Chapter 1. White Noise

The meteor fell at 02:17 local time, which was inconvenient only because it gave everyone just enough sleep to be annoyed.

At the Arctic Research Installation K-7, alarms bloomed across screens like nervous flowers. No one panicked at first. Things fell out of the sky all the time—satellites, debris, mistakes. The Arctic had learned patience.

Then the seismic sensors registered impact.

Then the thermal scanners registered cold.

Not absence of heat. Negative presence.

The lead analyst stared at the display for seven seconds. Long enough to understand the data was wrong. Not long enough to admit it.

“Sensor error,” he said, already reaching for the override.

The sensor error spread.

Within seconds, secondary systems flagged anomalous readings. Cold blooms where heat should have been. Negative gradients where physics politely objected. The data crawled outward through the network like a rumor that refused to die.

“Recalibrating,” someone announced.

“Again?”

“Again.”

The alarms advanced to the next tier—not urgent, merely concerned. Yellow lights pulsed softly. A coffee cup rattled on a desk. Somewhere deep in the facility, metal contracted with a tired groan.

Above the Arctic, the night remained clear and indifferent.

No one noticed the silence after impact had a shape.

Task Unit Polaris-7 assembled in Hangar C beneath a banner that read:

SAFETY THROUGH PREPAREDNESS

The banner had survived three budget cuts and zero real-world applications.

Captain Elias Hayes stood beneath it, posture perfect in the way only a career officer could manage—rigid without being theatrical. His expression was neutral, practiced, and faintly apologetic, as if he were already regretting a conversation that had not yet happened.

“We’ve lost contact with Facility K-7,” Hayes said. “Following a meteor impact.”

Mason, the unit’s weapons specialist, raised an eyebrow. “Define meteor.”

Hayes did not blink. “Extraterrestrial object.”

Dr. Lin, xenobiologist, frowned. “Define object.”

Hayes blinked once. “That information is above my clearance.”

Reed, corporate liaison, shifted his weight and adjusted his tablet as if it might protect him. “Just to confirm—we’re not anticipating hostile contact?”

“No confirmed hostiles,” Hayes said evenly.

Nova, tech specialist, glanced up from her diagnostics. “Unconfirmed hostiles?”

Hayes allowed himself a thin smile. “That’s a different budget category.”

Lin muttered, “That’s how people die.”

No one responded. The narrative had already moved on.

The helicopter rattled through the Arctic sky like it was actively reconsidering its life choices.

Below them, Alaska stretched endlessly—white, silent, vast enough to swallow mistakes whole and ask for seconds. The landscape didn’t look empty. It looked patient.

Nova leaned forward, peering through the window. “Visual on the facility.”

K-7 emerged suddenly from the snow: squat, utilitarian, alone. Floodlights ringed it, several frozen mid-flicker, casting shadows that jittered without direction.

Mason squinted. “What’s that line?”

The trail carved through the tundra with surgical indifference; snow crystallized into sharp geometry along its edges. It did not curve naturally. It did not wander.

It decided.

Lin’s voice dropped. “That’s not erosion.”

Reed swallowed. “That’s not… natural.”

Hayes stared at it for a long moment.
“Everything is natural,” he said finally. “Some things are just impolite.”

The helicopter descended.

No one noticed the trail did not end at the facility.

The cold outside was aggressive.

It pressed against exposed skin like a demand rather than a condition. Every breath burned faintly, as if the air resented being inhaled.

Nova knelt beside the frozen trail, scanner humming uneasily. “It’s colder than ambient.”

Lin crouched next to her. “That’s impossible.”

Nova nodded. “I know. That’s why it’s happening.”

The ice shimmered subtly, refracting light in ways it shouldn’t—as though it had opinions about being observed.

Mason poked it with his boot.

Instant frost crawled up the sole.

He jumped back. “Nope.”

Reed stared at the open facility doors. “Why are the doors open?”

Hayes considered. “Power failure.”

“But lockdown—”

“—failed,” Hayes finished. “Like everything else.”

Mason muttered, “Funny how security always fails outward.”

Inside, the facility was warm.

That was worse.

Lights flickered as if trying to remember their purpose. Consoles hummed with quiet insistence. Somewhere deep within the structure, something clanged rhythmically—metal contracting, expanding, breathing.

Nova accessed the security feeds.

Hallways appeared. Empty. Still.

Then static.

Then nothing.

“The cameras cut out right before motion events,” she said.

Lin tilted her head. “So, the system knows something is there.”

“Yes.”

“And refuses to show us.”

“Yes.”

Mason nodded. “Smart system.”

Reed’s voice thinned. “Why would it do that?”

No one answered. They already had the same thought, and it was uncomfortable.

They found the first log terminal in the central lab.

Lin read aloud.

Day 1: Meteor impact confirmed. Object artificial. Containment pod damaged during recovery.

“Damaged,” Mason repeated. “By what?”

Lin scrolled.

Day 2: Entity escaped containment. Quadrupedal. Lupine. Size—

The log cut off.

She scrolled again.

Staff referring to entity as “Amarok.” Humor remains high.

Reed frowned. “Why do scientists always joke when they’re scared?”

“Because if they don’t,” Lin said quietly, “they have to admit they’re wrong.”

Another entry appeared.

Entity exhibits selective aggression. Avoids groups. Ignores unarmed personnel.

Silence stretched.

Nova whispered, “It’s choosing targets.”

Hayes nodded. “That means it understands context.”

Mason swallowed. “I hate context.”

The sound stopped.

Not faded.

Stopped.

The hum of machines died mid-note. Footsteps echoed once—then not again. The air grew brittle, sharp, fragile.

Frost bloomed across the walls, spreading in deliberate patterns like handwriting.

“That’s not thermal diffusion,” Lin whispered.

Mason raised his rifle anyway.

From the far end of the corridor, something stepped forward.

The Amarok did not announce itself.

It did not roar.

It simply was.

Massive. Silent. Fur darker than the absence of light. Its eyes glowed faintly, cold and distant, like stars that did not care to be named.

Each step froze the floor beneath it, ice creeping outward as if reality itself were retreating.

It looked at them.

Judged them.

Then its gaze shifted—to Reed.

Reed blinked. “I’m unarmed.”

The creature tilted its head.

And walked past him.

Nova’s breath hitched. “Is it… ignoring him?”

Lin shook her head slowly. “No. It’s deciding.”

The Amarok vanished into shadow, leaving behind a spreading frozen trail.

No one spoke.

Finally, Mason whispered, “It could’ve killed us.”

Lin nodded. “It chose not to.”

Hayes stared at the ice creeping toward their boots. “Everyone,” he said quietly, “stay together.”

The lights flickered.

Somewhere below the facility, something else shifted—loud, impatient, unconcerned with rules.

Outside, the Arctic wind howled.

Not as warning.

As confirmation.