Keeping control

His stomach let out a plaintive rumble, the gnawing pangs of hunger reminding him of the dire situation he faced.

Without sustenance, he could feel his strength waning. "I need to find something, anything, to tide me over," he murmured, his gaze sweeping the cluttered interior with renewed desperation.

Rising once more, George began a methodical search, leaving no surface unturned in his quest for even the slightest morsel of nourishment. But no matter how thoroughly he scoured the flat, his efforts yielded nothing but disappointment and frustration.

He wasn't even looking for the other thing, the one that led to someone dying. He just wanted normal food. Something to chew on. He remember the taste of the tea that Reginald made for him. How for some strange reasons it hadn't caused him to want to vomit despite weeks ago, not even the most well scented food could bypass his new taste buds.

At last, exhausted and defeated, he collapsed onto the dingy mattress, resigning himself to enduring the relentless onslaught of hunger until nightfall.

As the last rays of twilight faded, George stirred from his semi-conscious stupor, his body wracked by the insatiable pangs of deprivation. With a grunt of effort, he hauled himself upright, his movements sluggish and lethargic after enduring the relentless onslaught of the day's sunlight.

His gaze immediately fell upon the tattered hoodie lying crumpled beside the bed, and he snatched it up with a sense of urgency. Tugging the worn fabric over his head, he made sure to pull the hood low, obscuring his features in a shroud of shadow. He couldn't risk being recognized – not in his current state, when he's not supposed to be around humans.

A small wad of crumpled bills lay beside the discarded hoodie, and George scooped them up with trembling fingers, silently praying they would be enough to sate his ravenous appetite, if only for a little while.

The harsh reality of his financial situation suddenly hit him like a punch to the gut. He paused by his door, leaning against the cold iron frame as his mind raced.

"Christ," he muttered, running a hand over his face. "I'm practically broke, aren't I?"

The memories of the past weeks flooded back – a blur of grief-stricken days spent throwing money at any solution that promised even a shred of normalcy. Psychologists, doctors, expensive scans, and countless medications purchased in desperate online searches. All of it had drained his savings, leaving him with nothing but a handful of crumpled bills and a curse he still didn't understand.

"How long has it even been since I last went to work?" he asked himself, his voice barely above a whisper. "Three weeks? More? I can't even remember anymore."

George tried to piece together a timeline, but his mind was a patchwork of blackouts and hazy recollections. He vaguely remembered his colleagues' concerned faces, their whispers as he stumbled into the office late, disheveled, and sometimes screaming from nightmares that followed him into the waking world.

"The boss... he gave me time off, didn't he? Said I had three weeks to get my act together." George let out a bitter laugh. "As if I could 'get my act together' when I'm turning into... whatever the hell I am now."

The growling of his stomach brought him back to the present moment, reminding him of the immediate problem at hand. He looked down at the meager amount of cash in his hand and sighed.

"Looks like I don't have much of a choice anymore," he said grimly. "I need to go back to work. It's not like I'm some trust fund kid or a bloody witch with a vault of gold to fall back on."

The irony of his situation wasn't lost on him. Here he was, cursed with abilities he barely understood, yet still bound by the mundane concerns of rent, food, and keeping a job. It was almost laughable, if it wasn't so terrifying.

"Right then," he muttered, straightening up and steeling himself. "First, food. Then... I guess I'll have to figure out how to be a functioning member of society again. All while trying not to turn into a monster at the drop of a hat. Should be a piece of cake."

With a furtive glance around the dim confines of his squalid abode, George slipped out into the shadowy hallway, his steps light and cautious as he made his way towards the building's exit.

The familiar scents of the night – damp earth, exhaust fumes, and the faint tang of human sweat – assailed his senses, heightening his already razor-sharp awareness.

He knew his destination, a small convenience store just a few blocks away – one of the few places he dared to frequent in his current condition. It was a risk, venturing out among the masses, but the alternative – succumbing to the insatiable thirst that gnawed at his very being – was simply unthinkable.

As he drew nearer to the store, however, George's pace faltered, his brow furrowing beneath the concealing shadow of his hood. A crowd had gathered outside the entrance, a meandering queue of impatient patrons snaking its way along the sidewalk.

A low growl rumbled in George's throat as he surveyed the throng, his nostrils flaring as the mingled scents of warm bodies and pulsing blood assailed him. The hunger, already a ravenous beast clawing at his insides, surged with renewed ferocity, threatening to overwhelm his tenuous control.

For a moment, he wavered, his instincts screaming at him to flee, to retreat to the safety of his dark sanctuary and ride out the storm of his cravings. But then, another pang of hunger lanced through him, doubling him over with a grunt of agony, and he knew he had no choice.

"I have to control this," he growled, his jaw clenching until he thought his teeth might shatter. "I can't... I won't hurt anyone here."

Steeling himself, George straightened and began to make his way towards the end of the queue, his movements slow and deliberate as he fought to maintain his fragile composure.

Each step was a struggle, a battle against the primal urges that seethed just beneath the surface, yearning to be unleashed upon the unsuspecting crowd.

As he neared the entrance, the scents grew stronger, more potent, and George found himself curling his hands into white-knuckled fists, nails biting into his palms as he fought to maintain his tenuous grip on reality.

"Keep it together," he hissed through gritted teeth, his entire body trembling with the effort of restraining the feral beast that raged within.

"I have to keep it together!"