Feed,one hissed, slithering through my mind like oil.
Take,another growled, deep and resonant, vibrating in my bones.
Now, now, now,a third chanted, high and frantic, pounding against my temples until pain bloomed behind my eyes, blurring the fog-shrouded street into smears of gray and shadow.
And in that cacophony, a new scent pierced the haze, sharp and tantalizing, cutting through the damp rot like a knife—the unmistakable copper tang of fresh blood, faint but growing stronger, carried on the fog from somewhere ahead, a metallic allure that made my mouth water despite the revulsion churning in my gut.
My enhanced senses, twisted by the blade's influence, latched onto it, pulling my gaze toward a cluster of derelict buildings just off the alley, where dim flashlight beams bobbed erratically through broken windows, illuminating silhouettes—three figures, young and careless, urban explorers by the look of them, clad in hoodies and backpacks, laughing softly as they poked through the ruins, oblivious to the predator closing in.
One had a fresh scrape on his hand, blood welling from where he'd brushed against rusted metal, the droplets glistening in the faint light like beacons; another nursed a cut on her knee, the scent mingling with the group's excited murmurs that reached me now, fragmented words like "check this out" and "old factory vibes," their voices light and human, so achingly unaware.
The blade seized on it all, a surge of cold fire racing through my veins, yanking my perception toward them with brutal force—my legs veered without my command, boots pivoting on the cracked pavement as if strings had jerked me sideways, the tremors in my limbs giving way to a unnatural smoothness, a predatory grace that wasn't mine.
I felt it take over, inch by inexorable inch: the hunger flooding my muscles like liquid shadow, coiling around my will and squeezing until my own thoughts receded, drowned out by the voices' triumphant roar; my hand twitched toward the sheath at my side, fingers brushing the hilt against my volition, the metal humming eagerly under my touch; a rush of alien euphoria built in my core, pushing out the last remnants of fear, replacing my fury with a hollow, insatiable need that propelled me forward, step by unwilling step, toward the group.
In that final, sinking certainty, as darkness crept in at the edges of my vision, narrowing the world to those flickering lights and the promise of blood, I realized control was gone—the blackout descending like a curtain, the hunger claiming dominion, leaving whatever violence came next no longer mine to claim or remember.
9
MORGAN
The hours dragged on in this godforsaken room, each one stretching longer than the last, marked only by the shifting light through the cracks in the boarded window. I had no watch, no phone, nothing but the slow crawl of shadows across the concrete floor to tell me time was passing at all. He had stormed out sometime after our latest standoff, slamming the door behind him with that heavy bolt sliding into place, his face twisted in whatever private torment he carried around like a second skin. That was morning, or what passed for it in this dim hole, and now the light had faded to a dull gray, the kind that hinted at evening without committing to it. How long had it been? Five hours? Six? Long enough that my stomach growled with a hollow insistence, reminding me I hadn't eaten since whatever scraps he'd tossed my way yesterday. The bucket of water in the corner mocked me too, its surface still and filmy, but I sipped from it anyway, grimacing at the metallic tang that clung to my tongue. Isolation settled over everything like dust, thick and unrelenting, making the walls feel closer, the air heavier, as if the warehouse itself was breathing down my neck, waiting for me to crack.
I paced the small space for what felt like the hundredth time, my footsteps echoing softly against the cold floor, trying to shake off the frustration that had been building since he left. This was my chance, wasn't it? Him gone, no eyes watching from the shadows like before, no rough voice barking orders or firing those bizarre questions at me. But every time I approached the door, that invisible shove hit me again, flinging me back with a force that left bruises blooming across my chest and arms. It wasn't getting easier; if anything, the impacts felt sharper now, more personal, like the room itself was rejecting me. I rubbed at my shoulder, wincing at the tenderness there, and scanned the walls again, searching for anything I might have missed in my earlier sweeps. The cot with its threadbare blanket, the cracked mirror reflecting back a version of myself I barely recognized, pale and smudged with grime. Empty cans stacked in the corner, their labels peeled away to nothing, a testament to how long he'd been holed up here, surviving on whatever he could scavenge. A few yellowed books piled nearby, spines cracked and pages dog-eared, but flipping through them earlier had revealed nothing useful, just faded text in a language that looked like gibberish, all looping symbols and sharp angles that made my eyes ache. No tools, no loose boards I could pry free, nothing sharp except the glass shard I'd kept hidden in my pocket, its edges wrapped in a strip of cloth from my sleeve to keep from cutting myself further.
The warehouse beyond the door loomed in my mind, vast and echoing from what little I'd glimpsed during my failed attempts to cross the threshold. I could hear faint sounds sometimes, the drip of water from leaky pipes, the occasional groan of settling metal, like the whole structure was sighing under its own weight. It amplified the emptiness, made me feel like the last person left in a forgotten corner of the city, abandoned even by the rats that probably scurried through the outer halls.
What if he didn't come back?
The thought circled, unwelcome but persistent, stirring a mix of hope and dread. If he was gone for good, maybe someone would notice my absence eventually, Lena at the cafe wondering why I hadn't shown up for shifts, or the police piecing together another disappearance in this string of killings. But that assumed anyone would look here, in this decaying relic on the edge of the industrial district, far from the streets where people actually lived. And if he did return, what then? More questions about dreams and humming stones, more of that haunted stare like I was the key to some puzzle he resented solving. He'd been fraying before he left, those dark veins pulsing under his skin, his hands trembling as he rubbed at his temples. Whatever was eating at him, it wasn't just me; it was something deeper, and the longer he stayed away, the more I wondered if he'd snapped out there, adding another body to the tally the news kept reporting.
Frustration boiled up again, hot and familiar, pushing me back to the door. I couldn't just sit here waiting for fate to decide. There had to be a way out, some trick I hadn't spotted yet. The carvings on the frame caught my eye once more, those irregular scratches he'd etched into the wood, lines twisting into shapes that didn't follow any pattern I could make sense of. They looked like the work of someone unhinged, maybe, random doodles carved with a knife to pass the time in this isolation, but he'd mentioned them during one of his rants, muttering about "wards" or something equally nonsensical, like they were the reason for the barrier. I snorted at the memory, irritation flaring as I stepped closer, running my fingers over the grooves. The wood was rough under my touch, splintered in places where the blade had dug too deep, and the symbols themselves were a mess of curves and angles, some intersecting like crude stars, others looping back on themselves in ways that almost formed letters but not quite. What was this supposed to be? Some kindof psychological ploy, maybe, to make me think there was more to it than a locked door and my own fear keeping me in? Or perhaps a hidden mechanism, wires or magnets embedded in the frame, rigged to push back when triggered. I'd seen stuff like that in movies, elaborate traps set by paranoid types, and he fit the bill, living in this hole with his defective sword and his rambling questions.
I traced one of the symbols slowly, following its path from top to bottom, feeling the indents where the knife had bitten in. Nothing happened at first, no click or hum, just the same cold wood under my fingertips. But as I stared at the threshold, squinting in the fading light, something caught my eye, a faint shimmer in the air right where the doorframe met the empty space beyond. It was subtle, like heat rising off pavement on a hot day, distorting the view just enough that the corridor outside looked slightly warped, the shadows bending in ways they shouldn't. I blinked hard, shaking my head to clear it, telling myself it was a trick of the light, dust motes catching the weak rays filtering through the cracks, or maybe exhaustion playing games with my vision after hours of staring at these walls. But when I looked again, it was still there, that slight ripple, almost like looking through warped glass, making the air seem thicker, more substantial than it should be. My pulse quickened, a flicker of unease twisting in my gut, but I shoved it down, forcing logic to the front. Probably just condensation from the damp, or some optical illusion caused by the angle of the boards on the window. I'd been cooped up too long, my eyes straining in the dimness; that was all.
Still, I couldn't stop staring, leaning in closer until my nose was inches from the frame. I reached out tentatively, not pushing hard this time but just brushing the air with my fingertips, and there it was again, that resistance, solid and unyielding, pressing back against my hand like an invisible pane.The shimmer seemed to intensify for a second, the distortion rippling outward like water disturbed by a stone, and I yanked my hand back, heart thudding in my chest. What the hell? It didn't make sense, not in any rational way. Maybe he'd installed some kind of force field gadget, high-tech stuff smuggled from who knows where, the kind of thing eccentric loners built in their basements. My mind scrambled for the scraps of sophomore science class that could explain it. Perhaps it was… electromagnetic, a field generated by hidden coils in the walls, repelling anything that got too close. That would explain the push, the way it amplified when I charged it, bouncing me back with my own momentum. Yeah, that tracked; he seemed the type, paranoid enough to rig his hideout with traps, especially if he was the one behind those killings, always one step ahead of the cops.
But even as I latched onto that explanation, doubt crept in, small but insistent, making my skin prickle. The shimmer didn't look like any tech I'd ever seen, too organic, too fluid, fading in and out like it was breathing. And the carvings, they didn't connect to anything visible, no wires peeking from the wood, no hum of electricity when I pressed them. I traced another symbol, this one a spiral that tightened into a point, and watched as the air seemed to respond, the distortion sharpening just a touch before settling again. Coincidence, I told myself, my mind filling in patterns where there were none, the way people saw faces in clouds or heard voices in white noise. Stress did that, warped perception until the ordinary turned strange. Yet the more I studied it, the harder it became to dismiss entirely, that faint shift hanging there like a veil I could almost touch, challenging every practical excuse I threw at it. If it wasn't a trick, if it wasn't some gadget or illusion, then what? The thought sent a chill through me, colder than the draft seeping under the door, because it edged too close to the nonsense he'd spouted, thosequestions about dreams and pulls that I'd laughed off as the ravings of a madman. But if he wasn't completely insane, if there was something real behind all this, something I couldn't explain away with logic or science, that scared me more than the alternative. A crazy kidnapper I could handle, could outsmart or endure until help came. But this, whatever it was, felt like the ground shifting under my feet, rules bending in ways that left me grasping for solid footing.
I stepped back finally, sinking onto the cot with a sigh, the frustration coiling tighter in my chest. The warehouse creaked around me, a distant drip echoing like a countdown, amplifying the knowledge that I was truly alone in this decaying shell, cut off from the world outside. He could be anywhere by now, out there feeding whatever demons drove him, or maybe hurt, collapsed in some alley from the strain I'd seen eating at him. Part of me hoped for the latter, a clean end to this without more confrontation, but the rest dreaded his return, the way he'd loom in the doorway again, eyes probing for answers I didn't have. The shimmer at the threshold lingered in my vision even when I closed my eyes, a nagging presence that logic couldn't quite erase, leaving me rattled in a way I hated admitting. On the surface, it was still just a trick, a puzzle I'd solve given time. But deep down, where the doubts whispered, it was getting harder to believe that was all there was to it.
10
MORGAN
The dimness in the room had deepened into full night by now, the weak light from the cracks in the boarded window long since swallowed by the darkness outside, leaving me with nothing but the faint glow from that battery lantern he'd left flickering in the corner. I'd turned it on hours ago, when the shadows started closing in too tight, its pale beam casting harsh angles across the concrete and making the mold spots on the walls look like creeping stains.
My stomach had gone from growling to a dull, gnawing ache, the kind that came from too long without food. How much time had passed since I sat on the cot, staring at that shimmering distortion over the doorway? It felt like an eternity, the silence stretching out unbroken except for the occasional creak of the building settling, or the distant patter of rain starting up again on the roof, muffled and relentless.
He'd been gone far longer than I expected, long enough that the initial spark of hope had curdled into something edgier, a gnawing worry that twisted in my chest. What if he really wasn't coming back? The thought brought a strange feeling of dread, because as much as I wanted him gone for good, being trappedhere alone in this forgotten corner of the city meant no one to let me out. I could starve in this room, my shouts echoing uselessly into the empty warehouse, until dehydration or exhaustion took me.
I paced again, my legs stiff from sitting too long, the cold seeping up through the floor and into my bones. The air smelled heavier now, thick with decay, like the warehouse was exhaling its rot into the room. I caught myself listening for sounds beyond the door, straining for footsteps or the scrape of that bolt being pulled back.
But there was nothing.
Just the rain picking up, drumming steadily overhead, amplifying the isolation until it pressed down on me like a physical weight. I sank back onto the cot, pulling the thin blanket around my shoulders against the chill, my mind circling the same questions that had plagued me all day.
Where was he? What could keep him out this long, especially with the state he'd been in when he left, all trembling hands and haunted eyes, muttering to himself like he was arguing with ghosts?
