7. First Kill

The taste of blood still lingered on Ethan's tongue.

Warm. Sweet. Addictive.

But his stomach churned. His throat clenched. His heart—if it even still beat—felt like it was sinking into a dark, endless pit.

The dead cat lay beside him, its small, fragile body cold and still.

He had killed it.

His trembling fingers touched his lips. The blood was still wet. Still fresh.

This wasn't real.

It couldn't be real.

But the hunger inside him, the voice in his head, the power pulsing through his veins—none of it was a dream.

He had changed.

He was changing.

The thought made him sick.

He forced himself to his feet, his legs unsteady, his breath ragged. The morgue around him was silent, the dim lights flickering weakly.

He needed to get out.

Somehow.

Someway.

His hands found the door handle, cold metal pressing into his palm. His fingers curled around it, gripping it so tightly his knuckles turned white.

But before he could move—

A noise.

Footsteps.

Slow, steady, approaching from the hall outside.

Ethan's body stiffened. His breath stalled.

The scent of sweat. The rustling of clothes. The faint sound of keys jingling.

Someone was coming.

His heart pounded in his chest, panic shooting through his veins.

"You must feed."

The voice. Cold. Hollow. Unforgiving.

No.

Not again.

He wasn't going to do this again.

A shadow stretched across the floor as the footsteps stopped just outside the door.

Then—

It opened.

A man stepped inside.

A janitor.

Middle-aged, tired eyes, a mop in his hand. His uniform was stained with old dirt, and his expression was one of exhaustion.

But then—

His gaze landed on Ethan.

His face paled instantly. His breath caught.

Ethan knew what he must have looked like.

A pale, wild-eyed boy, standing barefoot in the morgue, blood on his lips.

The janitor's mouth opened.

A sharp inhale.

A second of silence.

Then—

A scream.

He staggered back, panic flashing in his eyes as his trembling hands reached for the radio clipped to his belt.

Ethan's breath came faster. His muscles tensed.

"Threat detected."

"Eliminate."

No.

His body moved before he could think.

In the blink of an eye, he lunged.

One second, the janitor was reaching for his radio.

The next, Ethan had him pinned against the cold metal cabinets, fingers wrapped around his throat.

The janitor's eyes bulged. He choked, gasped, his hands clawing at Ethan's grip.

Ethan's breath was ragged. His hands shook.

He could hear the man's heartbeat.

Fast. Wild. Terrified.

The scent of blood filled his nose.

The hunger roared back to life.

It wanted.

It needed.

His fangs ached, pressing against his lips. His throat burned, screaming for more.

"Drink."

"Kill."

Ethan squeezed his eyes shut, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

No.

No, he wouldn't do this.

Not again.

Not him.

But the scent—

The heartbeat—

The fear—

It was intoxicating.

His grip tightened, nails digging into the janitor's skin.

The man's struggles weakened. His eyes were pleading now, wide with terror. His lips moved, barely a whisper.

"P-please…"

A single word.

A single breath.

And it shattered something inside Ethan.

His fingers trembled. His heart clenched.

This man wasn't his enemy.

He wasn't Damian.

He wasn't like them.

He was just a man doing his job.

And Ethan was going to—

A sob built in his throat. He tried to let go.

But he couldn't.

The hunger wouldn't let him.

"Override activated."

Pain exploded in his skull. A sharp, unbearable jolt. His body convulsed, muscles locking, his vision blurring.

And then—

He lunged.

His fangs sank deep into flesh.

Hot, thick liquid rushed into his mouth.

Blood.

Warm. Fresh. Alive.

It flooded his senses, drowning out everything else. The world faded into nothing but this moment, this taste, this feeling.

His body shuddered. His grip tightened.

The janitor's heartbeat pounded wildly—

Then slowed.

And slowed.

And slowed.

Ethan barely noticed when the man stopped moving.

Barely noticed when the body went limp in his arms.

Barely noticed when the last drop of blood left his veins.

Until it was over.

The hunger faded.

The burning stopped.

Ethan pulled back, his breath coming in shaky gasps.

The janitor's body collapsed to the floor, lifeless.

Dead.

His throat clenched. His hands trembled. His stomach twisted.

He had—

He had—

His knees buckled. He fell beside the body, his fingers digging into the cold tile floor.

Tears burned his eyes. His chest ached.

The metallic taste of blood still lingered on his tongue.

His first kill.

Not Damian.

Not one of the people who had tortured him.

Just an innocent man.

A good man.

Because he had been hungry.

A broken sob tore from his lips. He pressed his hands to his face, his entire body shaking.

The voice in his head was silent now.

It didn't need to speak.

The damage was already done.

He had killed.

And it had felt good.

The power. The warmth. The rush of life being drained into him.

For a moment, it had been pure ecstasy.

And that terrified him more than anything.

Ethan lifted his head slowly, his eyes hollow, his breath ragged.

He wasn't just a victim anymore.

He wasn't just the weak, broken boy they used to hurt.

He was something else.

Something worse.

And deep inside him, beneath the horror and the guilt, beneath the broken pieces of his old self—

A darker part of him whispered.

More.