05-10-2025, 12:22 AM
There was no warning. One moment Zholdin stood alone, weapon steady, breath cold in his lungs. The next… impact.
Something hit him from behind. Not with brute force, but speed. Precision. He was lifted, wrapped in crushing limbs that were slick and corded with muscle, and dragged backward into the dark. His flashlight clattered to the ground, spinning once before going still.
He tried to turn, to fight, but something needle-sharp punctured his neck. Not deep… just enough. Just enough to still him. Just enough to send the world spiraling into velvet black.
When he awoke, his mouth was dry, and every inch of his body thrummed with a dull, low heat. He tried to move and found that he couldn’t. His arms were chained at the wrists, lifted just above his shoulders and pinned to a cold, stone wall slick with condensation. His legs dangled, his feet barely brushing a dirt floor. The scent of scorched metal and damp earth filled his nostrils. When he opened his eyes, the world swam with heatwaves and shadow. Everything around him glowed in the dim, flickering light of a low fire set in a rusted oil drum, its flames licking softly at the blackened rim.
The room was warm… too warm. Sweat trickled down his temple, soaked the back of his shirt. A radiator groaned somewhere behind him, pumping out stale, recycled heat through wheezing vents. The walls were concrete, dark with age and moisture, streaked with rust trails like dried blood. Pipes jutted from every corner. Mold clustered along the ceiling, pulsing faintly in the dancing firelight.
His arms were shackled overhead, bound to a support beam with old iron chains that bit into his wrists. His legs dangled, toes brushing the uneven floor. He shifted—pain flared at his shoulder, and the rattle of chain echoed through the chamber like a warning.
To his left and right, his men hung suspended like meat on hooks, wrists bound with old chains or plastic cable ties… whatever the creature had scavenged. Mikov. Limon. Grisha. Even Alistair, bound but breathing, jaw clenched and head slumped forward. None of them were dead. Not yet.
A sound slithered through the warm air—bare feet on concrete. And then it stepped into view.
At first, he thought it was a man.
It wore the tattered remains of clothing: shredded pants clinging to bony hips, a buttonless shirt hanging open and loose from skeletal shoulders. The skin beneath was a sickly, unnatural white, pallid and thin, like stretched wax. Veins pulsed faintly beneath its nearly translucent flesh, glowing faintly in the firelight. It was humanoid. Almost. But its movements were wrong: too smooth, too fluid, like it was made of sinew and oil.
Then he saw the face. Black eyes. Almost entirely so. Voids without reflection. No eyebrows. Lips thin and bloodless. And when it smiled, its teeth were too many, too sharp.
The creature crept along the row of bodies, pausing at each. It sniffed, actually sniffed, as it passed Mikov, Limon, then Alistair, as if selecting from a buffet. When it reached Zholdin, it stopped. Slowly, its face tilted. It leaned in, inch by inch, until Zholdin could smell its breath: a stink of rust, wet leather, and rotten meat.
“You like the smell?” Zholdin rasped. “Then take a deeper breath. You won’t get another.” The man’s head twitched to the side, as if studying him anew and chuffed softly, nostrils flaring.
It liked him.
He could feel it… feel the decision settling in the predator’s mind. Not just recognition. Preference.
“Go on, then,” Zholdin said through grit teeth. “Let’s get on with it.”
The thing moved toward him. It didn’t lunge or snarl. It sauntered, like a cat approaching a warm meal. A predator that had already won. Its eyes wandered over Zholdin’s chest, his throat, his jaw. Then, with a curious hum in the back of its throat, it knelt before him.
“What? Gonna suck my dick, you cheap ass vampire?” Zholdin sneered.
Instead, the creature reached for his leg. Its touch cool and deliberate. Its fingers gripped the cuff of his pant and pushed it up the curve of his calf, and before Zholdin could twist away, it opened its mouth and bit.
Not a violent snap.
A pressing, sensual sink of teeth into muscle.
Zholdin snarled in pain, the hot bite shocking through his nerves, and kicked hard with his other leg. His boot connected with the creature’s shoulder. A solid thunk. The thing flinched, but not from pain. From pleasure. Knocked away a stride, it looked up at him, blood trickling down its chin, and smiled wider.
“Fucking enjoying yourself,” Zholdin growled, rage bubbling past his clenched jaw.
The man rose with that same sinuous grace, licking its lips like it had just tasted a fine stew. Firelight caught on its face, human, too human. Pale skin stretched over high cheekbones that were slowly blushing with color but otherwise nearly translucent in places, as though the bone itself were waiting to burst through. The shirt hanging from its frame flapped open with each breath, revealing ribs that pulsed faintly beneath the skin, and its black, depthless eyes studied him with quiet amusement.
Then, it spoke.
The voice was soft, breathy. Like silk dragging across razors. “You taste like rage.”
Zholdin spat blood onto the floor at its feet. “Yeah? You smell like a shit-ass nursing home dumpster in August.”
The creature tilted its head, that ghastly grin widening. “Crude,” it murmured. “I like that.”
“Bet you do,” Zholdin snarled. “Probably the most action you’ve had in a hundred years, biting ankles and whispering bullshit in basements.”
It took a step closer. Zholdin tensed, coiled, waiting for another chance to strike with his heel. But the man only crouched in front of him again, not touching, just looking.
“I expected whimpers. Pleading,” it said to itself. “You give me spit and insults.” Its tongue, languid and red with Zholdin’s blood, traced its lips. “You’re all salt and fire. They die quickly, too quickly. Soft meat. Too panicked. You’ll last longer than the others. I think I’ll savor you.” It inhaled through those pale nostrils, chest rising. “But you… You’re hard muscle. Bitter. I could keep you for months.”
“You could try,” Zholdin growled. “But when I get loose, I’m butchering your face into stew meat and feeding you to my dogs.”
“You’re not afraid?”
Zholdin leaned forward into the chains, muscles straining. “What do you think?”
The thing straightened slowly, satisfied. “Good. Rage seasons the blood.” It drifted away, its attention turning now to the others. Mikov groaning softly, half-conscious. Limon pale and barely breathing. It paused in front of Alistair, who still hadn’t moved.
Zholdin’s jaw tightened as he watched. “Touch him,” he barked, “and I swear I’ll rip out your spine with my fingernails.”
The creature didn’t turn. “Not yet. I want you to watch,” it said. “I want you to learn how helpless you really are.” Then it descended.
Zholdin cursed defiant screams as the feeding began. Wet and slow and indulgent. Limon whimpered before silence fell.
Zholdin slammed his fist against the chains until his wrists bled. Rage seared through his veins, hotter than the firelight, hotter than the wound on his leg.
Something hit him from behind. Not with brute force, but speed. Precision. He was lifted, wrapped in crushing limbs that were slick and corded with muscle, and dragged backward into the dark. His flashlight clattered to the ground, spinning once before going still.
He tried to turn, to fight, but something needle-sharp punctured his neck. Not deep… just enough. Just enough to still him. Just enough to send the world spiraling into velvet black.
When he awoke, his mouth was dry, and every inch of his body thrummed with a dull, low heat. He tried to move and found that he couldn’t. His arms were chained at the wrists, lifted just above his shoulders and pinned to a cold, stone wall slick with condensation. His legs dangled, his feet barely brushing a dirt floor. The scent of scorched metal and damp earth filled his nostrils. When he opened his eyes, the world swam with heatwaves and shadow. Everything around him glowed in the dim, flickering light of a low fire set in a rusted oil drum, its flames licking softly at the blackened rim.
The room was warm… too warm. Sweat trickled down his temple, soaked the back of his shirt. A radiator groaned somewhere behind him, pumping out stale, recycled heat through wheezing vents. The walls were concrete, dark with age and moisture, streaked with rust trails like dried blood. Pipes jutted from every corner. Mold clustered along the ceiling, pulsing faintly in the dancing firelight.
His arms were shackled overhead, bound to a support beam with old iron chains that bit into his wrists. His legs dangled, toes brushing the uneven floor. He shifted—pain flared at his shoulder, and the rattle of chain echoed through the chamber like a warning.
To his left and right, his men hung suspended like meat on hooks, wrists bound with old chains or plastic cable ties… whatever the creature had scavenged. Mikov. Limon. Grisha. Even Alistair, bound but breathing, jaw clenched and head slumped forward. None of them were dead. Not yet.
A sound slithered through the warm air—bare feet on concrete. And then it stepped into view.
At first, he thought it was a man.
It wore the tattered remains of clothing: shredded pants clinging to bony hips, a buttonless shirt hanging open and loose from skeletal shoulders. The skin beneath was a sickly, unnatural white, pallid and thin, like stretched wax. Veins pulsed faintly beneath its nearly translucent flesh, glowing faintly in the firelight. It was humanoid. Almost. But its movements were wrong: too smooth, too fluid, like it was made of sinew and oil.
Then he saw the face. Black eyes. Almost entirely so. Voids without reflection. No eyebrows. Lips thin and bloodless. And when it smiled, its teeth were too many, too sharp.
The creature crept along the row of bodies, pausing at each. It sniffed, actually sniffed, as it passed Mikov, Limon, then Alistair, as if selecting from a buffet. When it reached Zholdin, it stopped. Slowly, its face tilted. It leaned in, inch by inch, until Zholdin could smell its breath: a stink of rust, wet leather, and rotten meat.
“You like the smell?” Zholdin rasped. “Then take a deeper breath. You won’t get another.” The man’s head twitched to the side, as if studying him anew and chuffed softly, nostrils flaring.
It liked him.
He could feel it… feel the decision settling in the predator’s mind. Not just recognition. Preference.
“Go on, then,” Zholdin said through grit teeth. “Let’s get on with it.”
The thing moved toward him. It didn’t lunge or snarl. It sauntered, like a cat approaching a warm meal. A predator that had already won. Its eyes wandered over Zholdin’s chest, his throat, his jaw. Then, with a curious hum in the back of its throat, it knelt before him.
“What? Gonna suck my dick, you cheap ass vampire?” Zholdin sneered.
Instead, the creature reached for his leg. Its touch cool and deliberate. Its fingers gripped the cuff of his pant and pushed it up the curve of his calf, and before Zholdin could twist away, it opened its mouth and bit.
Not a violent snap.
A pressing, sensual sink of teeth into muscle.
Zholdin snarled in pain, the hot bite shocking through his nerves, and kicked hard with his other leg. His boot connected with the creature’s shoulder. A solid thunk. The thing flinched, but not from pain. From pleasure. Knocked away a stride, it looked up at him, blood trickling down its chin, and smiled wider.
“Fucking enjoying yourself,” Zholdin growled, rage bubbling past his clenched jaw.
The man rose with that same sinuous grace, licking its lips like it had just tasted a fine stew. Firelight caught on its face, human, too human. Pale skin stretched over high cheekbones that were slowly blushing with color but otherwise nearly translucent in places, as though the bone itself were waiting to burst through. The shirt hanging from its frame flapped open with each breath, revealing ribs that pulsed faintly beneath the skin, and its black, depthless eyes studied him with quiet amusement.
Then, it spoke.
The voice was soft, breathy. Like silk dragging across razors. “You taste like rage.”
Zholdin spat blood onto the floor at its feet. “Yeah? You smell like a shit-ass nursing home dumpster in August.”
The creature tilted its head, that ghastly grin widening. “Crude,” it murmured. “I like that.”
“Bet you do,” Zholdin snarled. “Probably the most action you’ve had in a hundred years, biting ankles and whispering bullshit in basements.”
It took a step closer. Zholdin tensed, coiled, waiting for another chance to strike with his heel. But the man only crouched in front of him again, not touching, just looking.
“I expected whimpers. Pleading,” it said to itself. “You give me spit and insults.” Its tongue, languid and red with Zholdin’s blood, traced its lips. “You’re all salt and fire. They die quickly, too quickly. Soft meat. Too panicked. You’ll last longer than the others. I think I’ll savor you.” It inhaled through those pale nostrils, chest rising. “But you… You’re hard muscle. Bitter. I could keep you for months.”
“You could try,” Zholdin growled. “But when I get loose, I’m butchering your face into stew meat and feeding you to my dogs.”
“You’re not afraid?”
Zholdin leaned forward into the chains, muscles straining. “What do you think?”
The thing straightened slowly, satisfied. “Good. Rage seasons the blood.” It drifted away, its attention turning now to the others. Mikov groaning softly, half-conscious. Limon pale and barely breathing. It paused in front of Alistair, who still hadn’t moved.
Zholdin’s jaw tightened as he watched. “Touch him,” he barked, “and I swear I’ll rip out your spine with my fingernails.”
The creature didn’t turn. “Not yet. I want you to watch,” it said. “I want you to learn how helpless you really are.” Then it descended.
Zholdin cursed defiant screams as the feeding began. Wet and slow and indulgent. Limon whimpered before silence fell.
Zholdin slammed his fist against the chains until his wrists bled. Rage seared through his veins, hotter than the firelight, hotter than the wound on his leg.
There is nothing false in the words of demons