Blood of Gato

William lay sprawled on his bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling as though it might hold the answers gnawing at him. He didn't move, didn't bother reaching for the distractions of habit. Only his fingers twitched against the hem of the sheet, gripping it as if letting go would send him spiraling entirely out of reality. Inside, he felt hollow—thick, black emptiness, tar-like and suffocating. His spirit had sunk to the darkest depths.

Others might find comfort in shallow remedies: a string of meaningless TV shows, a bowl of ice cream, that sugary anesthesia for the soul. William would have embraced such numbness if he could. But his reality was far crueler. His guilt never let him forget; it gnawed slowly, mercilessly, like a rat chewing through his core. And beneath the guilt lay something far more brutal: the dawning awareness of what he had turned into.

Cain's words still reverberated through his skull, a relentless echo. He tried to smother them with thoughts, with trivial memories, with scraps of routine. It was useless. Everything circled back to the same truth. "You know what you are. Stop pretending."

William's teeth ground together, his jaw aching with the effort to shut it out. But the echo only grew louder, deeper, more consuming.

It had been a month since his transformation—a month that dragged on like an eternity. And for the first time, he truly dared to look at himself. How much had he changed? What had he done? Nine dead. Two left shattered. Nine lives—almost an entire soccer team—snuffed out because of him. He had even meant to kill Dalia. Perhaps he would have, had Cain not intervened. But the stain still clung to him all the same.

A better man would have collapsed under the weight of it. Turned himself in, begged for chains, chosen madness over blood. An honest man, yes. But honesty was no longer his companion. William wore lies like armor—lies to his family, to his friends, to himself. A mask of normalcy, fragile and false. And beneath it… was he still human at all? No. That truth was plain enough, a blade he could never voice.

He remembered all too clearly what it felt like to take a life. The surge, the taste of power. Those moments when fear and pleading froze in a victim's eyes, and he decided whether they would inhale again. The metallic tang on his tongue. The air thick with blood and despair. It was intoxicating—more potent than any drug. With senses sharpened beyond reason, every sensation flared into delirium. Each tear of claw through flesh was a jolt of rapture, a flash of ecstasy, a fever-dream rush that made him feel not human but something greater—something with dominion over life itself.

For an instant, there was glory in it.

"You only live when you kill."

"Shut up!" he roared, snapping upright in bed.

His voice ricocheted against the walls, fading into the heavy silence. No reply came, of course. Only stillness. Only the rasp of his own breath, harsh and too loud in the suffocating quiet.

And the worst part—what made his chest tighten with a sick thrill—was that he enjoyed it. No matter how much disgust he forced onto his face, no matter how many hollow denials he whispered, the truth writhed inside him: that dark, rabid pleasure was growing, feeding. It lit up his brain, filled his lungs, made him breathe like he'd never known air before.

And that was the madness of it. Because the piece that was still human—small, fragile, desperate—fought back. It clawed at the inside of his skull, choking, crying, begging him not to surrender.

He bolted upright and began pacing the room, restless and cornered like a beast in a cage. His hand closed around a glass, but his fingers trembled so violently that the water spilled in streaks across the carpet. Snarling, he squeezed, hurled it into the wall. The sharp crack of glass shattering punched through the silence, but the release lasted less than a breath. The pressure sank right back, heavier still.

His conscience pinned him like a slab of iron, each remembered sin another weight crushing down. He didn't even know what he felt anymore—guilt, hunger, grief, rage? It was all tangled, all gnashing at him at once. His body wanted an off-switch, any escape. Just to stop thinking. Stop remembering. Stop existing. But there was no escape. Thoughts always circled back. And each day he could feel himself wearing thinner, fading out, replaced by something else. The William his family loved, his friends trusted—that William was rotting away, leaving only an empty shell behind. A shell with sharp teeth and blood under its nails.

A shudder gripped him. He collapsed back onto the bed, clutching his face in both hands as though that could block himself out.

"Twenty-two years old, and already you've tasted power," the voice whispered inside him. "You think you'll ever give that up?"

A dry, broken laugh ripped out of him, muffled against his palms. "Twenty-two, and I'm already going insane," he rasped, but the sound cracked. It wasn't laughter at all—more a dying man groaning through clenched teeth.

"You only live when you tear flesh. Everything else is a lie."

"You're not human—accept it. You crave fear. Crave control. Crave blood."

William hunched forward on the bed's edge, elbows biting into his knees, his body strung tight. The room was dead quiet, and yet he could hear it—that other breath. Ragged. Low. A growl seething at the end of every exhale. Not his. Never his.

"I… I'm human," he muttered, barely louder than a child praying.

The answer hissed back: "Human? Humans don't lick the taste of blood from their teeth. Humans don't get hard from hearing screams. Humans don't dream of claws breaking bone."

"I don't dream of it!" William snapped, jerking his head up, voice cracking. "I fight it!"

"Fight?" The laugh was guttural, sick. "You don't fight. You run. Don't you remember? His heartbeat hammering under your hand as he begged? That last gasp for mercy. And the smell—the thick stench of fear in his sweat. You were shaking with it. Admit it."

William's voice cracked to a whimper. "Shut up…" He buried his face again, rocking where he sat, as if movement could smother the words.

"Admit it."

"…No."

"Admit it."

"…No!"

"ADMIT IT!"

"I—" His chest snapped open with the word, like something inside him had torn loose. The next breath came out as a ragged whisper: "…yes."

The silence that followed wasn't relief. It was worse. Thick. Waiting.

Then the laughter came. Slow, shaking the marrow of his bones. A low rumble, bestial and mocking, crawling over his skin like fire ants.

"There you are. Easy, wasn't it? You're not against me. You are me. I am you. And together, we're stronger than we've ever been."

William shot to his feet, clawing at his own hair until his scalp burned. "No! I won't let you—I won't be your puppet!"

"Won't let me?" The voice sharpened, a serrated growl. "Who let me out every night? Who opened the door when the blood hit your tongue? That wasn't me. That was you. Always you. You called me."

William's nails dug into his scalp until hot sparks of pain flared across his skin, but even that couldn't drown it out. The voice was threading deeper, curling into his thoughts like smoke he couldn't breathe past.

"You called me."

"No," he panted, body trembling. "No, no, no—" His words stuttered out too fast, spilling in a rush, clumsy and terrified. "I didn't—I never—"

"Liar."

The single word hit like a punch to the chest. His ribs hurt from the echo.

"No!" He stumbled toward the wall, slammed his palms against it as if he could hold the world still. The wallpaper pressed cold into his skin, grounding, real—but just beneath it he felt it. That vibration. A low hum. A heartbeat that wasn't his.

"You're in my head," he gasped. "You're not—" His voice broke, cracked into a rasp. "You're not real."

The reply wasn't a word this time, but a sound: the same growl he'd heard in pitch-black alleys, behind his own teeth. It crawled up his spine, rattled the base of his skull.

He spun, pressing his back against the wall, eyes darting across the room. The shadows looked thick—too thick. Corners breathing, bending. For a fractured second, he thought he saw them: eyes. Amber, glinting, low to the ground.

His throat convulsed. No air came.

"Real?" the beast rasped, its voice now overlapping his own, impossible to separate. Words shuddering between his lips and the silence of the room. "Do you think you get to decide what's real, prey?"

"I'm—" His tongue fought the words. "I'm not prey."

He clutched his head again, stumbling forward. The floor seemed to tilt under him, every step like wading through pitch. His knees buckled, dropped him onto the carpet. He was muttering fast now, fragments between sobs and gritted teeth:

"I'm human. I'm still human. I didn't… I didn't mean it… they made me…"

"Human?" The voice was a chorus now, splitting in layers. "Humans scream. Humans beg. Humans smell like terror. You smelled it, tasted it. Don't you remember the shiver in your gut? The fire under your tongue? The rush?"

Images slammed into him—too sharp to be memory, too vivid to deny. A pale face, mouth wide, eyes stretched in horror. Hot blood running slick over his hands. The sweetness of it punched him in the gut, twisted his stomach with need. His lips tingled, throat tight with a hunger that wasn't food, wasn't thirst, just want.

And suddenly—his body betrayed him. A sound slipped past his throat. A low, trembling chuckle. His own laugh. But it wasn't his.

He clamped a hand over his mouth, wide-eyed, horrified. Yet another laugh tore through anyway, muffled, strangled. And then another.

"There it is," the beast crooned, breath hissing in his ear with every syllable. "That's you. Raw. Stripped. No masks, no lies. Just hunger."

"No—stop—" He rocked harder, heels digging into the floor. The laugh mingled with sobs now, jagged and broken, until he couldn't tell if he was crying or choking or both.

The air felt alive. Heavy. The shadows pushed closer. He felt hot. Fevered. His hands slipped from his face, trembling, claws pricking at the tips of his fingers. His lips peeled back, teeth sharp against his tongue. His breath came in shallow, ragged pulls… and underneath it, another breath rose to meet it.

Not separate anymore. Not apart.

"One day," the beast whispered, almost tender now, "you'll stop fighting. And you'll thank me."

William shook his head violently, forcing a snarl through his clenched teeth. "You're not me—I'm not—"

But the words faltered as a new, crushing thought sank in: the voice hadn't interrupted him.

It had spoken in perfect time with his own mouth.

"I… I didn't mean to," he whispered. "I didn't know it would go this far."

"Lie."

William slammed his fist into the wall. A dark smear of blood blossomed across the faded wallpaper. His knuckles split open, but the pain barely registered.

"Shut up!" he roared. "Shut your damn mouth!"

Inside, the beast purred. A deep, satisfied rumble, savoring his collapse.

"Scream all you want. But when night falls… you'll set me free again. Because without me, you're empty. Without me, you're nothing."

His breath came heavy, forehead pressed against the cool wall as if it might anchor him.

Then sharp and shrill the ringing phone split the silence. The metallic peal echoed down the staircase and through the hollow house. For a moment, William froze, convinced it was just another trick of his unraveling mind.

"Just a hallucination," he muttered to himself. But the sound didn't fade. It only grew louder, more insistent. The phone's cry was no longer a ring—it was a demand. Pick me up.

With a defeated sigh he dragged himself upright and descended the groaning steps. He didn't glance at the hallway mirror. Lately his own reflection unnerved him more than strangers ever could.

The phone hung on the wall, its plastic shell vibrating faintly. His fingers twitched as he lifted the receiver. When he spoke, his voice sounded frail, worn thin:

"William Farrow speaking…?"

Dead air. Heavy, suffocating. Then, at last a voice, shrill and false, trying to disguise itself in falsetto, the affectation unconvincing.

"Is this William? Are you alone? Is there anyone with you?"

William frowned, gripping the receiver tighter. The voice was wrong. Too stiff. Too affected. A man clumsily mimicking a woman—but behind it, panic leaked through.

"Who the hell is this?" William snapped, his tone flat, cold.

"Just answer the question. Is there anyone near you?" The demand came sharper now, stripped of pretense.

Annoyance curled in William's gut. He rolled his eyes, knuckles whitening around the receiver.

"No. I'm alone. What of it?"

A beat of silence. Hesitation. Then the falsetto cracked—slipping into something he knew too well.

"Gato, it's me Cain. We have a problem. Listen… the police came to my place. They're sniffing around, I don't know how much they've pieced together, but something's wrong. Sitting tight won't cut it. They're on my trail. I need your help, write down this address...."

William cut him off, his voice jagged with sudden rage:

"Why the hell are you calling me, Cain? I told you—and Leticia too—I don't want either of you near me again!"

He crushed the receiver in his fist, blood from his split knuckles smearing across the black coil of the cord.

"How the fuck did you even get my number? You know what—not important. I don't care. I don't ever want to hear from you again. You and your mess, stay the fuck away from me."

He lifted the phone, ready to slam it down, but before he could, Cain's scream tore through the line:

"Gato, please! If they find anything, if they connect the dots we're fucking finished!"

"Good!" William snarled. "I hope they fry you in the chair!"

He slammed the handset into its cradle so hard it rattled the frame, the metallic clack exploding into the thick silence of the house.

Panting, he muttered into the empty hallway, fists clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms:

"Leticia… no doubt. This has her fingerprints all over it." His lip curled, his voice low and venomous. "Damn her. Damn all of this, every last piece of this rotten, supernatural filth."

He had already turned to head upstairs when the phone shrilled again. The piercing ring froze him mid-step, grinding his teeth in anger.

"For fuck's sake…" he hissed, snatching the receiver off the hook.

"I told you—don't ever call me again!" he snapped through clenched teeth.

But this time, the reply came in a very different tone—light, cheerful, tinged with awkwardness at his harsh greeting:

"Well, hello to you too, man!"

William froze. Then, with a rush of relief, he exhaled.

"Arthur?… Christ, I'm sorry. I was, uh… yelling at the pizza delivery guy. Long story, forget it. That wasn't meant for you."

Arthur laughed, easy and warm. "What, they mess up your order again? Let me guess—they heard thirty-three pizzas instead of three?"

Despite himself, a small smile tugged at William's mouth.

"Anyway," Arthur continued, "we're throwing a party. Whole team's getting together to celebrate the win. And you're invited. No excuses, Will—we're waiting on you. What do you say?"

For a moment, William didn't answer. The last few weeks pressed heavy on him, but something in Arthur's voice—bright, alive, genuine—hit a nerve. Something in him shifted. He wanted out. Just for a night. Just one breath outside the dark.

"Yeah," he heard himself say, almost too quickly. "I'll come. Where to?"

"That's what I like to hear!" Arthur said with a satisfied laugh. "My place—we'll keep it simple. Come on over. Without you, it'll be boring."

"Alright," William murmured with a nod, though Arthur couldn't see him. "I'll be there."

He hung up the receiver, standing motionless in the hallway. Inside, he could feel it—his two halves tightening against one another, coiled like predators facing off.

A party? the voice inside hissed, sly and eager. Let's see how much blood gets spilled tonight…

William shut his eyes, fists clenching so hard his knuckles burned.

"No," he whispered to himself, forcing the words out steady.

"Tonight, I'm just going to see my friends. Tonight… I'll be human."