The crowd roars in my ears as I step into the ring. Sweat drips down my brow, but I don’t feel the heat of it. No, I feel something else—a pressure in the air, a tension, a tingle in the back of my mind. It’s familiar. It always comes right before I lose control.

I shift my stance, watching Ibrahim. His fists are clenched, the veins in his arms bulging. He’s younger than me, but he’s strong, quick. He’s also an idiot, and that’s why he thinks he can take me.

The bell rings.

Time seems to slow.

I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like the whole world is moving in slow motion, and I’m the only one who’s not. His movements blur as I wait for him to make his first move. I can hear his heartbeat, feel it in my chest like it’s thumping right next to my ear. It’s louder than everything else—the crowd, the announcer’s voice, even the clang of the bell. That pulse is calling to me, rhythmic, steady. His life’s blood, flowing through his veins, right under the skin.

A flicker of temptation tugs at the edges of my thoughts. It always happens when I’m on edge, when the fight or flight instinct kicks in. The scent of his sweat, the rush of adrenaline in the air, it all makes me want to "take". 

I fight it. The feeling is just that—an urge. Something deep inside, a whisper that tells me to take a bite. But I ignore it, like I always do. It’s a feeling. It doesn’t mean I have to act on it.

I dodge his first punch, stepping to the side with a speed that shouldn’t be humanly possible. His fist swishes past my face, and I see the twitch of surprise in his eyes. He wasn’t expecting me to move that fast. He won’t be the first to underestimate me, though.

I move, and I strike.

A right jab to his ribs. His breath hisses out as I feel the force of it sink in. I don’t even need to think about it. The power surges through me, reflexes kicking in, guiding my every move. There’s no effort. It’s like I was born to do this.

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

But there’s always something darker underneath the surface.

Ibrahim staggers back, gasping, and I see the blood pumping in his neck. The carotid artery, full of blood, pulsating under his skin. It’s almost too easy to imagine sinking my teeth into that vein. Just one bite.

My hand shakes, and I stop myself just before I move closer. I can almost feel the pull, the power that would surge through me if I gave in. I don’t need it. I don’t want it. But it’s there, nagging at me. 

He comes at me again, his eyes wild with rage. He’s slow now, trying to catch up to my movements, but it’s too late. I duck, then land a heavy uppercut to his chin. He crumples, and I step back just in time to avoid his body collapsing on me.

The crowd’s roar floods back into my ears, and for a moment, everything is clear. I’m back in the moment. But I can still feel it—the pulse of his blood. The hum in my veins, like the fight’s not over yet. 

I watch as Ibrahim takes a knee, holding his jaw. The ref moves in, giving him a count, but I know he won’t be getting up. He’s done. I’ve won again. 

But the temptation lingers.

I glance at the crowd, trying to shake it off. A half-smile tugs at my lips. They think I’m a freak, but they don’t know anything. They see what they want to see—a kid from Zaria who’s just a little too good at this sport. What they don’t see is the other part of me. The one that’s always hungry, always watching, always fighting a battle I can never win.

I look away from Ibrahim. He’s still breathing, his pulse slow but steady. I force myself to take a deep breath, feel my heart beating like a drum in my chest. I don’t need blood. I don’t *want* blood. But when it calls to me, it’s hard to ignore.

My hands are shaking again. I close my fists, take a step back, and look toward the ropes. The ref gives me a nod, and I give him a half-hearted salute before stepping out of the ring.

I don’t know why I keep doing this. Boxing helps me focus, keeps the dark urges in check. It gives me an outlet. I don’t fight because I want to hurt people. I fight because I have to. I need to remind myself that I’m still in control.

But deep down, I know. There’s a part of me that could snap at any moment. That part of me—whatever it is, whatever I am—is growing stronger every day.

And I hate it.

I slip through the crowd, keeping my head down. The fans are already dispersing, but I don’t care. I just want to be alone. I need to breathe. I need to forget that feeling.

But it’s always there. Waiting. Just below the surface.