Blood of Gato

William stood in front of the building written on the napkin, scratching the back of his head in bewilderment. He had been expecting a house—perhaps an old townhouse, maybe a cramped apartment in a busy part of the city… but certainly not this.

Before him rose a neat, slightly old-fashioned structure with a plaque by the entrance:

"Nursing Home."

"Wait. What?" he muttered, blinking twice as if the letters might vanish if he only stared long enough. But no—the words stayed firmly in place, and along with them came a creeping sense of absurdity.

He took a closer look. The place didn't resemble those bleak institutions from gloomy news reports, the kind where the elderly were abandoned to fade into silence. Quite the opposite. From a small garden drifted laughter. Two elderly women were locked in an animated chess battle, squabbling cheerfully over a move. A man in a tweed vest scattered crumbs to pigeons. Young attendants bustled about with wicker baskets of laundry, more like staff at a country inn than strict caretakers in a facility. The house itself looked almost like something out of a fairytale: tidy shutters, a steep roof in a German style, and flower beds blooming dutifully beneath the windows.

And yet—that girl. The girl who had written this exact address with her elegant handwriting on a mere napkin. Why here?

"A mistake? Or is she having me on?" William frowned, tightening his grip on the crumpled note.

"Maybe that's just her sense of humor," he muttered under his breath, letting out a heavy sigh.

But speculation wasn't going to help. It was time to ask.

He walked toward the wrought-iron gates and waved at one of the women in a white coat passing nearby.

"Excuse me, miss!"

The attendant turned, approaching with a friendly stride. She was young—barely older than a college student—with a kind face and a warmth in her smile that felt more homely than professional.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for… someone," William began, rubbing the back of his neck in awkward hesitation. "Her name is… Milagros. She wouldn't happen to be here, would she?"

The woman furrowed her brow, clearly flipping through faces in her mind.

"Milagros…" she echoed thoughtfully. "No, we don't have anyone by that name among our residents. I'd remember. But…" She tilted her head, curious. "Can you describe her? Maybe I know her by another name."

William hesitated, feeling faintly ridiculous, but gave it a try.

"Well… she's tall, slender. Her skin is pale—really pale, almost like snow. Black hair. And her eyes…" he paused for a beat, then added softly, "…a cold shade of blue."

Something lit up in the woman's expression. A smile tugged at her lips as though a small puzzle had just clicked into place.

"Oh! You must mean Mil! Of course!" She laughed, raising her hand to cover her mouth politely. "Nobody here calls her by the full name. Everyone says just Mil."

William blinked in surprise, still parsing what he'd just heard.

"So… she really is here?" His voice wavered between relief and disbelief.

"Of course! Come on, I'll take you." She gave him a brisk nod and pulled a heavy iron key from her pocket, swinging the gate open with practiced ease.

"Thank you," William murmured, stepping inside. "Honestly, I never imagined I'd find her… in a place like this."

******

As they walked the sunlit corridors, the attendant chatted with the enthusiasm of someone who adored her workplace.

"You know, the residents here are really well cared for," she said, gesturing toward open doors along the hall, from which came bursts of laughter and the comforting aroma of fresh bread. "Spacious rooms, lots of attention, a warm atmosphere… We even have hobby clubs—chess, cooking, handicrafts. It's practically a hotel, I swear! Sometimes I think I wouldn't mind moving in myself." She chuckled at her own joke, though it didn't sound entirely like one.

William nodded along politely, though inside, his confusion only deepened.

"And here we are," she announced with lingering cheer. "Here's your Mil. She hasn't been with us long, but it feels like she's always been a part of this place. The residents already adore her. A little strict now and then—sure. But tireless, hardworking… she practically lives here. Honestly, I'm not sure she ever leaves."

She leaned closer to William, lowering her voice as if about to share a secret.

"Between you and me—she's extraordinary. The first time I saw her, I thought: Where could a girl like that come from? That posture, the height… that skin, white as marble, not to mention the hair. She looks like she stepped out of a landscape with fjords and pine trees. Pure German stock—or maybe Scandinavian. I'd bet on it."

Then, with a sudden shift in tone, she added lightly—too lightly:

"For a man, being tall is a blessing. But for a woman… I'm afraid it's more a flaw than a gift."

The words slipped out, and she immediately gasped, pressing both hands to her mouth.

"Oh, I shouldn't have said that! That just slipped out—I meant nothing by it. She's your… friend, isn't she?" She winced in embarrassment. "Please don't tell her what I said. I don't want to spoil things between us."

William, catching her fluster, suppressed a smile. He raised his hand solemnly as if making an oath.

"My lips are sealed. Like a goldfish in a bowl."

Relieved, she brightened immediately.

"Good. Then we understand each other. Ah—and here's the kitchen. Mil's in there now, cooking lunch."

She gestured toward a white door, from behind which came the rhythmic sound of a knife striking a cutting board, mingled with the warm aroma of stewed vegetables.

"Well then. Good luck, young man."

Leaving him at the threshold, she hurried away.

******

When William stepped inside, the sight made him catch his breath.

There she was—Milagros. The very same Milagros he remembered as an icy statue, the kind of woman who could shatter someone with a single glance. And yet here she stood in a plain apron, sleeves rolled up, slicing carrots into brisk, clean segments. Her black hair was bound in a high ponytail, a few strands slipping free to frame her face. Despite the ordinary domestic backdrop, the aura about her had not dimmed: the same force, the same cold, unapproachable presence still radiated.

She lifted her eyes, met his gaze, and without a flicker of surprise said:

"Don't just stand there like a statue. Wash your hands and help me."

She didn't even give him time for a greeting.

For a moment William thought about cracking a smile, maybe even a joke. But her tone left no room for levity. With a small sigh, he took off his jacket, draped it over a chair, and moved to the sink. Water hissed as he scrubbed his hands.

"So," he asked over his shoulder, "what's the assignment?"

"Dishes," she said curtly, pointing with the tip of her knife toward a stack of plates and pots. Her hands never faltered, every motion precise, efficient—as if her whole life was governed by timing and order. "The soup's nearly done. All that's left is the boring work. Think you can handle that?"

One brow arched ever so slightly, the challenge sharp in her eyes.

"I'll give it my best shot," he replied dryly, taking his post at the sink.

The splash of water soon filled the room. He worked methodically, scrubbing dish after dish, glancing at her now and then. Her knife kept up its steady rhythm against the board—sharp, deliberate, almost like a metronome.

"You agreed rather quickly," she remarked suddenly, still slicing, her voice carrying that familiar edge. It was impossible to tell if she meant approval or mockery.

"I've missed your company," William said, tilting his head slightly as if to check the shine of a plate.

A faint, skeptical sound escaped her.

"Hmm. Just say your conscience wouldn't let you be. Or that you've grown so lonely you'll take any excuse for connection—even with me."

Her knife struck the board a little harder than before.

William smirked faintly, eyes on the stream of water.

"You could put it that way. But the truth is, I have missed you—yes, even that tone of yours." He glanced at her over his shoulder. "Though you're right. My conscience has been gnawing at me too. I realized something—not so long ago: I'm no schoolboy anymore. In this world, I have to answer for what I've done. And I think it makes sense to begin with you."

Her hands paused mid-motion. For a heartbeat, she studied him intently, as if reassessing, peeling back her old picture of him. Then, with no comment, she dropped the last of the vegetables into the pot, stirred the soup slowly, and lifted a spoon to taste.

"Well, well," she murmured, her tone easing slightly. "I'm almost impressed. Maybe I was wrong—you're not entirely hopeless. Still…" She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes, as though trying to decode a puzzle. "A grand revelation overnight? What happened? Did you read some sacred text? Or maybe join a monastery and sneak out after morning meditation?"

She smirked faintly as she set the spoon aside, and for the first time a flicker of playfulness crept into her voice—like a spark of laughter hidden deep beneath the frost.

"Wouldn't say that," William muttered, wiping a plate dry. A crooked grin tugged at his lips. "Took me nearly two months just to realize I'm a maniac. So hey, lucky you—our encounter lines up perfectly with this shining milestone in my personal growth."

Milagros, sprinkling a pinch of salt into the simmering pot, let one corner of her mouth curve up in mock amusement.

"Ah, now it makes sense," she said, voice lighter but still edged with sarcasm. "A late bloomer. Well then, welcome to the family—the world of killers and rapists. You'll fit right in."

William gave a dry chuckle, then inhaled the aroma rising from the pot. It hit him unexpectedly—not just appetizing, but warm, comforting. For a fleeting second, it scrubbed clean the entire conversation about blood and violence, leaving only the homely smell of food.

"What's the soup?" he asked, almost childishly, genuine curiosity coloring his tone.

She turned her head sharply as though he'd asked something naïve.

"Főzelék," she said slowly, pronouncing it with care and a hint of accent, testing his ear. Seeing his puzzled expression, she smirked, then explained, "A Hungarian dish. Want me to serve you some?"

She set the spoon aside again and added with a flash of irritation,

"These old folks hardly eat at all. Half of what I cook ends up in the trash. Drives me mad."

"Then I'll do a good deed," William said, smiling. "Help you finish it off. Hm… Főzelék… strange name."

"Of all things, names are the least important," she muttered with a shrug, ladling the steaming soup into deep bowls. "Believe me, the taste is just as sharp and vivid as the smell."

Moments later they sat across from each other at a small wooden kitchen table. The room pulsed with quiet life—the distant clatter of dishes in the dining hall, the muffled voices of residents, the warm scent of stewed vegetables and fresh bread hovering in the air. William sipped cautiously at first, then more eagerly, letting the rich flavor draw him in.

"You know…" he said slowly, "I never imagined finding you working in a nursing home. Honestly, I pictured you somewhere more like…" He stumbled, unsure how to phrase it.

Milagros lifted her eyes, cool and unblinking, and finished his thought for him:

"A slaughterhouse? And when no one's watching, wolfing down raw meat straight off the conveyor?"

He coughed, embarrassed. "Well… if I'm being honest—that's more or less what I thought. Sorry."

She surprised him by laughing. It was sudden, loud, surprisingly bright—but in it lurked mockery, slicing through the moment.

"Oh, William. Naïveté drips off you like sap from a tree. Freshness, that disgusting freshness of someone new. You've only just stepped into our world, and it shows."

Her laugh died abruptly. She dropped her spoon into the bowl with sharp finality and leaned forward, looking down at him with such piercing disdain that his gut tightened. Her eyes stripped him down, reducing him to something crawling, insignificant.

William threw down his own spoon and raised his hands in a half-joking gesture of surrender.

"Alright, alright—I get it. By your people's standards, I'm a clueless idiot. But do you have to remind me every five minutes?"

Silence stretched for a moment. Then Milagros tilted her head, distractedly tracing the rim of her bowl with one fingertip. Her voice came softer, almost hesitant.

"Sorry. Maybe I went too far."

Her eyes fell to the soup, and when she spoke again her tone shifted completely. It was calm, flat, drained of life—as if she were relaying something that belonged to someone else.

"I was like you once. In the early years after I was turned…" she paused, as though checking her own words, "…I think I felt things back then. Something, at least. But that was a long time ago. Now… I can barely remember who I was before."

She said it without the faintest trace of emotion. No regret, no bitterness, not even nostalgia. To her it was nothing more than a simple statement of fact—the sky is blue, the soup is hot.

William stopped eating, spoon hovering halfway to his lips. He stared at her. Her eyes were hollow—shockingly hollow for someone who had been laughing only minutes ago.

"You… you don't care?" he asked carefully, forcing his voice steady though a tremor slipped in anyway. "That you've forgotten who you were before all this?"

Milagros turned her head toward him slowly, fixing him with a deliberate, unwavering look. It wasn't so much that she was listening to his words—more as though she were smelling them, sifting through his unease like smoke in the air.

"Interesting," she murmured, a faint smile tugging one corner of her mouth. "The scent of fear. You're afraid, aren't you, William?"

She leaned closer across the narrow table. Her voice dropped low, soft as velvet, yet sharp as venom dripping straight into his ear.

"Tell me—what frightens you more? Becoming like me? Forgetting the man you are now? Or…" her eyes glinted, holding him captive, "…is it the opposite? That deep down you're terrified of how tempting it would be. That losing yourself… might finally set you free."