Origins of Blood (RE)

Mist drapes the alleyways like gauze wrapped around a corpse, and I run—lungs burning, heart hammering, with footsteps behind me that echo my desperation. The silhouette beside me matches my pace, breath ragged. My so-called friend—though his name still escapes me—bleeds more than I do. His arms are bruised, his skin torn. The red glow of his blood pulses faster, brighter. But within the crimson, blue threads flicker—a corruption, a sickness, or perhaps something divine. I don’t know anymore.

I glance sideways. His eyes sparkle with something unreadable—madness, maybe resolve. My own lips curl into a smirk. A grotesque, involuntary expression. We’re running from the blues, those self-righteous bastards. The ones who think their glowing blood elevates them to holiness.

They didn’t see us at first, those passing by. They ignored us like the filth they expected in alleys like these. But they won’t forget us now.

We fed.

We drank from the arteries of their enforcers.

We sucked the blood straight from their still-beating hearts.

Once, the thought would have made me wretch—until nothing was left but bile and the shaking of my body. Now? I smirk, dark blue blood dripping from my lips like blue juice. It’s sweet.

Too sweet.

Even now, the taste lingers.

I shiver, not from fear—but from want. I need more. Time wasn’t enough. My belly isn’t full. My blood pulses like a second heartbeat, interrupted by an ache, a longing, a hunger.

I am not whole.