Blood of Gato

And of course, the shout worked.

Tyrone barged into the kitchen with his pack of "bros" in tow, swaggering like a bull stepping onto the ring. A smug grin split his face, the cheap glint of his bracelet chiming as he shoved through the doorway.

"What's going on in here, ladies?" he drawled, not even glancing at William. "Arthur screw up again? Told you, Captain you keep running around in those tight shirts at night, you're gonna catch prostate trouble!"

The crowd erupted, eager to laugh at anything, no matter how cheap.

"Tyrone, baby," the taller girl purred, venom sweet in her voice, "the guy who fed you lies about Sofia? He's right here with us."

At that, Tyrone finally turned. He studied William for a beat, eyes narrowing, then bared his teeth in a grin that wasn't humor at all.

"What the hell did you bring him here for, man?" he snapped at Arthur.

"Because it's my house and my party," Arthur shot back, sudden steel in his tone.

"Oh, sure, Captain your word is law." Tyrone sneered. "But look at him! Sulking virgin-boy. Me and my crew don't want this kind of trash around, right, guys?"

His posse nodded in perfect unison, bobbing heads like string-pulled dolls.

Arthur smirked, firing back without hesitation. "Can't quite follow you, Tyrone—why exactly are you worried about his virginity? Looking to pick yourself a husband?"

The crowd howled. Even the instigating girl choked on her laughter, palms pressed to her mouth. Tyrone stiffened, the cords in his jaw flexing with rage.

"Shut the fuck up, Arthur!" he snapped, voice cracking with fury. "This freak—this useless parasite—poisoning the team's reputation! You keep dragging him around and he talks shit about my girl, about everything… He's a loser. Always will be!"

He gestured violently, spit flying, his face mottled red.

William lifted his hands slightly, like a man surrendering. His voice was cool, almost detached.

"I'm not after her. Marry her, for all I care. She means nothing to me. I'll just leave."

He stepped past Tyrone.

"Yeah, that's right—get the fuck out, you worthless piece of shit!" Tyrone barked, jabbing a finger toward the door.

"Alright, alright—I'm going," William replied evenly. He turned, already mentally gone from the room—until the tall girl struck again.

"You're just gonna let him walk? He used poor Sofia! Played her, then tossed her aside like garbage!"

Tyrone's grin snapped back, crueler this time. "You believe that? Please. This spineless little prick? Sofia wouldn't even let him touch her tits. Not once."

The room rippled with gasps—then, laughter. That poisonous, collective laughter.

"And you know what?" Tyrone's voice rose, milking the crowd. "He spent five grand on her. Five thousand bucks! And she strung him along with that line—you know the one—'only after marriage, only after marriage.'"

He tipped his head back and bellowed. "Meanwhile, I was fucking her every day. Every. Single. Day."

The emphasis hammered like nails.

And then, for the finale, Tyrone pressed his palm hard against his groin, thrusting for effect. The company howled, wheezing in glee. Girls covered their mouths, giggling behind their fingers.

That was the breaking point. William felt it—the beast slamming itself against the bars inside, so violently his heart skipped a beat. For an instant, the world tilted red.

The beast within William stirred, raking its claws across his mind.

"This is your chance. Answer him. You can. You want to."

William turned slowly, his face calm, almost indifferent — yet his eyes glinted with a frigid, merciless light. He looked straight at Tyron and, in a voice low but venomous enough to chill the air, whispered:

"How did your mother enjoy the gardener?"

Somebody dropped a glass. Laughter cut off, severed clean as if by a knife. All eyes turned toward Tyron.

"William…" Arthur began softly, feeling control slipping through his fingers with alarming speed. "I think maybe we shouldn't—"

But it was already too late.

Tyron blinked, once, twice, as though his mind needed a moment to register the insult. Then his face flushed crimson. He stepped forward, fists trembling.

"What the hell did you just say?" he rasped, his voice hoarse, strangled with rage.

William did not move. His lips stretched into a calm, mocking half-smile.

"You heard me perfectly," he replied — quiet, yet echoing through the room louder than a shout.

A gasp rippled through the crowd. One of Tyron's friends snorted nervously.

"Ha—ha, man, he just buried you!"

Tyron spun and drove his elbow into the boy's chest. The poor bastard doubled over, coughing, and the laughter evaporated for good.

Arthur threw himself between them. His words tumbled out fast, desperate:

"Tyron, enough! You've had too much to drink. William isn't well. I'll take him outside, alright? It ends here."

"No," Tyron growled, his face twisting into a grotesque grin. "He doesn't leave… not until I've wiped that smug look off his face."

He shoved Arthur aside with a violent thud.

Inside, the beast roared with joy, hammering against the walls of its cage. William felt it breathing — hot, heavy, ravenous. His veins throbbed, his lungs drew ragged breaths. Each of Tyron's words burrowed deeper, inching him closer to the edge.

"I said back down, Tyron!" Arthur barked, pushing forward once more. But Tyron was already within striking distance.

He jabbed his finger into William's chest.

"You're going to get on your knees," Tyron snarled, "and you're going to apologize. To me. And to everyone here."

William's voice was ice.

"Should I kneel the same way your mother did before the gardener?"

The words hovered in the silence like a smoldering fuse before detonation.

Every face froze. Every heart seemed to stop at once. Did he really just say that?

"William, enough!" Arthur grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him hard. But William stood rooted to the floor, immovable. His muscles were taut, his eyes gleamed with a cold, inhuman brilliance — as if Arthur weren't even there.

"I don't think so, Arthur," William said calmly, terrifyingly calm. "The giant has something to say. Let him."

Rage convulsed Tyron's face; his jaw clenched, teeth grinding. He couldn't hold it much longer. With a guttural roar, he swung, aiming to deliver a thunderous slap to William's face.

But in William's eyes, the movement was slow, almost languid — like an old film reel stuttering in slow motion. He tilted his body slightly, then, like a coiled spring, shot his fist forward, driving it mercilessly into Tyron's liver.

A wet, muffled thwock echoed through the room.

For a fraction of a second, Tyron's grin dissolved into emptiness—then twisted into sheer horror. The cocky arrogance slipped from his face, replaced by the raw mask of a man suddenly consumed by blinding pain. His diaphragm seized, breath collapsing inward, then ripped out in a violent convulsion—dragging the contents of his stomach with it.

"Urrrgh—BLAAAGH!"

Arthur was too close. He didn't have time to move. The hot, sour spray splattered across his shirt, the acidic stench hitting the crowd like a slap.

"Oh, shit!" shouted half the room in unison.

"God, did he actually just did that?!" someone gasped.

The partygoers swarmed into a loose circle, faces pale, eyes wide. Girls screamed and turned away; one clamped a hand over her mouth and bolted for the exit.

"Tyron, man, what the hell's wrong with you?!" one of his buddies yelled, rushing forward to catch him.

"What happened—did he nail you in the balls or something?!" another tried to joke, but his voice cracked, betraying the panic breaching the surface.

Tyron's breath rasped harshly as he sagged against them, sweat drenching his skin. His face had drained to an ashen gray.

"Guys… I'm fucked… hospital… need—hospital…" he croaked, knees buckling beneath him.

Despite being drenched in vomit, Arthur lunged forward, grabbing Tyron by the jaw, smacking his cheeks.

"Tyron! Hey—hey—look at me! You hear me? Stay with me! Keep your eyes open!"

Tyron's pupils drifted unfocused, rolling like loose marbles. His gaze refused to lock onto anything. Panic flushed Arthur's face as he yanked Tyron's shirt up—then froze. A spreading, dark crimson bloom was seeping across the side of his torso. It thickened visibly, the heat of it radiating out, as if coals burned just beneath his skin.

"Fuck… this is bad…" Arthur whispered, his voice cracking as his stomach lurched.

"Brian!" he shouted suddenly. "Grab his arms we carry him to the car, now!"

"Eric, get the damn keys! We don't have time!"

The crowd exploded into motion. Seconds ago laughing, now they scattered—running in blind, frantic bursts, eyes wide like prey realizing the predator was real. The party wasn't a party anymore; it had split in two—those who didn't know what to do, and those running on pure dread.

Arthur held Tyron's head in both hands, pressing down, blood sticking warm between his fingers. He raised his gaze, furious. His chest heaved. He wanted to scream at William—demand what the hell he had just done.

But William wasn't there.

Not in the kitchen.

Not by the wall.

Not lurking in the crowd.

"What the…?" Arthur breathed aloud, eyes darting from corner to corner. "William?"

He shoved through the panicked ring of people, scanning the hallway—empty. Nothing. In the blink of an eye, William was gone.

Not gone like someone had run. Gone like someone had been erased.

"He was just here…" Arthur muttered, voice trembling with disbelief. His gaze dropped to the sour-stained shirt, his hands sticky with Tyron's blood. He clenched his jaw, whispering through his teeth:

"Christ, Will… What the hell is happening to you?"

******

Leticia was sunk deep in the couch, clickin' through channels, driftin' in that murky half-sleep folks wander into when the night runs too long. The TV flickered — hard bursts of news, then the faded glow of an old picture show — till the whole room was soaked in restless light.

Then came the knock.

Sharp. Dry. Just once. But deliberate.

She jumped, the remote clatterin' onto the table. Rose slow. Somethin' fluttered in her chest — not fear, but a warnin', a knowin'. She already knew who was there.

The bolt slid back. The door creaked open.

William stood on the threshold, shadowed by the porch light.

"Will-yum…" Her voice slipped out slow, honey-thick with a Cajun drawl, warm but tinged with false surprise. "Lawd, chile… what you doin' knockin' at mah doah dis late?"

He raised his eyes to her.

"Leticia," he said, his voice ragged, as though dredged from deep water. "I need your help. Now."

She saw it then—his pupils, no longer human. Slender, feline slits. His fingers dug into the doorframe, trembling, tipped with claws, no longer hidden.

Her breath snagged and she fell back a step. The air around him pressed in thick and heavy, like swamp mist at midnight slippin' inside where it didn't belong.

"Sweet Jesus…" she whispered, her accent curling sharp around the words. "Yoah aura… it's bleedin' crimson — drippin' like blood."