The Deal

For years, I have concealed myself, desperate to avoid being branded a freak. I have mastered the art of hiding—masking my features, suppressing my nature—because I was not born this way.

It began when I was young. I still remember the argument with my parents, one of many, but no different in its outcome. Their words cut sharp, the same tired refrain:

"I'm the parent, you're the child. You will listen."

Frustration burned in my chest, simmering into something dark and restless. When I finally stormed into my room, my hands trembled with the weight of my anger. I buried my face into my pillow, hot tears staining the fabric, when suddenly, I heard it—faint, distorted, creeping into my mind like a whisper from the dark.

"Kid. Kid. Kid."

The word echoed, relentless, each repetition tightening around my skull like a vice. I gritted my teeth, gripping my head, willing it to stop. But it only grew louder, more insistent, drilling into my thoughts until I could bear it no longer.

Desperation overtook me. I bolted upright, pressing my palms against my temples, striking against my own head as if I could physically shake it free.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.

The silence was suffocating. My breath came in uneven gasps, my pulse a wild rhythm against my ribs. And then, just as I thought I was alone again, a voice—low, unfamiliar—stirred in my thoughts.

"Who is this in my head?" I whispered, though I wasn’t sure if I had spoken aloud or if the words merely existed between me and it.

Before I could make sense of the moment, a blinding red light filled the room, searing my vision. I flinched, shielding my eyes, and when the light faded, something lay before me.

A piece of parchment—old, frayed at the edges as if time had gnawed at it. Inked across its surface in deep, curling script were words I didn’t understand, except for one unmistakable line:

"Place your hand here, and you will be stronger. I promise."

I stared, breathless, my fingers twitching at my sides. My anger had not yet cooled, my heart still a storm of resentment. Strength. Power. The promise was intoxicating.

Without thinking, without hesitation, I reached forward.

And everything changed.

The pain hit first—sharp, searing, as if fire had ignited beneath my skin. My bones ached, my muscles twisted, and for a moment, I couldn’t even scream. My reflection in the mirror blurred as my vision swam, but I could see enough to watch as my ears sharpened, stretching to inhuman points. My teeth ached—no, not ached. They grew, pressing against my lips until I opened my mouth and saw them: fangs.

I barely had time to process it before the hunger followed. A deep, gnawing void inside me, clawing at my ribs, demanding something I didn’t understand. I curled into myself, shaking, my breath shallow and ragged.

Then, the bedroom door swung open.

My parents stood in the doorway, their faces twisted in horror.

"What… what have you done?" My mother gasped, stepping back.

My father’s face hardened. His eyes darted to the parchment on the floor, then back to me. His expression was not one of fear, but of something worse—disgust.

"You’re not our child anymore."

I barely understood the words before they threw me out. The house that had once been my home slammed its doors against me, and I was left standing in the cold, trembling, my new body foreign and unfamiliar.

For weeks, grief and confusion consumed me. The hunger never left, only dulled at times before returning sharper, more insistent. I scavenged, I hid, I learned. And in the quiet moments between survival, one question plagued me.

"Why me?"

The question rang in my head like an echo in a cave. And then another followed.

"If a kid like me became like this… how many others are out there? If there are any to begin with."

I searched for answers, but none came. Instead, years passed, filled with shadows and survival, with fleeting moments of hope snuffed out by the reality of what I had become.

Until, finally, I met her.

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