Chapter 8
The city waited for no one. Its ruins stretched endlessly, skeletal and unforgiving, the remnants of lives that had vanished in the blink of a curse. Smoke curled lazily from broken buildings, carrying the stench of rot, ash, and death. The wind whispered through shattered windows and hollow streets, carrying faint echoes of the dead.
I moved silently through the ruins, Liora close at my side. She had grown used to the tension in my every movement, to the strange pulse beneath my skin, the way my eyes sometimes caught glimmers of things she couldn't see. I felt the hunger now as a constant, living presence—insistent, teasing, dangerous. It coiled in my veins, tugged at the edges of my mind, and whispered promises of power I couldn't resist entirely.
We had found temporary shelter in a partially collapsed office building. The upper floors were unsafe, walls crumbling, floors splintered. But it offered vantage points, a place to rest for a few hours.
I sat on a concrete ledge, the shard pressed against my thigh, my mind spinning. The souls I had consumed—the first ones, the ones from yesterday, the ones I had resisted—each left a residue, a thread in my consciousness. Some were whispers, some visions, some fleeting memories that weren't mine but somehow became part of me. And the hunger grew sharper with every heartbeat, demanding more, feeding on restraint as much as indulgence.
Liora knelt beside me, eyes wide and wary. "Jaxon… you're… different. I can feel it."
I wanted to reassure her. I wanted to say that I was still human, still capable of mercy. But the truth tasted bitter on my tongue. I had changed. I could feel it in my muscles, in the way my senses had sharpened, in the unnatural precision of my movements. The predator inside me wasn't just a whisper anymore—it was a pulse, a force, demanding recognition.
"I'm… trying," I said finally, voice low, rough, distant. "Trying to stay… me."
She reached out, fingers brushing my arm. "You're not alone," she said. "Not yet."
Her words anchored me, but only for a moment. Because the city had other plans.
A tremor ran through the street below, subtle at first, then violent. Concrete splintered, glass shattered, and from the ruins emerged a wave of movement—undead, faster, hungrier, drawn by the pulse of the souls I carried. Their eyes glowed blue and hollow, and the stench of decay reached my nostrils before I even saw them fully.
The hunger surged, demanding release. Power, speed, fire—it all called to me, sharp and intoxicating. My hands itched, my teeth clenched, and for a moment, I almost surrendered. Almost gave in.
But I remembered Liora, remembered the boy, remembered the tether that kept me human. I clenched the shard tighter and leapt from the ledge, landing silently behind the first creature. It turned, snapping at the air, but I was already moving—fluid, precise, almost alien.
The first undead fell before my shard, its soul flickering, fragile and bright. The urge to take it surged like a drug, but I forced my hand away, resisting. The second lunged. I caught it mid-motion, twisting its body and throwing it across the street with unnatural strength. Its soul shivered in the air, and I felt the hunger roar, demanding that I consume, that I become more than human.
A screech tore through the chaos. A figure appeared, dark and silent, moving faster than the undead—faster than any human should. The stranger. His shard glimmered faintly, reflecting the pale light of the city. He moved with lethal grace, each step precise, deliberate, like a predator stalking prey.
"You're tempting fate," he said calmly, voice cutting through the chaos. "Every soul you deny yourself makes the fall sharper. Every restraint is a fracture waiting to break you."
I ground my teeth. "I decide when I fall," I spat, though even as I spoke, I knew the lie. The hunger, the predator, the power inside me—it was patient, relentless, inevitable.
The stranger's eyes glowed faintly as he moved closer, shadows stretching unnaturally behind him. I could feel the pull—stronger than ever—an invisible thread tugging at the souls inside me. The city itself seemed to lean toward him, as though acknowledging his presence, his control, his command.
I struck again, moving faster than thought, taking down undead after undead. Liora's hand was on my arm, grounding me, reminding me that restraint was possible, that mercy still existed. But each soul I denied myself left a hollow ache, a whisper of power slipping just out of reach.
And then it happened.
A scream—human, raw, desperate—echoed from a side street. I turned to see a small group of survivors cornered by three hulking undead, their blue lights flickering brighter, hungrier. The predator inside me roared, demanding release, power, fire, speed. The human part hesitated.
I had a choice. Feed, become unstoppable, and risk losing the fragile tether to my humanity. Or resist, save them, and feel the gnawing pull of the hunger like a wound in my soul.
I moved. Faster than thought, sharper than instinct. The shard flew, striking the first undead with brutal precision. Its soul shimmered, small and fragile, and I resisted the urge to consume it. The second lunged at the boy. I intercepted, twisting its body, throwing it aside. Its soul flared again—sweet, intoxicating, dangerous. I forced it away, focusing only on protection.
The last lunged directly at me. I caught it mid-leap, crushing it with unnatural strength. Its soul lingered, calling, whispering, begging to be devoured. The hunger raged inside me, tearing at my restraint, pressing against my human side with violent insistence.
Across the street, the stranger watched, silent, calculating. Not helping, not interfering—just observing, measuring, waiting for the moment I faltered. I could feel it, his presence pressing against me like a weight on my soul.
Liora knelt beside me, voice soft but urgent. "Jaxon… don't give in. You're still you."
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to hold onto that fragile truth. But the hunger was patient. It would wait. It would whisper. And it would never forgive weakness.
The survivors ran, screaming, scattering through the ruins. I stayed, scanning, vigilant. The last undead fell, and silence hung over the street like a shroud. My hands shook, not from exertion but from the raw, pulsing hunger that had not been sated, the fire that had not been released.
The stranger stepped forward, finally closing the distance between us. His movements were fluid, graceful, deadly. "You resist," he said softly. "But every day, every choice, every restraint… it changes you. You are not merely human anymore. You are something else. Something fractured. And soon, you will have to choose: control or surrender."
I clenched my jaw. "I choose," I said, voice steady but hollow. "I choose humanity. For now."
He smiled faintly, coldly, like a blade pressed against the chest. "For now," he echoed. Then he vanished, slipping back into the ruins like smoke, leaving only the lingering weight of his presence.
Liora's hand stayed on my arm, trembling slightly. "Jaxon… you're… still alive," she whispered.
I nodded, but I didn't feel alive. Not fully. The predator inside me purred, impatient, insistent. The hunger had not been sated. And I knew that tomorrow, it would demand more.
The city groaned again, whispering secrets of death and decay. And I knew that I was still walking the edge, balancing between predator and protector, humanity and monstrosity.
The question remained, unyielding, echoing in every shadow, in every flicker of blue light from the undead, in every whisper of the hunger:
How far would I go to survive?
How far would I go to protect her?
And at what cost—of myself, of the world, of the fragile remnants of humanity?
The hunger whispered.
And I would listen.
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