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Crimson
At the flash of lightning, his mouth opened, “Before we begin, I ask you this. How does crimson taste like?”
“Uhh, bitter?”
“Exactly. I remember clearly the day when I had my first blood. But no blood was tastier than burning blood exhausted from the pursuit. It is when the richness of it reaches its peak.”
“How did you tame it?”
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“Good morning Crimson Stone,” a man in tight, grayish white suit sternly looked at the screen of our flat TV, “Six months have passed, but the police have found no leads to the untimely death of two boys a few months ago.” The camera panned to the sharply dressed woman, “Another incident happened at the small town of Crimson Stone during the week. The residents feared of a possible crazy man on the loose or worse, another Tyrone Netherwell incident.”
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