M̸̢̛̛̖̩̥͉̰̩̲͔̜̹̝͖̥̲͖̖̩̻̘͎̺̲̩͆̑͜͠ͅÖ̸̡̨̜͙̙̫̯̯̠̼͈̱̜̳̲͇́̒́͌͜N̵̡̨͓̤̮̥̙̘͖̱̖͚͂̈́̅͑͗͠͝S̷̨̡̛̺͉͓̪̺̳̞̠̖̙̝̮̯͕̤͆̇̾̈́̈̈́̋͛̏̄̾̍̅͗͒̈͜͜͜͝͝ͅͅT̸̨̢̨̯͎̗͕̱̞͙̟̩̅́̋̀̓̀́̌̀̃̿͌̕͠Ë̷͖͈͚̙̻̗͔̲̮̮͉̥̞̹͉̱̀Ŗ̸̡̮̟̲͈̩̣̥͈̮͈͈̲̣̭̳͔͚͉͓͉̀̿̔̽̀̌̋̈́

:warning: TW: S/H/, gore, sadism and auditory hallucination

It wasn't something I was nessecarily born with or something that anyone could see. It was a seed planted deep within me, nurtured by years of anger, loneliness, and the inability to find my place in the world. As a child, I was just another face in the crowd, like many. I had a mother who loved me and friends who would smile at me in the hallways at school. But there was always a whisper in the back of my mind, a voice that grew louder as I aged and changed, for the worse.

By the time I was a teenager, the voice had become a scream, screaming for escape, screaming for pain.

It started with small things- nights where I couldn't sleep because I couldn't get the thoughts to stop. I'd lie awake in the dark, imagining what it would be like to tear the world apart, piece by piece. The visions were vivid: the crumbling walls, the shrieks of terror, the blood staining the streets. But I told myself it was just my imagination. Everyone has dark thoughts sometimes, right? That's what I convinced myself to believe.

The first time I hurt someone, it was an accident-or so I claimed. A kid at school had been taunting me for weeks, pushing all the wrong buttons until something inside me snapped. I the feel of his bones cracking beneath my fists, the warm splash of blood on my skin. His cries echoed in my ears. When they pulled me off him, I didn't bat a eye. I stared, emotionless, as if it wasn't horrible what I had done, as if it was normal, deserved, something I cannot .

They sent me away after that.

To "get better," they said. To "learn to control my anger." But the more time I spent isolated, the more the monster inside me grew. It fed off my isolation, twisting my thoughts until I no longer knew where it ended, and I began. Therapy was a joke, the pills didn't work, and all I was left with were my messed up thoughts.

And the darkness inside me.

When I returned home, the house was empty. My mother had moved on, unable to face what I had become. I didn't blame her. I didn't want to face myself either. The silence was suffocating. I spent my days locked in my room, staring at the walls, listening to the whispers that told me to let the monster out.

And then, one night, I did.

It was almost too easy. The city was alive, full of people who had no idea what walked among them. I started small, picking off the ones who wouldn't be missed-people living on the fringes of society. It wasn't long before the monster inside me demanded more. The first time I took a life, it was like something inside me snapped into place. The rage, hunger perhaps, that had consumed me for so long burned itself out, leaving behind a hollow emptiness.

But even that was better than the pain.

I knew what I was. I knew that if anyone ever found out, they would call me a monster. And maybe they would be right. But the truth is, I don't feel like one. I'm not proud of what I've done, but I'm not sorry either. I did what I had to do to survive, to quiet the screams in my head. Maybe that makes me evil, or maybe it just makes me human.

There's a part of me that wants to stop, that wants to find a way out of this darkness. But I know it's too late for that. The monster inside me is too strong,know hungry. I can feel it gnawing at my insides, whispering in my ear, urging me to keep going. And so I do.

I keep going because I don't know how to stop. I keep going because it's the only thing that makes the pain bearable. I keep going because, deep down, I know that this is what I was always meant to be.

A cold-blooded monster.

Sylver stood in the alleyway. He could smell the blood, taste it on his tongue, feel it pulsing just beneath the thin veil of skin that separated him from the people ing by.

The hunger twisted inside him like a knife.

His reflection in a nearby puddle was almost unfamiliar now. The boy he'd once been was gone, replaced by someone-or something-else. His eyes, once a warm hazel, had turned a deep, unnatural shade of red. His skin, pale even in life, had taken on an ashen hue, stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. He was leaner now, almost gaunt, his muscles wound tight beneath his skin like coiled springs.

He'd always been a bit of a shadow, even when he was alive. Now, he felt like a ghost, drifting through the world unseen, untouchable. But that was a lie, wasn't it? He was more than just a shadow. He was a predator. He'd proven that time and time again.

Sylver's hand curled into a fist at his side, his nails digging into his palm until the skin broke. The scent of his own blood was sharp in his nostrils, but it did nothing to sate the burning hunger gnawing at him. It wasn't his blood he craved. It was theirs- the humans who wandered the streets so carelessly, unaware of their predation, so oblivious to the danger lurking just out of sight.

He'd tried to resist it at first. He'd fought the hunger, forced himself to live off the blood of animals, but it had never been enough. It had left him weak, trembling, his vision blurring, crying some form of diluted blood, as his body screamed for what it needed. The first time he'd fed on a human, he'd almost lost himself entirely. The rush of power, the heady intoxication of their life force flooding into him-it had been overwhelming, terrifying, and so, so good.

He'd hated himself for it. He still did. But no amount of self-loathing could change what he was, what he needed to survive. The monster inside him was always there, just beneath the surface, waiting for the moment he would slip. And when he did, it would take control, guiding his hands, his fangs, until there was nothing left but the cold satisfaction of the kill.

The alley was dark, the shadows deep, and Sylver let them swallow him whole. He could very faintly what it felt like to be human- to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. But those memories were fading now, replaced by something darker, something colder. He wasn't sure he wanted to anymore.

What was the point, anyway? The person he'd been was dead, buried alongside his mother in a grave no one visited. His friends had moved on, forgotten him. Maybe they thought he was dead too. Maybe it was better that way.

But he wasn't dead. Not really. Not yet.

He closed his eyes, trying to block out the sound of footsteps approaching, the steady, rhythmic thud of a heartbeat that echoed in his ears. His hands shook as he forced himself to stay still, to resist the urge to lunge forward and sink his teeth into the warm, pulsing flesh just a few feet away.

"Please," he whispered to the darkness, though he wasn't sure who he was begging- himself, or the monster inside him. "Please, no, don't..."

But the hunger was too strong, and he knew he wouldn't be able to resist for long. His body was screaming for it, his muscles tensing, his mouth watering as the scent of the human's blood filled his nostrils.

A young man stepped into the alley, oblivious to the danger, his face lit by the soft glow of his phone screen. He was just another face, just another nameless, faceless human going about his night, unaware of the predator lurking in the shadows. Sylver's breath hitched, his body trembling as he fought the urge to attack.

He didn't want to do this. But he had no choice.

The human walked past him, so close that Sylver could have reached out and touched him. And he did. His hand shot out, grabbing the man by the arm and pulling him into the darkness before he even had a chance to scream. Sylver's other hand clamped over the man's mouth, stifling his cries, his heart pounding in time with the human's terrified heartbeat.

"Please," Sylver breathed again, his voice shaking. "I don't want to hurt you."

But even as he spoke, he could feel his fangs lengthening, his eyes narrowing as the monster took over. The human struggled in his grip, but Sylver was too strong, his hold unbreakable. He could feel the man's fear, smell it, taste it, and it only made the hunger worse.

He was losing control.

With a snarl, Sylver buried his fangs in the man's throat, the warm rush of blood filling his mouth, his senses exploding with the taste of it. The man's struggles weakened, his heartbeat slowing as Sylver drank deeply, the hunger inside him finally quieting as he fed.

When it was over, he let the body fall to the ground, his chest heaving with breath he didn't need. The alley was silent now, the only sound the drip of blood from his chin, pooling on the ground beneath him.

Sylver stared down at the lifeless body, the reality of what he'd done settling over him like a suffocating blanket. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing the blood across his face, his stomach churning with disgust. Not for the man he'd killed- he didn't even know his name- but for himself, for what he had become.

The monster inside him was satisfied, but Sylver felt nothing but emptiness. The hunger was gone, but it would return. It always did.

It always did.

It.

Always.

Did.

I t .

A l w a y s .

D o e s .

Ȉ̶̙̱̘͚̌͝ ̵̱͋́ṭ̶̗͙̦̒̇͘ ̶̠̌.̴̻̟̊̑̕

̶̠͖͎̯̊̓̾

̵̟̺̭̎͗A̵̙̼̅ ̵̖̟̀l̴͓̪̤̈́͑ ̴̛̥͆̇̚w̵͇̻͎̙͒ ̴͚̻̯̣̽̕a̴͚͑͋ ̸̠̖̦͝ȳ̴̡̩͕͌ ̶̜̜͐š̶̢̎̚

̵͕͋̔͆ͅ

̸̮̑̅̀W̸̗̿ ̶͍̻̤̙́̎̍̚i̵̩͚̊̑͘̚ ̶̙́͆̋l̶̮̓̾͘͜͝ ̴̟̅̂͝͝l̶̛͇͕͌̇͠