Quest sat in his room, the door closed, his once vibrant presence now reduced to a quiet, brooding silence. He barely spoke to his parents, not because of anger or resentment, but because he didn't feel connected to them anymore. The incident with Tina had triggered something inside him, something dark and primal. He could feel it—his humanity was slowly slipping away, piece by piece, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to hold onto it.

His desk was cluttered with notebooks, and he spent hours hunched over them, scribbling obsessively. Page after page, he drew the strange alien symbols that had appeared in his mind since that night in the barn. The symbols flowed from his pen like they had always been there, as if they were a part of him. He didn't understand their meaning yet, but he felt an unsettling familiarity with them. It was as if they were calling out to him, guiding him toward something larger, something inevitable.

Every time he tried to resist, the voices would return—whispers in the back of his mind, urging him, reminding him of the power he held. The symbols were part of that power, a language only he could decipher. And with each stroke of the pen, he felt the last fragments of his human self fading away.

He glanced at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes, once filled with life, now seemed colder, more distant. The guilt over what had happened to Tina still lingered, but it wasn't enough to stop him. A part of him knew that breaking her hand had only been the beginning. The darkness within him was growing, and soon it would be impossible to hide.

No one else understood. His parents tried to talk to him, but they didn't know the truth. They thought he was just going through something—a phase, perhaps. But Quest knew better. He could feel the power coursing through his veins, and it wasn't something he could control anymore. It was pushing him further and further away from the person he used to be.

He opened one of his notebooks and stared at the latest drawing. The symbols were more complex now, more intricate, as if they were evolving. He traced one of them with his finger, feeling a strange connection to it, like it was part of his very essence. The voices in his head grew louder, the words "take the world" echoing again, reminding him of his purpose.

Quest knew what was coming. He had tried to fight it at first, but now, as his humanity faded, he wondered if there was any point in resisting. Maybe this was who he was meant to be—something more than human, something far more powerful. And if that meant losing the last of his connection to the people he cared about, then so be it.

He closed the notebook and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. His heart felt heavy, but not with sadness—more like anticipation. The broken hand had been the beginning, yes, but it wouldn't be the end. Not by a long shot.

Soon, everyone would see what he was capable of. And by then, it would be too late to stop him.