The post appeared on an obscure forum late at night, buried under threads about urban legends and ghost stories.

It's author, "Phil_Martins," had titled it simply: They All Taste Different.

> I wasn't special. Just an average guy, living an average life, looking for a thrill in every woman I met. They all had something unique, something I needed. It was my addiction, really. The way I saw it, women were like a fine menu, each with a different flavor waiting to be savored. I thought I was in control, that I could keep filling this hunger, keep pushing the boundaries without consequence.

> Until I met her.

> She was like no one I'd ever met before—pale, hollow-eyed, beautiful in a way that felt wrong, like something that crawled out of a dream you only half-remember. Her eyes caught mine in that dim bar, and in an instant, I was drawn to her, like something in me knew it had to be close to her.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

> We ended up back at her place. The room was dark, empty, with a chill in the air that shouldn't have been there. Her kiss was cold, and the moment her lips touched mine, I felt something leave me—something I couldn't name but knew I'd never get back.

> Days went by, and I knew I wasn't myself. My skin started to lose its warmth, my reflection grew fainter each time I looked in the mirror. Every night, I went back to that bar, desperate to see her again, to feel whole. She never showed. But something else happened—my tastes changed. No more parties or casual encounters. I craved something deeper, something darker.

> I thought it was her I wanted. But then, one night, I saw her reflection in a passing window, just behind my own. Her eyes met mine, and for a moment, I saw it—my own eyes, black and hollow, like the soul had been drained out of them.

> I'm not me anymore.

> These nights, I don't feel human. My skin is pale, my hands colder, shaking with a hunger I can't name. There's a sharpness to my teeth that wasn't there before, and the people I see, strangers on the street—they don't look like people anymore. They look like food.

> So I'm telling this story now because I'm fading fast. Whatever I am, whatever she's made me, it's spreading through me, turning me into something else, something I can't stop. Soon I won't be Phil Martins. Soon, I won't be able to tell myself from her.

> To whoever's reading this, consider this my warning: there are things out there that wear human skin but are far from it. And if you see us, it may already be too late.

> Though we may look human, we are not far from you. Beware.