Blood of Gato

The question struck William like a gunshot in the stillness — short, sharp, impossible to ignore.

He froze where he stood, every muscle locking. For a heartbeat, he wasn't even sure he'd heard her right.

How could she ask that?

Milagros tilted her head slightly to one side, watching him with eyes the color of winter ice beneath the moon — pale, endless, cold. Her lips parted just enough to suggest amusement, as if she could taste the confusion radiating from him.

"I... I don't know," William stammered, voice barely more than a whisper, his gaze fixed anywhere but her face.

"Liar," she breathed.

It wasn't loud, but the word cut clean — a scalpel laid across his nerves.

He lowered his head, but it did nothing to escape her. Her stare felt physical, invasive — a hand without flesh reaching straight into him. His skin burned at the back of his neck; the air seemed charged, alive with something electric and cruel.

His hand trembled. He clenched it into a fist, but the control was slipping, dripping out of him like sand through broken fingers.

"Does it even matter?" he muttered through his teeth, forcing each word out. "I asked you first. Why do you always turn it back on me?"

"Because the answer," she purred, her voice smooth and low, "has always been inside you."

No smile crossed her face. Her tone remained soft, almost intimate, and yet each syllable slid over him like a blade. A shiver ran through his spine, cold and instinctive.

"Christ..." William stepped back. "What is this — hypnosis?"

Her words reverberated in his skull, repeating in some hidden echo chamber inside his mind. For one fleeting instant, he swore her pupils darkened, dilated until they became bottomless voids.

"No," Milagros whispered. "I'm only asking questions. You're the one screaming."

The silence that followed was unbearable. Each second stretched and warped like time itself was recoiling from her. And the longer she stayed silent, the more he wanted to speak — to confess, to purge, to stop fighting whatever had already begun.

"Alright…" he exhaled, defeated, eyes cast downward. His voice trembled.

"You're right.

I am afraid.

I'm afraid of forgetting who I am.

Afraid that one morning I'll look in the mirror and see him — the thing inside me — staring back.

Afraid to realize there's nothing left of the old William. That this... human mask is just theater. And underneath, there's nothing but hunger, and emptiness, and lies."

A taste like rust filled his mouth. The truth had the flavor of blood.

"And maybe the most terrifying thought," he went on, voice cracking, "is that the beast inside — that's the real me. And everything else... just an act."

Milagros inhaled deeply, as though drinking in the scent of his fear. A tremor of pleasure flickered across her lips.

"Mmm… thick, sweet fear," she murmured, savoring it. "Like smoke in the lungs. Like wine laced with blood.

Without people like you, this world would be unbearably dull."

She didn't offer comfort. She fed on his despair. Her eyes gleamed — feline, merciless, delighted.

William blinked, and something inside him fractured.

"Why did I even say that?" he muttered, dragging a hand across his face. His skin was damp, cold — as if he'd stepped through fog. "God, I just made it worse…"

Milagros took a single step forward. Each footfall echoed like the slow beat of another heart, pulsing in time with his panic.

"It was your fear that called me, darling," she said softly, almost tenderly. "But I still don't understand — why are you so afraid of yourself?"

His head jerked up. Desperation flickered behind his eyes.

"Because... I don't know what I want anymore," he confessed. "It sickens me to even think of it — and still, it draws me in.

Those… powers, that darkness, it fascinates me.

But I can't bear the thought of waking one day… and realizing I've torn them apart. My parents. With my own hands."

The words hung between them, heavy and poisonous. Even the air seemed to thicken — as though the shadows leaned closer to listen.

Milagros stopped just inches from him. The air between them pulsed — hot from his breath, cold from hers.

"Then stop being afraid," she whispered, her lips curling into a faint smile that carried no warmth. "Animals sense fear. When you tremble, they strike. Maybe your other self just smells your weakness... and takes over to do what you can't."

Her fingertip traced his cheek — a single, deliberate touch — leaving behind a thin, icy burn.

"Maybe," she added softly, "it's only trying to protect you."

William let out a brittle laugh — not out of humor, but despair.

"No… you don't understand. I don't hurt people because I'm afraid…"

"Then why?" she cut in, voice low and rough, the words sliding between his ribs.

He looked up. His pupils had narrowed to sharp points, black threads in storm–gray eyes.

"Because I'm hungry," he breathed. "And the more I fight it, the worse it gets."

She stepped closer — so close he had to retreat, but the wall was already behind him. The cold plaster met his back; he could feel it through his shirt. Milagros smelled faintly of frost and iron, as if she'd just risen from some frozen grave. Her shadow spilled across him, warping her silhouette — no longer a woman, but something ancient, carved and merciless. The kind of presence that made the instinctive part of him want to curl in on itself and vanish.

"Tell me about your hunger," she said at last. Her tone was measured, almost serene — and in that softness lay the purest kind of threat.

Her eyes gleamed again, wet and animal. "Don't hide it from me."

Her words didn't just reach him — they entered him. And something deep inside, something cold, stirred in response.

"It's… hard to explain," William said, licking his cracked lips. "Sometimes it's like a seizure. Phantom pulls inside me — strings made of nerves and need. I feel this urge to… sink my teeth in. To taste. To—" his breath hitched, "—to devour."

"Flesh and blood?" she cooed, her tone honeyed, as if offering him dessert.

He froze. She knew. Too well. And in her eyes there was no disgust — only recognition. Delight.

"Yes…" he murmured, barely audible.

Her laughter cut through the silence like splintering glass.

It started high and sharp, then dipped into a rasping chuckle, then a whisper, then back into a shrill cackle, unspooling like madness itself. Her calm mask shattered completely — the elegant, chilling woman replaced by a creature radiant with cruel joy.

William pressed his fingers into the wall behind him, flakes of paint cracking beneath his nails.

"Why… why is that funny to you?" he managed, the trembling coming back into his voice.

"Oh, f**k, it's hilarious!" Milagros gasped between fits of laughter. "God — you miserable, pathetic little wretch!"

Her eyes glittered — feverish, bright with mockery and hunger both.

There was no mirth in that laughter, only scorn sharpened into ecstasy.

"What?" William hissed, taking a step toward her despite himself. "What's so damn funny? Keep your voice down! Someone might hear—" He flicked a glance toward the white door. The silence beyond it felt unnatural, like the world itself was listening.

The laughter bled away, leaving only shallow breaths and the faint sound of her nails brushing against the wall.

When she finally spoke, it was directly into his ear — her voice a whisper with teeth.

"Oh, sweetheart… you truly have no idea what you are."

She tilted her head, her smile curling again into something predatory. "You want to know why I laughed?"

Her blue eyes narrowed to slits. "Because you, darling, are the same breed of monster I am."

He blinked, confusion and dread tangling in his throat.

"What? No. Wait — I'm a therianthrope, you're a wendigo. They're not the same. They're completely different… entities."

Milagros grinned and slowly shook her head.

"Oh, you poor, ignorant creature. You don't even understand your own damn curse." Her voice dropped — almost pitying, but edged with venom. "Yes, my bloodline's possessed. Yours is born of beast. But the subclass is the same, my love."

"The subclass?" William repeated, his shoulders loosening just enough for sweat to seep through his shirt.

His skin felt slick, crawling. The word lodged under his ribs like a splinter.

"What does that even mean?"

She began to pace slowly along the wall, each step deliberate, the faint click of her heels echoing like the ticking of a clock. Her eyes never left him — calm, assessing, almost academic, as if he were a specimen under glass.

"Biology," she began in a mock‑lecturer's tone, though amusement sharpened every syllable. "Dogs, wolves — one family. Kangaroos, deer — another. But the real thread runs deeper, doesn't it? A kinship not of blood, but of essence."

She stopped and turned toward him.

"Tell me, what do a crocodile and a wolf share?"

William frowned. The question landed somewhere deep, where instinct lived. Something inside him already knew.

"They're both predators," he said quietly. "Meat‑eaters."

"Bingo." She snapped her fingers, eyes glinting. "You got it."

The room seemed to lurch around him, as though reality had drawn a breath. The air thickened — heavy with the scent of his own fear. Images flashed before his eyes: torn shapes, screams, a wet heat that smelled of rust. Inside his chest, something old and starved stirred and moved closer to the surface.

"I'm… a damned cannibal," he muttered, the words pulled from someplace that wasn't entirely his. "Just like you."

His hand ran over his face, trembling. Beneath the skin, something shifted — subtle but undeniable. A shimmer beneath the cheekbone, a twitch in the muscle. His temples rang with a low hum, and every tooth tingled as if remembering a former shape.

Milagros watched him with fascination, her expression soft — almost reverent. A biologist, a believer, and an admirer, all at once.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" she murmured. "Admitting it. Knowing that you and I are kin — not by blood, but by appetite. Bound by hunger, like two drops of fat meeting in the same boiling soup."

Her smile widened, mocking yet ceremonial. She stretched out her arms, as though officiating a sacrament.

"Care for a family hug?"

But William barely heard her. The room distorted around him; even sound seemed to warp, bending toward that single steady heartbeat pounding in his ears — not quite human anymore.

His chest rose and fell in ragged bursts.

The metallic tang in his mouth grew stronger.

And somewhere deep within him, the beast finally opened its eyes — and breathed in the scent of her flesh.

"No…" William whispered, backing away. Cold sweat slicked his forehead. "No, that's not true. It's just a coincidence, don't you see? We— we might share some physiology, some instincts, maybe… but I'm not you."

Milagros let out a soft, amused sound — halfway between a hum and a chuckle. Something dangerous flickered behind her eyes, part mockery, part exhilaration.

"Oh, how sweet. How delightfully predictable," she said with silken scorn. "They all say that before they finally accept it. The same little script every time: 'I'm not a monster,' 'there's still humanity left in me'… You should see how many times I've heard those lines."

"Shut up," he hissed, pulse hammering in his temples. "I don't feed on people! I don't eat them— I just…"

"You want to," she interrupted, smiling with slow, obscene pleasure. "You feel it coiling inside you, don't you? That hunger— that need— so much closer to your core than any human impulse could ever be. Isn't that right?"

He jerked his head in denial, fists clenching so tight his nails carved crescents into his palms.

"It's not hunger, it's a— it's a condition! A chemical imbalance, a side effect of the transformation! Some kind of neural misfire, that's all!"

Milagros laughed again — softly, breathily — but there was no pity in the sound.

Her fingertips skimmed across the table, then down the wall, and finally traced the air between them as though she were sketching unseen sigils.

"'Condition'…" she repeated, savoring the word. "I adore when the fledgling beasts try to explain instinct as illness. It's almost endearing. Almost."

She took a step toward him, and the air thickened; the shadows seemed to lean in.

"Let me show you," she whispered, her voice lowering to a near purr. "Let me show you what the truth really looks like."