Praying Blood (4)

Mist drapes the alleyways like gauze wrapped around a corpse, and I run—lungs burning, heart hammering, with footsteps behind me that echo my desperation. The silhouette beside me matches my pace, breath ragged. My so-called friend—though his name still escapes me—bleeds more than I do. His arms are bruised, his skin torn. The red glow of his blood pulses faster, brighter. But within the crimson, blue threads flicker—a corruption, a sickness, or perhaps something divine. I don't know anymore.

I glance sideways. His eyes sparkle with something unreadable—madness, maybe resolve. My own lips curl into a smirk. A grotesque, involuntary expression. We’re running from the blues, those self-righteous bastards. The ones who think their glowing blood elevates them to holiness.

They didn’t see us at first, those passing by. They ignored us like the filth they expected in alleys like these. But they won’t forget us now.

We fed.

We drank from the arteries of their enforcers.

We sucked the blood straight from their still-beating hearts.

Once, the thought would have made me wretch—until nothing was left but bile and the shaking of my body. Now? I smirk, dark blue blood dripping from my lips like blue juice. It’s sweet.

Too sweet.

Even now, the taste lingers.

I shiver, not from fear—but from want. I need more. Time wasn’t enough. My belly isn’t full. My blood pulses like a second heartbeat, interrupted by an ache, a longing, a hunger.

I am not whole.

My palms sweat. My body trembles. It’s not fatigue. It’s addiction. I feel rabid.

I stumble through the mist like a dying man in a desert, searching for water, only to find mirages. My lips tremble. My vision blurs. Behind us, in the distance, the police hunt. The so-called guardians of this world. They wear the blue. The glow of their blood makes them easy to track, even through fog. I can see them.

Even through the walls.

The glow is faint, almost ethereal—but it's there. Some are more distant, transparent, ghosts in the haze. But the ones nearest, they hold formation. I recognize it.

I once wanted to be one of them.

A cop.

Ha.

My jaw clenches. A bitter laugh grows in my throat but doesn’t escape. I watch them live the dream they stole from me.

Bastards.

Fuel beasts.

I hate them.

My mind spins, whirls like a carousel collapsing in on itself. My steps falter. I'm faster than my companion, but I'm behind him. Not running at full speed. My legs ignore me. They turn.

No—they answer something else.

As if some deeper part of me insists: You must finish what you started.

My stomach growls. Saliva fills my mouth. I gulp it down, hot and thick, and some drips down my chin.

I’m not in control.

I move like a marionette, strings invisible but unyielding. The world glows in red hues. I see threads of light before me—lines in the air, pulsing, warm. I follow them.

My eyes don’t blink. I can’t close them. I only stare.

And I smile.

The smile of someone I would’ve once hated. The smile of someone they fear.

I walk through the fog. The blues open fire. My red-blooded friend ducks behind a wall. He's free now—we opened his chains with keys taken from the dead. I drop low, following the thread of red light, spine twisting, body rotating as if the strings command it.

Peng.

The sound is muffled, like through water. But I keep moving, skin tingling with heat. I feel the fabric of my shirt, the skin underneath, the tension in my muscles.

I weave through their fire. Two of them. Two guns. Two barrels that could end me. But I zigzag, make myself small, run the path laid by the thread of light—my brother’s light.

Ren.

I trust him.

Peng. Peng!

Shots crack the air, louder now. Their aim is off—either I’m lightning, or they’re fools. Probably later. Bullets shatter bricks. One shouts:

“Don’t shoot the walls! There are civilians inside!”

The second tries again. Aiming for my skull. I duck forward. My teeth glint, still stained in blue. I close the distance. He meets my gaze—red eyes, mine—an omen he wasn’t prepared for.

His partner tightens his grip, aims directly at my head. My feet slide. I twist—not out of skill, but instinct. Or fate. Or light. I follow it.

I believe in it.

I believe in him.

I drop to all fours, sprint like an animal, stumble, leap.

Pow!

This one rings in my ears. Water hisses out of a ruptured pipe. A mistake.

“You idiot!” the other shouts.

But I’m there.

I arrive.

My hands wrap around the revolvers. I don’t remember how. One of the blues trembles. His eyes quake. I see the whites flash as he processes death standing over him.

He whimpers. He wants mercy.

I give none.

Pow!

My shoulder jolts. Smoke swirls into the mist. The barrel still hot as his face caves in. Blue blood spurts from his forehead. His eyes roll back.

Pow!

Another shot—not mine.

Pain slices into my shoulder. The world tilts. I fall. My cheek presses into the dead man’s face—half-crushed, unrecognizable. The other side of my face breathes mist. I turn my gaze.

The second blue approaches.

He wears formal clothes. A hat shadows his bald spot. His face contorts—grief, rage, fear. My grin returns, feral. The sweet taste hasn’t left my mouth.

He raises the gun.

I don’t flinch.

“Look over,” I whisper.

And behind him—my red friend appears, a stone clutched in his hand. He smashes it against the blue’s skull. The officer collapses like a marionette whose strings have snapped.

I rise, breath still ragged.

“Fast,” I command, grabbing the revolver once more. I turn. Aim at their stomachs.

Pow.

Then I drink.

Their blood flows like nectar. I drink as if it were juice from the fridge, as if I’m a child tasting sweetness for the first time. My friend watches. His hazel eyes are wide.

He points at my shoulder.

Yes.

It doesn’t hurt.

I pull my shirt aside. The wound closes before my eyes. Skin stitching itself back. The bullet rolls from the wound and hits the ground with a soft clink. The bleeding slows. Then stops.

Only a scar remains.

“Are you god?” he asks.

I say nothing.

I only smirk.

My hand reaches toward him.

“Drink.”