It doesn't matter how I got here. Not really. I don't care about the why and the how—they're just details, and I've never had much patience for those. Maybe I'm dead, maybe I'm not. Maybe the sky is upside down and this whole city is just a fever dream. It doesn't matter. What matters is that I'm here.

And there's so much to play with.

The world I came from was predictable—people stayed in their lanes, and the night hid my secrets. But now? This place... it's chaotic.

The air smells wrong, like burnt plastic and exhaust fumes, but there's something raw here, something... vulnerable.

People.

So many of them. So ripe.

I step out of the shadows into a street filled with rushing bodies, and I can't help the grin that stretches across my face.

They're all so... small. So... flimsy.

They don't even notice me. They never do. I'm a shadow among shadows, a predator in plain sight. The streets hum with a dull pulse, but it's different from my world. This isn't the kind of place where people fear the night—they fear the wrong things, the wrong people.

It's perfect.

I'll find a way to slip inside their world. I've always been good at that. I've always known how to become someone else, anyone else.

It's an art, really. The magic I have—my gift—it's not something they'd understand. Their minds are too simple. Too slow.

But I understand. And that's all I need.

I don't even stop to think about how I arrived. The flash of light, the strange weightlessness that gripped my body as I was torn away from the streets I knew—nothing about that matters.

That's just the set-up.

The real part? The part that matters? That's now.

This place.

My very own hunting ground.

I glance around, and the city feels... alive. But not in the way people talk about life. No, this place pulses with the kind of life that can't be controlled. The people here—these things—

They don't know they're walking corpses. They don't know they're already dead.

It's beautiful, in a way. It's like I'm seeing the strings, the threads that hold them together. And I'll pull them all apart.

I run my hands through my hair, a quick, erratic motion.

I should blend in. I should act normal. That's what they do here, isn't it? Blend in?

But blending in means nothing to me. Nothing at all. They'll never know what I am, not unless I show them.

My stomach growls—no, not that hunger.

Hunger.

It's an ache that sits in my chest, a constant throb that never goes away. I can feel it in my teeth, in the tips of my fingers.

I need to feed.

It's always been like this. The need to take, to hurt, to break them open. I used to feel guilt. I used to wonder why I was the way I was. Why it felt so good to see them bleed. But not anymore. Guilt is a childish thing. A weakness.

A thing of the past.

I step forward, but it's not a casual movement. It's a stagger, a slow drag of my feet, the kind of movement that makes people take a second look. They think they see something wrong in me, and they do. They can't help it. It's written in the way my body bends, in the way my eyes dart too fast, too wide. They feel it, even if they don't understand.

That's when she notices me.

A woman, walking alone, her hands clutching her bag too tightly. She's watching me now, studying me, trying to figure me out. I've already noticed the way she clutches her purse like it's the last thing she'll ever hold, like she can feel the shadow that hangs behind her, waiting. The thing that's too close, too real.

She's the one.

I can already see it—the sharp panic in her eyes, the way her lips tremble as she opens her mouth. She's scared. She's already scared.

I laugh quietly, under my breath. The sound is thin, breathless, but it's not out of place in this city. Nothing here feels right. I can be whoever I want. I can be anyone, anything. And she'll never see it coming.

"I'm fine," I mutter, louder than I intend.

I smile at her, an expression that's more jagged than friendly, but she's already backing away, trying to keep distance.

Why do they always do that? It's funny.

It's always the same—fear. Fear before they even know what's coming.

But it's too late for her now. I can smell it in the air. She's mine. I can feel her pulse—fast, too fast. Her breath's already quickening. She's already lost. All I need is a second. A step closer, and I'll have her.

"Stay away from me!" she says, her voice trembling like she's speaking a mantra she doesn't quite believe.

But I don't care. She doesn't matter.

With a flick of my wrist, I adjust the shape of my body. The form shifts, but it's not smooth—it's jagged, like it doesn't belong. I can't feel my face change the way it should, my skin pulling and bending like it always did. There's something about this place, this... Earth—

It doesn't quite work the same.

But it's fine. I'll force it.

I reach out, and she flinches. Perfect. She's already terrified. The chase is half over.

"Y-You're not real," she whispers. "You're not... you're n-not real."

Oh, I'm real.

But she doesn't have to know that. Not yet.

I move. I shift. And she gasps, backing up, but it's too late. Her back is against the cold, hard wall of the alley, and she has nowhere left to run. Her eyes are wide, her breath coming in short gasps, and for the first time in a long while, I feel something familiar. Something I recognize.

Blood.

I smile, raising the knife in the air like a victory trophy, savoring the moment before the real game begins.

This is my world now.