I pushed myself up, every muscle screaming in protest, staggering toward the narrow walkway that led to another rooftop. My vision blurred, the edges darkening as I stumbled forward, the pain pulling me under like a riptide. I could hear the metal groaning beneath my weight, the rusted bolts barely holding as I crossed.

Another shot rang out, the bullet ricocheting off the railing beside me, the sharp ping of metal-on-metal ringing in my ears. I reached the edge, glancing at the gap between the buildings. It wasn’t far, but in my condition, it might as well have been a mile.

I backed up, ignoring the blood that trickled down my side, the burning ache in my shoulder, and ran. I pushed off, my body hurtling through the air, the void between the buildings yawning below me. For a moment, time seemed to stop, the wind rushing past, the world narrowing to just that moment—a desperate leap between half-life and death.

I hit the rooftop hard, my legs buckling beneath me, and I rolled, the impact rattling through my bones. I lay there for a heartbeat, gasping for air, the pain blurring everything, my thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.

And then came the hunger. It curled up inside me like a serpent, coiling tight, eating away at me. Not now, I begged, but the need clawed at me, fierce and relentless. My body wanted to replace what I’d lost… with theirs. I started to shake, the urge slithering through my veins, whispering dark promises. I knew the cost—eat humans, lose humanity.

My hand fumbled to my jacket pocket, fingers cutting against shards of broken glass. Two of the three vials I kept were shattered, leaking out their precious contents, but the third… my last… was intact, cold and smooth in my blood-slick fingers. I forced a steady breath, holding on. A few more were tucked away back in my car. My car.

I quickly downed it, feeling the relief spread through me like a cooling balm. I took a deep breath, steadying myself as the hunger ebbed, just enough to think clearly again.

Voices rose behind me, closer now. They’d seen me jump. They wouldn’t stop. I forced myself to my knees, then to my feet, each movement a battle. My hand pressed against the wound in my side, the warmth of my own blood seeping through my fingers. I stumbled forward, every step a challenge, every breath a knife in my lungs.

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

I reached a door, an old maintenance entrance, the wood splintered and worn. I threw myself against it, the door creaking before it gave way, spilling me into a dark stairwell. I slammed it shut behind me and leaned against it, panting, my vision tunneling as dark spots swam in front of my eyes.

I could hear them on the rooftop now, their footsteps thudding, their voices cold and focused. They were searching for me, and it wouldn’t be long before they found the door. I pushed myself away, stumbling down the stairs, each step jarring the bullet wound, the pain like fire burning through my side.

I didn’t know where I was going, just that I had to keep moving. Had to stay ahead of them. The stairwell twisted down into darkness, and I followed, my hand skimming the wall to keep myself upright, my legs weak beneath me.

Somewhere above, I heard the door crash open, their voices filling the stairwell. They were close. Too close.

I reached the bottom, a narrow hallway stretching out before me, dimly lit by an old Infernum bulb. I ran, or tried to, my body barely responding, my steps uneven, the world tilting around me. The hallway seemed to stretch forever, the end nowhere in sight, and behind me, I could hear them—getting closer, relentless.

My hand found the handle of a maintenance closet door, and I muttered a silent prayer as I turned it… unlocked. I slipped inside and let the door click shut behind me, collapsing against the wall as my legs gave way. The room was small, cluttered with forgotten junk—boxes, old tools, dust-covered shelves. I pressed my back against the wall, breathing hard, my vision blurring as I tried to stay conscious.

I could hear them outside, their footsteps, their voices. They were close now, right outside the door. I held my breath, every muscle tense, my heart pounding in my ears.

I tightened my grip on the gun, the cold metal slick with sweat. I hadn’t planned on needing it tonight—I'd left my sword back at the motel, thinking I wouldn't need it for spywork. But at least I had my gun. I had one last chance to make a stand. The doorknob rattled, and I leveled the barrel at the door, finger resting against the trigger. Only a few bullets left.

They were coming.

The door began to creak open, and I held my breath, my pulse pounding in my ears. This was it.