The grip around Arnold's throat tightened, cutting off his breath, and the world began to fade into darkness. His hands scrambled at the figure's wrist, but it was no use. The strength of the grip was otherworldly, inhuman almost.
The shadowed figure's face remained obscured, but there was an unmistakable aura of danger surrounding them. The air grew thick with tension, and Arnold's pulse raced in his temples. His vision blurred, but he fought to stay conscious, every fiber of his being screaming for him to break free.
"Let him go!" Rachel shouted, her voice trembling with fear. But it was Lucas who moved first, his body lurching toward Arnold, his hands raised in a desperate attempt to pry the figure's grip from his brother.
"Move aside," the figure snarled, his voice cold and detached. "He's mine."
The words hit Arnold like a punch to the gut. His brother wasn't the one who was in control. This… thing—this enemy—was far more dangerous than he'd imagined.
Through the haze of panic and fading consciousness, Arnold's mind raced. Who was this person? How had they found him so quickly? And why were they after him?
In the final moments before he lost all sense of time, a flash of memory flickered through his mind—his parents, the mysterious deaths, the strange occurrences that had always seemed just out of reach of understanding.
The figure's hand moved, tightening again around his throat, and the darkness closed in.