I awaken to pressure.
Not sound. Not sight. Just pressure—tight, suffocating, absolute. Something clings to me from every side, binding my arms, my legs, even my chest. I try to breathe, but the air feels thick, stale, like it has been trapped here as long as I have.
Panic comes fast.
I don't know where I am.
I don't know what I am.
I push against the walls around me, but they give only slightly, elastic and fibrous. My fingers sink into something layered—threadlike, dense, unnatural. I twist, kick, struggle harder, and the space constricts in response, as if resisting my existence.
A thought flickers through the emptiness of my mind.
I shouldn't be here.
The idea feels important. Personal. But before I can grasp it, it slips away, leaving nothing behind.
Fear replaces it.
I thrash harder.
Something tears.
A sharp, ripping sound splits the suffocating silence, and suddenly the pressure breaks. Cold air rushes over me like a shock. I fall forward, tearing through the last strands, and collapse onto a hard surface.
For a long moment, I don't move.
I lie there, chest heaving, fingers curling weakly against the ground. It's cold. Solid. Real.
I inhale sharply, again and again, as if relearning how.
When I finally lift my head, the world swims into view.
Darkness. Thick with dust. Shapes emerge slowly—a broken chair, a collapsed table, walls veiled in layers of cobwebs. The air smells old, dry, forgotten.
An abandoned house.
The realization comes without memory to support it. I don't know how I know—only that I do.
I push myself up, unsteady. My limbs feel wrong. Too light. Too small. My balance falters, and I catch myself on trembling hands.
Hands.
I stare at them.
Pale. Not just pale—unnaturally so. Porcelain, almost reflective in the dim light filtering through cracked boards. Smooth, flawless, and completely unfamiliar.
A hollow unease settles in my chest.
"Who…" My voice is hoarse, fragile. "Who am I?"
The question echoes in the empty house.
Nothing answers.
Not even my own mind.
There is no past. No name. No face to remember. Just a void where something should be.
And then—
Pain.
It strikes without warning.
My stomach tightens violently, a deep, twisting agony that spreads through my entire body. I gasp, folding in on myself as I drop to my knees.
Hunger.
But not the kind I understand.
This is not a simple need for food. This is something primal, something jagged and insistent. It claws at me from the inside, scraping against bone, chewing through thought.
I clutch my head, nails digging into my scalp as the world tilts.
"Stop…" I whisper, voice shaking. "Please… just stop…"
It doesn't.
It grows.
My thoughts begin to fracture under it. Words lose meaning. Time stretches and distorts. The feeling becomes everything—consuming, suffocating, endless.
For one terrible moment, I think—
If I tear myself open, maybe it will end.
The thought horrifies me.
But not enough.
Then—
Voices.
Faint. Distant.
Human.
The hunger pauses.
Not gone—but… watching.
I freeze, gasping, every muscle locked in place. The sound cuts through the fog in my mind, anchoring me just enough to think.
People.
Help.
Or… something else.
I don't question it. I can't. I force myself to stand, legs trembling beneath me, and stumble toward the sound.
Each step feels heavier than the last. The hunger lingers, coiled tight, ready to strike again. I push through it, moving between trees, branches scraping against my skin.
The forest opens slightly.
And I see it.
Firelight.
A small camp, glowing faintly in the darkness like a fragile promise.
Relief flickers in my chest—weak, uncertain, but real.
I step forward.
Three men sit around the fire. Their silhouettes shift as they turn toward me. The moment they see me, the atmosphere changes.
They go still.
Then, slowly, deliberately, each of them reaches for a weapon.
Daggers.
My relief falters.
"What's wrong, kid?" one of them asks. His voice is calm, but it feels… empty.
Another leans forward, eyes narrowing. "You lost or something?"
Their words sound right.
Their tone does not.
I hesitate.
Something deep inside me tightens—not the hunger, but something quieter. A warning.
I take a step back.
They stand.
The firelight stretches their shadows across the ground, long and distorted. For a second, I think they've grown taller.
But then I realize—
I'm the one who's small.
I look down at myself. Small feet. Thin limbs. A child's body.
A stranger's body.
My skin catches the firelight again—pale, unnatural, almost glowing.
A flicker of dread moves through me.
What am I?
The thought barely forms before one of them lunges forward and grabs me.
And everything breaks.
The hunger returns.
Not gradually.
Not gently.
It slams into me like a wave, violent and absolute. My breath catches in my throat as the world narrows to a single, unbearable need.
The man's grip tightens around my arms. "Hold still—"
"Wait—!" I try to say, panic surging. "Please, I—"
My voice collapses into something strained, barely human.
I can't think.
I can't breathe.
All I can feel is the hunger.
And then—
I move.
My arm jerks forward, faster than I understand, faster than I can control.
Something slices.
A wet, tearing sound fills the air.
The man screams.
I'm dropped instantly. I hit the ground hard, scrambling back as he clutches his face. Blood pours through his fingers.
"My eyes! He took my eyes—!"
I stare at my hand.
At what I've done.
My fingers tremble as I turn them slowly.
Claws.
Long. Curved. Sharp.
Not nails.
Not human.
Blood drips from their tips, thick and dark against my pale skin.
"I didn't…" My voice shakes. "I didn't mean—"
The smell reaches me.
Warm.
Iron-rich.
Alive.
The hunger surges again.
Stronger.
Closer.
I stagger backward, shaking my head violently. "No… no, stay back…"
But I'm not talking to them.
I'm talking to myself.
My hand rises, trembling, hovering near my mouth. I try to stop it. I try to force it down.
"I don't want this…" I whisper, tears blurring my vision.
For a moment—just one—I hold still.
Balanced on the edge of something irreversible.
Then I taste it.
And everything changes.
Relief spreads through me like warmth, seeping into every corner of my body. The pain dulls. The hunger quiets.
A broken sound escapes my throat.
Not relief.
Something worse.
Because it feels good.
I freeze, horror blooming slowly, suffocatingly.
"No…" My voice is barely a breath. "No, that's… that's wrong…"
But the feeling lingers.
And beneath it—
Want.
I look up.
The injured man writhes on the ground, screaming. The other two kneel beside him, panicked, trying to stop the bleeding.
Alive.
My stomach twists.
Not from pain.
From need.
Tears spill freely now, hot and constant. My chest tightens as something inside me—something fragile, something human—begins to crack.
"I can't…" I whisper. "I can't do this…"
One of the men looks up, finally seeing me clearly.
Not as a child.
But as something else.
"Back off!" he shouts, raising his dagger with shaking hands. "Stay back!"
I take a step forward.
"Please…" My voice breaks completely now. "Just run…"
They don't move.
Maybe they don't believe me.
Maybe they can't.
"I'm sorry," I say, the words trembling, desperate, real. "I don't know what I am… I don't know how to stop…"
The hunger answers for me.
I move.
Fast.
Too fast.
Too precise.
They try to fight. I see it—the flash of metal, the desperation in their movements, the raw, human will to survive.
And I feel it.
Every moment of it.
I feel the resistance as my claws tear through them. I hear their screams, sharp and terrified, echoing into the trees. I see the fear in their eyes as they realize—
Too late—
what I am.
And through it all—
I'm still there.
Watching.
Begging myself to stop.
Stop. Please stop. Please—
But my body doesn't listen.
It doesn't hesitate.
It feeds.
When it ends, it ends suddenly.
Silence falls like a curtain.
The fire crackles softly, indifferent to what it has witnessed.
I stand there, trembling, surrounded by what's left.
The hunger is gone.
Satisfied.
For now.
Slowly, as if afraid of what I'll see, I look down.
My hands are covered in blood.
My arms.
My mouth.
My breathing becomes uneven, shallow. My vision blurs again, but not from hunger this time.
My legs give out.
I collapse to my knees.
For a long time, I just stare.
Trying to understand.
Trying to deny it.
"I told you…" My voice is hoarse, barely audible. "I told you to run…"
The words fall into the silence and disappear.
No one answers.
My hands begin to shake uncontrollably. I press them against my face, as if I can hide from what I've done, as if darkness will undo it.
But it doesn't.
Nothing does.
A quiet realization settles in, cold and absolute.
I don't know who I was.
I don't know what I've become.
But I know this—
When the hunger returns…
…I must be prepared