Turun Ranjang

“Run.”

The word wasn’t shouted. It wasn’t even spoken aloud.

It slid into Rio’s skull—cold, certain—and his body obeyed before his mind caught up.

Branches whipped his face, slapping and scratching as he tore through the swamp.

Mud sucked at his bare feet, thick and greedy, trying to pull him under with every desperate step. The air was hot, heavy, buzzing with insects that bit at the edges of his skin, their tiny stings almost lost beneath the pounding in his chest.

His breath tore in ragged gasps, tasting copper and rot. Every muscle screamed, but his legs kept moving — faster, harder, like they had a will of their own.

What was he running from? What was he running toward? He didn’t know. He only knew he had to keep moving.

His foot snapped on something hard and jagged — a hidden root or broken branch — and he stumbled.

His shoulder slammed into the rough bark of a cypress tree. Pain flared where bark scraped raw skin.

Dark spots flickered in his vision’s edges.

Then the voice came again—silk wrapped in venom curling inside his head:

“Run, or burn.”

A sudden shaft of sunlight stabbed through the mist, striking his bare arm like a whip.

The pain exploded.

His skin hissed and blistered, curling back from bone-white beneath.

A scream tore from his throat as hot fire seared every nerve.

He dropped to the cold mud, clutching his arm as if to hold himself together.

But the horror was just beginning.

Within seconds, the charred flesh knit back together — smooth, flawless, unscarred.

He stared, breath catching, heart hammering.

Not human.

His mouth was dry and cracked. His gums throbbed deep, raw in the bone.

He lifted trembling fingers and pressed them to his lips.

They were sharp. Longer than they should be. Curved like a predator’s.

Something stirred behind him.

He spun around.

A young deer stood trembling between two twisted cypress roots.

Its wide eyes locked with his, dark pools full of fear and life.

And then Rio heard it.

Not a sound in his ears, but a pulse in his bones.

The thunder of its heartbeat.

The rush of hot blood under fur.

The raw, aching pulse of life.

His muscles tensed, coiling tight like springs.

His stomach twisted — not with hunger, but with need.

Feed.

The deer backed away, hooves scraping damp roots.

Rio dropped low, balanced on the balls of his feet.

The sweet, iron scent of blood hit him in waves, sharp and intoxicating.

The deer bolted.

Without thinking, without choice, Rio lunged.

Branches tore at his skin and soaked him in mud.

His breath came out ragged and wild.

Three powerful strides later, he crashed into the deer’s flank, sending them both tumbling into the muck.

The animal kicked and thrashed, hooves slashing his side.

Pain burned, but he barely noticed.

He locked his iron grip around the deer’s neck.

The heartbeat thundered in his ears — faster, louder, desperate.

He bit down hard.

Warm, coppery blood flooded his mouth and slid down his throat, thick and scalding.

A wild fire lit inside him, sharpening his senses.

Every sound grew sharper, clearer — the drip of water, the rustle of leaves, the frantic pounding of a dying heart.

The deer flailed once, twice, weakening under his strength.

His teeth tore deeper, ripping flesh in ragged, desperate chunks.

Steam rose from the wound in the cool morning air, swirling around his face like mist.

A gurgling, strangled sound slipped from the animal’s throat.

Its eyes rolled back, showing the whites.

And still he drank.

He ignored the slowing heartbeat.

Ignored the faltering pulse.

Ignored the limpness that spread beneath him.

Only when the world fell eerily, hauntingly silent did he pull back.

The deer lay still.

Its neck was a mess of shredded meat and fur.

Blood dripped from Rio’s chin, smeared across his hands and chest.

Horror should have hit him next.

He should have vomited.

Instead —

He felt full.

Strong.

Alive.

Something inside purred like a waking beast.

By nightfall, the brutal truth had sunk in:

Nothing else stayed down.

No crackers.

No trail mix.

Not even water.

His body rejected it all — spitting it out like poison.

Only blood satisfied.

Days blurred.

Nights sharpened.

On the fourth night, he stumbled upon an old bait shack —

Moldy boards.

Rusting hooks.

The stench of dead fish thick in the air.

Behind a rotting shelf, a shard of broken glass caught his eye.

His reflection stared back — pale, bone-white beneath grime.

Cheekbones sharp as blades.

Eyes glowing golden — embers flickering in ash.

A mouth ringed with dried blood.

Teeth longer, older, more ancient than before.

He smashed the glass, leaving the shards scattered in the dirt.

That night, he walked the streets again, hood pulled low.

Watching the living — without being one of them.

And then he saw them.

Three figures slipped from an alley off Bourbon Street.

Too graceful.

Too perfect.

They moved like predators wearing human skin.

He followed them —

Past the neon glow.

Past the music’s pulse.

Into the swamp’s thick fog where silence swallowed sound.

They vanished into a shack at the water’s edge.

A crooked neon sign buzzed above the door:

LE SANG VERT

The Green Blood.

His fists clenched.

His heartbeat slowed — deep, deliberate, hungry.

The wind shifted.

Cypress branches groaned overhead.

And the voice curled through his mind again, silk wrapped in poison:

“You’ve taken your first taste, Rio… but you’re nowhere near ready for what comes