punch the Impala's door with a dull thud and curse, "God fucking damn it," his voice filled with suppressed pain and powerlessness.
Bai Haorui stood, brushed grass and dirt from his trousers, and walked over to Dean. He took an unopened beer from his pocket and handed it over. Dean looked up at him and took it, snapping the tab open and swallowing deeply. Cold beer spilled down the corner of his mouth and soaked his collar. He wiped his face. "I know... but how could I possibly kill him? He's Sam... he's the little brother I've protected his whole life..."
Bai Haorui patted his shoulder, neither too hard nor too lightly, with a reassuring strength. His tone was calm as an autumn lake, without a ripple. "Then investigate with him. Dig up everything about Yellow Eyes, destroy his Anchor Network, and tear those bullshit last words to pieces-that's what we should be doing. Getting tangled up in a hypothetical that hasn't happened yet is useless."
Dean looked at his reflection in the Impala's hood, at the red veins in his eyes. After a long silence, he finally nodded firmly, crushing the beer can with a creak.
Sam sped along in the stolen pickup, the dust thrown up by its tires streaming behind him like a yellow tail. He parked outside Harvelle's Roadhouse. Deafening rock music spilled through the gap in the door, mingling with the smell of beer and cigarettes.
Ash was hunched over the computer behind the bar, his fingers flying across a keyboard covered in potato chip crumbs. His glasses had slipped to the tip of his nose, forcing him to lift his head now and then and use his chin to nudge them back up. When he saw Sam push through the door, Ash grinned, showing yellow teeth, and waved at him, his voice carrying over the music. "Hey, Sam! Perfect timing. I found what you wanted! Only four fit the criteria! Born in 1983, a fatal house fire when they were six months old, and survived to adulthood-you, Max, who could move objects, Andy, who can control people, and that Scott Carey guy who just died!"
Sam strode over and snatched up the list Ash had printed. His hand passed over Scott's name, and the paper crumpled in his grip. His voice was a little tight. "He died in Lafayette. Murder. One fatal cut to the neck, and sulfur at the scene."
Ash nodded and pulled up another file. The cursor blinked on the screen, reflected in his glasses. "Scott awakened an electric shock ability. He'd been seeing a therapist for a month before it happened. I hacked into the clinic's system-he said he had nightmares every day. There was a yellow-eyed man in his dreams, talking in his head every day, forcing him to kill. The doctor diagnosed schizophrenia and prescribed a pile of antipsychotics. Didn't do a damn thing. Just made him more and more unstable."
Without the slightest hesitation, Sam turned and rushed out, jumped into the pickup, and started the engine again. He floored the accelerator and drove toward Lafayette. His mind was a tangled mess. Scott's experiences were like a mirror reflecting his own image-without Dean and Bai Haorui, would he have ended up like Scott too, driven mad by Yellow Eyes and dying horribly?
Following the address Ash had given him, he found Scott's home. It was a small detached house with a neatly trimmed lawn and wind chimes tinkling by the door, yet it carried an air of deathly silence. Scott's father answered the door. The old man's graying hair was neatly combed, his eyes swollen red like two walnuts. Tear tracks still marked the wrinkles at their corners, and the hand gripping the doorframe trembled slightly.
When he spoke of his son, the old man choked so badly his voice broke. Cloudy tears rolled down his cheeks and dripped onto the back of his hand. "My boy used to be so cheerful. He loved singing, dancing, playing basketball, playing with the neighbors' children... After his twenty-second birthday, he changed. He locked himself in his room every day with the curtains shut tight, taking antipsychotics. Sometimes he'd shout at thin air, 'I won't listen to you... I'm not a monster...'" The old man sighed, his voice full of despair. "I took him to so many doctors. Nothing helped... He said there was a yellow-eyed man in his head every day..."
Sam followed the old man into Scott's room. A cold, sinister presence washed over him, making him frown involuntarily. Empty pill bottles and several sheets of drawing paper lay scattered on the desk. Sketches covered the walls-all of a yellow-eyed man with a hideous face and vicious eyes. Every one radiated a suffocating sense of oppression. The corners of the pages were densely covered with words like "I'm not a monster" and "Don't force me." The scrawled handwriting showed how desperate he had been when he wrote them.
Sam picked up a sketch, his fingers trembling slightly-the yellow-eyed man in the drawing looked exactly like the Yellow Eyes he had seen.
He said goodbye to the old man and drove back to the motel. The moment he pushed open the door, a vase hurtled toward him, barely missing his ear before smashing against the wall with a crash. Porcelain fragments scattered across the floor. One cut the back of his hand, drawing a trace of blood.
Sam stopped and looked closely. A blonde woman stood with her back against the window, holding up another shard of the vase. Her body trembled, and her wary, panicked eyes resembled those of a frightened rabbit. Her voice shook. "Are you Sam Winchester?"
The woman was Ava. Her hair was somewhat disheveled, her clothes dusty, and her face showed the exhaustion of a long journey. She had clearly traveled far to get here. She panted, gripping the shard so tightly her hand had turned white. Its sharp edge had already sliced her palm, drawing a trace of blood. "I'm sorry. I'm just so nervous. Listen to me. I dreamed you were going to die! In an abandoned factory. You stepped into a trap, there was an explosion, and everything was gone except one bloodstained sneaker! That factory's on Monroe Street! I remember it perfectly!"
She pulled out her phone, opened the news about Scott's murder, and pointed at the photograph. Her words came fast, thick with fear. "I dreamed about Scott too. He's dead, and you're next! Believe me! I'm not crazy! I really dreamed it! The man in that dream looked exactly like you!"
Sam frowned. "How do you know my name?"
"I dreamed it!" Ava was so frantic she nearly cried, tears pooling in her eyes. "The man in the dream mentioned your name and a list of Special Children! And that factory-it's on Monroe Street! I checked the map. That abandoned factory really exists!"
She accurately described every detail of the dream-the rust-covered iron framework of the abandoned factory, the trap made with thin wire and gunpowder, the sneaker in size 43-all with absolute precision. Watching his expression and listening to his questions, Ava's voice softened, filled with fear and helplessness. "I'm not crazy. Believe me. I want to help you."
Sam looked at her gently. "I believe you."
Meanwhile, Dean and Bai Haorui had also arrived in Lafayette. Dean called Bobby, whose furious cursing nearly blasted through the receiver. "You bunch of idjits! Somehow that lunatic Gordon Walker found out where Sam is! He pried Yellow Eyes' plan out of a low-level demon and decided all the Special Children are demon soldiers. He wants to wipe them out, root and branch! He's heading for Lafayette right now. Find Sam, quick!"
At the name "Gordon," Bai Haorui immediately frowned. Leaning against the car door, he rubbed the knot on his peachwood pouch and remembered what had happened last time in the small Missouri town-Gordon had tied Andy up in a basement and tortured her to make her reveal where the other vampires were. If they had not arrived in time, Andy would have been tortured to death. A chill entered Bai Haorui's voice. "That lunatic doesn't distinguish good from evil. If something has even the slightest supernatural connection, he kills it. If we hadn't stopped him last time, Andy and her friend would have died under his gun. There's too much viciousness in him. His three ethereal souls and seven corporeal souls all reek of murderous sin. He's pretty twisted."
Dean's face darkened further. He tightened his grip on the phone until his knuckles turned white, his eyes filled with murderous intent. "That bastard's a fanatic. We ruined things for him last time, so he's probably coming with a grudge now. Come on. We need to find Sam."
They exchanged a look, each seeing the urgency in the other's eyes-they had to find Sam as quickly as possible.