Part 1 - Welcome to Earth

  A town appears overnight. Two silent prisoners refuse to break. As FBI agent Jace Strickland is pulled into the mystery of Saliscana Island, he discovers the truth—Earth has been visited by the Eova, an alien race seeking refuge. But with fear and mistrust mounting, alliances will be tested, and one wrong move could mean war. First contact has begun, but will humanity embrace it—or destroy it?

  Phillip Hail’s POV

  The phone rang at exactly 3:12 AM.

  I had handled my fair share of national security nightmares—terror threats, spy rings, classified leaks—but something in the clipped tone of the caller told me this was different.

  I sat up in bed, already reaching for the notepad on my nightstand. “Hail,” I answered.

  “Sir, we need you at the Miami facility immediately. It’s about Saliscana Island.”

  My grip on the phone tightened. That island had been uninhabited for decades. Until, inexplicably, an entire town had appeared overnight. Satellite images had confirmed the impossible—structures, roads, infrastructure, all materializing within the span of hours. No ships, no recorded construction. Just… there.

  “You found something?” I asked, already swinging my legs out of bed.

  “A team was sent to investigate. They captured two women.” A pause. “Sir… they aren’t talking. And they don’t match any database.”

  I stilled. “What do you mean?”

  “Their fingerprints, their DNA—we ran them through everything we have. No matches. As far as the system is concerned, these women don’t exist.”

  A chill settled over me. “What are they saying?”

  “Nothing. They won’t answer a single question. The younger one stares at the agents like she’s studying them. The older one hasn’t even blinked.”

  I scrubbed a hand over my face, already reaching for my jacket. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  Thirty minutes later, I strode into the secure facility, a place meant for high-risk detainees, spies, and threats too classified to be named.

  I walked briskly past the rows of reinforced doors, stopping outside one with a viewing panel. The agent escorting me gestured to the interrogation room inside.

  “That’s the younger one,” the agent said.

  I peered through the glass.

  A woman sat at the metal table, her posture unnervingly still. Her hair was a shade of violet—dyed, I assumed at first glance. Her eyes matched, the irises an unnatural hue of deep amethyst.

  She wasn’t shackled, but two armed guards stood against the walls, watching her closely. She made no move to escape. No move at all.

  I had seen the interrogation of spies before, professionals trained to withstand questioning. But something about this woman felt… different.

  I turned to the agent. “She hasn’t spoken?”

  “Not a word.”

  I turned back to the viewing panel, studying the woman inside.

  She was waiting for them.

  And that unsettled me more than anything else.

  Thriexa’s POV

  The room was sterile, the air thick with the scent of metal and recycled oxygen. I sat at the cold metal table, my hands resting lightly against its smooth surface. The walls were unadorned, lifeless. A single light flickered above me, casting long, sharp shadows that reached for the corners of the room. There was no sound except the faint hum of electricity, no movement beyond the glass where I knew they were watching.

  I had been here for hours. Maybe longer. Time was strange in a place like this. I did not shift, did not betray even the smallest flicker of impatience. They wanted something from me, and they would come for it soon enough.

  The first one tried to intimidate me. He slammed his file onto the table, his voice sharp, his movements deliberate. He wanted me to flinch, to react. I did not. His frustration flickered beneath the surface, like an ember waiting to ignite. He thought if he applied enough pressure, I would break. “We don’t have a name for you. Why don’t you tell me what we should call you?”

  I stared at him. He didn’t like the silence. Humans never do. I had noticed it before, but now it was certain—silence unsettled them. It made them fidget, made them impatient. They needed sound, words, something to fill the empty space. It was a weakness they barely recognized.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  He leaned in, his breath warm against the sterile air. “You know, staying quiet won’t help you. The sooner you cooperate, the sooner we can clear this up.”

  I continued to observe him. I could feel his frustration thickening the air, a rising pressure as his confidence wavered. He believed he had control, but his intentions told another story—he was grasping, uncertain. I felt it thickening the air. His patience would break soon.

  “We can keep you here as long as we need to,” he warned.

  I watched, unmoved.

  Finally, he snapped. He stormed out, muttering, “She’s not normal. I don’t know what she is, but she’s not breaking.”

  The second was different. He was gentle. Patient. Or at least, he wanted to appear that way. His kindness was a mask, one I could see through with ease. His intentions were clear—he believed trust could be built, that I would eventually crack under the illusion of safety. But I had seen this tactic before. It was just another variation of the same game. He placed a cup of tea in front of me and smiled.

  “I know this must be difficult for you,” he said. “We don’t want to hurt you. We just want to understand.”

  I glanced at the tea. I did not touch it.

  “Are you scared?” he asked. “If you tell me what happened on that island, I can help you.”

  I tilted my head slightly. His words were soft, coaxing, but his intentions betrayed him. He was not here to understand me—he was here to extract information. The contrast fascinated me.

  Minutes passed. He sighed and pushed the tea closer. “If you change your mind, just say something. Anything.”

  Still, I remained silent.

  He rubbed his temples as he walked out. “It’s like talking to a damn statue.” He returned twice more that same day, each time trying a different approach—stern authority, false sympathy, even threats. I watched him, reading his intentions with ease. His frustration simmered beneath every word, his desperation growing as his efforts failed. He wanted to break me, to pull something—anything—from my silence, but his resolve weakened with each passing attempt. It didn’t matter. I never spoke. Eventually, he stopped coming. I never saw him again.

  The third was angry. He slammed his hands on the table, the sharp sound reverberating off the walls. Anger was always the easiest to read—raw, unfiltered, desperate. He thought fear would do what persuasion could not. But fear required uncertainty, and I had none. “Enough games. Who are you?”

  I blinked. Slowly.

  His temper flared. “We have ways of making you talk.”

  I remained silent, watching him with the same unyielding stillness as before. He expected a reaction, some shift in my expression, but I offered him nothing. The silence stretched, pressing against him like an unseen force. I could see the doubt creep into his eyes, the way his hands tensed slightly. He wanted control, but I had taken it from him without a single word.

  The air thickened with tension. He hesitated. He had come in expecting resistance, but now he was questioning himself. I could sense the flicker of doubt in his intentions, the first crack in his resolve. He felt it—what I let him feel. He left the room shaken, though he would never admit it.

  The last one was a woman. She thought she could relate to me. She thought that empathy, real or feigned, would bridge the gap that others had failed to cross. But she, too, had a goal. She wanted answers. And I gave her what I had given the others—nothing. She sat across from me and smiled. “I don’t know what you’ve been through, but I want to help you. I need you to help me understand.”

  I regarded her carefully. I let the silence stretch, letting her feel its weight. Humans always tried to fill it. They needed answers, noise, explanations. I gave her none.

  As she stood to leave, I caught the murmur of voices beyond the closing door. “She’s in control. And she knows it,” the woman said, her tone unsettled. “They both do,” Phillip replied, his voice grim. The door sealed shut, and I was alone again, but their words lingered in the still air.

  I closed my eyes, letting the silence settle once more. These humans did not understand the game they were playing. Each one who walked into this room thought they had control, thought they could bend me to their will. But their intentions were laid bare before me, transparent as glass. They sought leverage, power, dominance. None of them would make suitable allies.

  But I had a people to protect. My silence was not a choice made lightly—it was a necessity. If I spoke too soon, if I placed my trust in the wrong hands, it could mean ruin for my kind. They did not understand what was at stake, but I did. I had lived too long, seen too much, to be careless now.

  I would not break. I would not speak. Not until I found someone who could see beyond their own fear and ambition.

  Until then, I would wait.

  Phillip Hail’s POV

  Phillip exhaled, running a hand through his hair as he stepped away from the observation window. He had watched every interrogation, studied their every move. Their reactions—or rather, their lack of reactions—unnerved him in a way he hadn’t expected. No panic, no struggle, no desperate attempts at negotiation. Just silence. Controlled, deliberate silence. It wasn’t defiance; it was something else. Something calculated. He had seen terrorists, spies, and war criminals subjected to interrogation, but these two women were something else entirely. He wasn’t an interrogator himself, but he had observed enough to know when someone was near breaking. These two weren’t even close. Their willpower was like steel, unyielding, almost unnatural. Not a single word, not a flicker of uncertainty. It was unnerving.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket. He already knew who it was before he answered.

  “Hail, where are we on this?” The voice of Director Langley came through, sharp and expectant.

  “Nowhere,” Phillip admitted, keeping his voice even. “They won’t talk. No fear, no anger, not even curiosity. It’s like they’re waiting for something.”

  “Waiting for what?” Langley pressed. “We don’t have time for this, Phillip. We need answers. The President’s advisors are getting restless. There’s talk of sending a military unit to the island.”

  Phillip stiffened. “We don’t know enough to justify an invasion. We could be walking into something we don’t understand.”

  “Then crack them,” Langley ordered. “Find out what they know before someone higher up makes a decision we all regret. Get the best interrogators in the country if you have to. But if they won’t talk… we’ll need to use other methods.”

  Phillip felt his jaw tighten. “I don’t like that option.”

  “Neither do I,” Langley admitted. “But we need information. You have 48 hours. Make something happen.”

  The line went dead. Phillip let out a slow breath, staring through the glass at the silent prisoner inside. He had no doubt she could feel him watching.

  He turned to his team. “Contact every top interrogator we have. I want the best minds in the country here by morning.”

  His men nodded and got to work, but the unease in Phillip’s gut only deepened.

  Because if talking wouldn’t work, the next step was something far worse.