Kids laugh differently. Sam had always noticed that. It wasn't forced, and it certainly wasn't rehearsed. It didn't carry the jagged weight that adult laughter did—no hesitation, no restraint, no hidden exhaustion lurking behind the sound. It just existed. Bright. Loud. Careless. It was the kind of sound that could cut through city noise, through bone-deep stress, and through the specific, heavy kind of silence that settles into people who have seen too much.
Sam leaned against a painted metal railing, watching a group of children sprint past him. Their high-pitched joy echoed through the glowing, artificial chaos of the Starlight Plaza amusement park.
"…Funny," he murmured, the neon lights of a nearby Ferris wheel reflecting in his glasses.
Maya glanced at him, adjusting the strap of her concealed gear bag. "What is?"
"Kids," Sam said, taking a slow sip of an iced latte that was more sugar than caffeine. "They don't know anything… but somehow they're the only ones doing it right."
Maya raised an eyebrow. "…Doing what right?"
"Living." A beat. "Give it a few years," Sam added, his voice dropping an octave. "They'll figure out how to ruin it. We always do."
Maya stared at him, momentarily caught off guard by the sudden flash of cynicism beneath his playful mask. "…Are you always like this?"
"Only in emotionally confusing environments," Sam replied with a wink.
Sarah sighed, stepping between them. Her eyes were constantly moving, scanning the treeline and the rooftops above the colorful stalls. "Focus. We aren't here for the atmosphere."
Sam looked around again. Lights. Music. Screaming crowds. His expression flattened. "…Okay," he said. "Why the hell are we at an amusement park?"
"Language," Sarah said immediately.
Sam rolled his eyes. "Fine. Why are we at an amusement park, Captain?"
"You've been here five minutes," Maya said, checking her tablet. "You should know the stats."
"And I've already learned everything I need to know," Sam said. "Too loud. Too bright. Too many people pretending to be happy. It's a sensory nightmare."
"That's literally the point of a theme park, Sam."
"Exactly. It's the perfect camouflage."
Sarah stepped into their circle, lowering her voice. "We've had multiple reports over the last seventy-two hours. High-frequency anomalies."
Sam glanced at her. "Let me guess. Kids seeing things?"
Maya blinked. "Okay, how do you keep doing that? I haven't even opened the file yet."
Sam shrugged, leaning back. "Pattern recognition. Also, you dragged us to a place full of children. The 'glitches' we hunt love high-energy environments. Children are like walking batteries for the 'Outside' to feed on."
Maya sighed and pulled up the encrypted data. "Last three days. Twelve separate reports. All from parents, all describing the same thing."
Sam wasn't looking at the screen. He was already scanning the crowd, his eyes tracking the shadows that didn't quite move with the light. "Tall shadow," he muttered, finishing her sentence. "No face. Just… watching. Standing where it shouldn't be."
Maya paused, her finger hovering over the tablet. "…Yes. Exactly that."
A child ran past them, clutching a balloon and laughing. The contrast felt sickeningly wrong. Sam's gaze darkened. "If it's not what I think it is, then we're very unlucky. But yeah… I think it's decided to change targets."
"Why kids?" Maya asked, her voice trembling slightly.
Sam watched a little boy chasing bubbles near a fountain. "…Because they're easier," he said. The words landed heavier than expected. "No resistance. No understanding. They see things before they learn how to lie to themselves. They haven't built the mental firewalls adults have."
Maya felt a chill. "That's… messed up."
Sam nodded faintly. "…And kind of pathetic. All that power from the 'Outside,' and this is what it does? Picking on toddlers in a playground? It's low."
Sarah crossed her arms, her expression grim. "Or strategic. Fear is a resource, Sam. Kids don't hide it. They broadcast it."
Silence settled over the trio. Sam looked around at the swirling colors. "This place… it's the perfect setup. Laughter, screams, excitement, fear—all mixed into one big psychic soup. I hate this already."
"Stick to the plan," Sarah said, adjusting her jacket to hide her holster. "Try to look normal."
Sam looked down at his designer hoodie and the half-melted latte. "…That's ambitious for us, don't you think?"
Maya rolled her eyes. "I'll take the east side. More visibility near the tech-arcades."
Sam nodded. "Try not to recruit anyone suspicious. Or anyone cute. We're working."
Maya gave him a flat look. "No promises."
As Maya walked off toward the neon-drenched arcade section, she slowed near a high-end ice cream stall. The man behind the counter looked up—he was strikingly handsome, far too polished for a minimum-wage gig.
"Vanilla," Maya said, her professional guard slipping for a micro-second.
"I'm Jeremy," he said, handing her the cone with a lingering smile. "Best view in the park right here."
Maya smiled back, her eyes quickly scanning his hands for any black markings. "Perfect."
Sam walked beside Sarah, hands buried in his pockets. A few yards ahead, they spotted Baru. He was currently off-duty—or appearing to be. He stood with his family, one of his kids tugging at his massive arm while his wife laughed softly. The man who had shattered a concrete-crushing monster hours ago now looked completely grounded, patient, and intensely human.
Sam slowed his pace. "…That's unfair," he said quietly.
Sarah glanced at him. "What is?"
He nodded toward Baru. "Look at him. Guy fights nightmares like it's cardio… and then just switches to 'Dad Mode' like the world makes sense. It's kind of nice."
Sarah watched the scene for a moment. "…He's good at it. He has something to come back to."
Sam tilted his head. "…Yeah. It's rare."
They kept walking, passing a row of carnival games. Sam's eyes landed on a dart stall. "Since we're being 'normal,' let's see if I can win the Captain a prize."
"Sam, we don't have time for—"
"Five minutes, Sarah. Integration, remember?"
Sam stepped up to the booth, tossing a few coins to the elderly woman running it. He took three darts, balancing them with a flourish. He aimed at a balloon, squinting behind his glasses. Whiff. The dart hit the wood. Whiff. The second one bounced off the rim. The third managed to pop a balloon, but it was the lowest-tier prize.
"The youth today," the old woman chuckled, leaning on the counter. "No steady hands. Maybe your older sister can show you how it's done?"
Sam stiffened, his face flushing a bright red. "Older sister? She's not my older sister! She's my—she's my boss!"
Sarah didn't miss a beat. She stepped up to the counter, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She picked up three darts, weighted them for a split second, and flicked her wrist with the mechanical precision of a professional sniper.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Three center-mass hits in under two seconds. The old woman's eyes widened. "Well, look at that! The big sister has the real talent. Here you go, dear." She handed Sarah a large, fluffy white wolf plushie.
"See, Sammy?" Sarah teased, tucking the plushie under her arm as they walked away. "Listen to your noona. Maybe I'll teach you how to aim one day."
"Stop calling me that," Sam grumbled, his ears still red. "And give me that wolf. It's embarrassing."
"No," Sarah smirked, patting the plushie. "It's a trophy of my little brother's failure."
"I'm not your brother!" Sam snapped, though the banter clearly eased the tension in his shoulders.
Sarah laughed softly, a rare, genuine sound. "…That's a terrible comparison anyway. You're much more high-maintenance than a brother."
They walked in silence for a moment, their hands brushing as they navigated the crowd. For a second, their fingers lingered—a brief, unsaid acknowledgment of the quiet between the storms.
"This is weird," Sam said after a moment.
"You started the personal questions," Sarah replied, not letting go.
"It was fieldwork. Professional curiosity."
"Right," Sarah nodded. "Very professional."
Suddenly, Sam's entire demeanor shifted. The playfulness vanished instantly. His hand gripped hers tighter for a second before letting go.
"…There," he said quietly.
A man stood near the far end of the plaza, partially obscured by the rotating shadows of the carousel. He was dressed as a clown—bright, garish colors and a painted-on, permanent smile. But his eyes were empty pits, devoid of the mirth the costume promised.
He was kneeling, handing out colorful pamphlets to a group of children. "Circus tonight," he said, his voice carrying a tinny, artificial cheer. "A special show. Just for you."
Sam walked toward him, his pace slow and predatory. The clown looked up, and for a heartbeat, the air between them turned freezing.
"Hey," Sam said casually, stopping a few feet away. "What's the act?"
The clown's smile widened, the greasepaint cracking. "Just an invitation," he said, handing a pamphlet to Sam. "The show starts when the sun goes down."
Sam glanced at the paper. It looked normal, but to his eyes, the ink was shimmering with a faint, oily residue.
"…Right," Sam said.
Sarah stepped beside him, her hand hovering near her waist. "Let's go, Sam."
They turned and walked away into the crowd. Behind them, the clown's smile didn't fade—it stretched. It grew wider, moving past the edges of his face in a way that skin shouldn't allow.
"…I'll be waiting," he whispered. A soft, distorted laugh followed, low and echoing like it was coming from the bottom of a well. The park lights flickered once, a sharp pulse of violet, before returning to normal.
The circus was in town. And Unit 7 was the main attraction.