The blood. It’s thick in the air, clinging to everything—sticky, suffocating. I feel it coat my skin, seeping into my very soul. The bodies lie around me, twisted and broken in ways no human should ever be. Their faces are frozen in terror. Their lives—I took them. Each gasp, each scream—they echo in my head, louder and louder until I can’t tell if it’s their pain or my own.

My breathing was ragged, shallow—but not from exhaustion. It was the chaos in my mind, the weight of the control, the power I had just wielded. All the hunters, dead. Every single one. No one was left.

Did I really do this?

The thought hit me like a phantom—distant, absurd—but it didn’t settle. I was far beyond doubt now. The power tasted too sweet—like poison dripping down my throat.

I want to forget it. I want to scrub my mind clean, but it won’t go away. Not this time. The blood. The bodies.

And then, standing there, unmoving, is Faraday. His eyes glowing red, his expression blank. A puppet waiting for its master’s next command. My command.

The compulsion was still holding, but it felt weaker with each passing moment. Faraday had been alive for a thousand years. Why was this even possible? I was still half-human, barely awakened.

You’re mine now. But for how long?

I should feel powerful. In control. But I don’t. I’m falling apart. The guilt is a weight I can’t shake, sinking deeper and deeper into me. But there’s something else underneath it. Something darker, something much more primal. It’s rage. Raw and untamed.

Am I compromising my mental health or his? This is the second time I’m using Psycho Flux tonight. The first time was on that 500-year-old vampire assassin Mika, and it was enough to glimpse who Conrad is and what he did to her family. But what if this time is worse? What if I lose control completely?

The fog around me is thick, oppressive. Visibility is low. What if these aren’t just memories or visions? What if there are illusions, traps set by Conrad or even my own fractured mind? I haven’t killed before—not like this. How much guilt is enough to break someone?

I carry the memories of two killers who have spent centuries doing unspeakable things. And Faraday—this vampire whose name I now know—wasn’t just a killer. He was a torturer. Centuries of pain and death are coursing through me. What does that do to someone’s mental health? I can feel myself unraveling, piece by piece.

I can’t breathe. My emotions are unstable—too volatile to contain. I’m angry. Angry at being hunted by both sides, at being nothing more than a pawn in Conrad’s game. He’s pulled every string to bring me here, and now, I’m the one who’s bleeding. The one who’s breaking.

Concentration. I reminded myself, trying to push back the chaos swirling inside. But it didn’t stop. The voices were there. The memories.

Snippets of blood, violence, screams, the crackling of fire, the smell of burning flesh. Faraday’s memories. And worse, the others—the ones whom the vampire woman I compelled before killed. I saw their faces, their deaths. All of them, flashing through my mind. It was like standing on the edge of an abyss, staring into an ocean of blood.

The first vision struck like a hammer, pulling me out of my own body and into his. I wasn’t Kyon anymore—I was Faraday. The shift was so sudden, so visceral, I could feel the weight of his age, the centuries of malice wrapped around his soul like chains.

A damp stone room, dimly lit by flickering candles, reeked of sweat and iron. A man was tied to a chair, his hands pinned to the wooden arms with nails driven through his palms. Blood pooled beneath him, a slow, steady drip echoing in the oppressive silence.

Faraday was there, standing close, a twisted smile on his face as he tilted a candle, letting hot wax drip onto the man's exposed skin. The victim cried out, a raw, guttural sound that clawed at my ears.

“Where is she?” Faraday’s voice was smooth, too calm for the brutality of the moment.

The man shook his head, tears streaming down his face. “I don’t know! Please, I swear—”

Faraday laughed, a low, cruel sound. He leaned in, his fangs glinting in the candlelight as he whispered, “I can smell the lie on you. You can hold your tongue all you like, but it won’t save you.”

The screams that followed were deafening. The victim’s cries for mercy, for death, echoed through my mind like a haunting melody. Faraday didn’t flinch. He didn’t hesitate. Each movement—another nail, another burn—was precise, deliberate. He was enjoying it.

I tried to look away, but I couldn’t. I was trapped, forced to witness every moment as if it were my own hands committing the atrocity.

The vision shifted. The screams faded, replaced by the faint strains of a violin. The air was heavy with the scent of perfume and wine, mingling with something darker—blood.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

An opulent ballroom stretched out before me, chandeliers casting golden light over a sea of elegant faces. Men in finely tailored suits, women in flowing gowns adorned with jewels. They danced, their laughter soft and melodious, masking the predatory hunger that lingered beneath the surface.

Faraday moved through the crowd, his steps unhurried, his demeanor regal. He wore a dark coat, the fabric rich and perfectly tailored, a single ruby glinting at his throat.

He stopped near a young woman—a courtesan, by the way she held herself, her beauty practiced and deliberate. She smiled at him, her painted lips curving in invitation.

“You’re quite striking,” she said, her voice a playful purr.

Faraday smiled, a predator hiding behind a mask of charm. “And you, my dear, are radiant.”

He led her to the edge of the room, away from prying eyes. The music swelled, covering the faint gasp as he sank his teeth into her neck. She stiffened at first, but then her body relaxed, her pulse slowing as he drank.

Around the room, others fed as well, their movements so discreet, so practiced, that it seemed a natural part of the evening. It was a carefully choreographed display of power and hunger, hidden in plain sight. The humans didn’t know. Or perhaps they chose not to see.

The scene shifted again, dragging me through time like a leaf caught in a violent wind. The grand ballroom dissolved into a smoky, dimly lit room. The 20th century now. Men in tailored suits sat around a polished table, their voices low and calculated. I recognized them—politicians, business magnates, men whose faces had graced newspapers and history books.

Faraday stood in the corner, silent and imposing. His presence was a shadow over the room, his expression unreadable. And there, at the head of the table, was Conrad. His smile was sharp, his words smooth as he guided the conversation.

“You see, gentlemen,” Conrad said, his tone dripping with false camaraderie, “what’s good for your kind is good for ours. Cooperation benefits everyone.”

One of the men, a senator, leaned forward, his face pale but determined. “And if we refuse?”

Conrad’s smile widened. “Oh, you won’t. Not if you value your families.”

Faraday’s gaze shifted to me—or rather, through me. I wasn’t supposed to be here, but the weight of his stare made me feel exposed, vulnerable. The memories weren’t just visions. They were alive, tangible, as though I could reach out and touch them.

When the visions ended, I was on my knees, gasping for air. The fog of the hotel hallway seemed heavier now, pressing down on me like a living thing. My hands trembled, slick with sweat, though it felt like blood. My mind reeled from what I’d seen.

Faraday’s cruelty, his hunger, his absolute lack of remorse—it was all too much. And Conrad. Always Conrad. Manipulating, controlling, pulling strings from the shadows.

The memories weren’t just haunting—they were consuming. They felt real. Too real. As if they were my own.

I doubled over, clutching my head as Faraday’s voice echoed in my mind once more.

Focus. Focus. It’s not me. It’s not me.

But the voices didn’t stop. Faraday’s voice echoed in my mind, low and mocking. “We are all killers, boy. Even you now.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to push the phantom thoughts away, but the image of Faraday, standing tall in front of me, his eyes glowing red and his claws bloodied, didn’t fade. The sound of his breathing, low and heavy, filled my ears. It wasn’t just him. It was the faces, the screams. They were everywhere.

I staggered back, my heart pounding in my chest, feeling my grip on reality slipping. I pressed my hand against the cold steel of a column, trying to steady myself. The fog seemed to thicken, the shapes within it shifting like phantoms, flickering in and out of focus. I couldn’t tell what was real anymore.

Another flash—a face. A young hunter’s face, his eyes wide with terror. "I’m not like them..."

I snarled, the sound coming from deep in my throat, an animalistic growl of frustration and anger. My grip tightened on the column, my teeth bared. No. No. Focus.

“Faraday,” I say, my voice a harsh whisper, barely audible. He doesn’t respond, but I can feel his presence—he’s there, waiting, his will bound to mine. He won’t move unless I tell him to. I’m the one holding the strings. But I’m not in control of this anymore. He’s in my mind. I feel his memories—centuries of death and destruction—and they’re becoming mine. I’m losing myself.

But I can’t let go. Not yet. I will not lose this battle.

“Where is Conrad?” I hiss. My voice trembles, filled with a venomous heat. I want answers. I want to tear this all down.

Faraday doesn’t move at first. His eyes narrow, and I feel him hesitate. He can sense the change in me—this isn’t just some lost boy anymore. The rage, the madness that swells inside me is something new. And it’s coming for Conrad.

“Where?” I ask again, my voice rising.

Faraday finally speaks, his voice low and cold. “He’s on the upper floors. The 46th through 49th. You’ll have to move fast. They’ve been watching you.”

I nod, teeth gritted, eyes burning. I can feel the tension in my body—the pull of the compulsion, the need to move. It’s in me now. The hunger, the need to strike. The desire for revenge.

I push through the fog that clouds my mind. I can’t let it consume me, not yet. But every step feels like a battle. How many steps before I lose myself? How many before I become the monster I fear?

I leave the boiler room behind, my feet hitting the cold, hard floor of the hallway. The sounds of the hotel fade, replaced by the sound of my breathing. It’s hard to focus. My vision is clouded, not just by the steam, but by the memories, the thoughts that aren’t mine.

As I move through the corridors, my mind races. The pain of what I’ve done—the lives I’ve taken—it gnaws at me. But more than that, it fuels something else. It fuels my rage.

Every step is driven by anger now. Anger at Conrad. At this hotel. At this city. He’s the one who put me here, who forced my hand. If it wasn’t for his invitation, I wouldn’t be caught in this nightmare. He’s the reason I’m standing here, surrounded by death. And he will pay for it.

He will pay.

The cameras blink above me, watching, always watching. I know they’re tracking my every move. Let them. They won’t stop me.

I pass the elevators, but I don’t trust them. They’re too slow. I need speed. And a little chaos.

I slip into the stairwell, the steel door slamming shut behind me. My footsteps echo in the silence as I begin to climb, each step heavier than the last. I’m ascending, but it’s not just physically. I can feel it, the madness creeping up on me. It’s too much. It’s too damn much.

But I can’t stop. Not now. Conrad’s up there. I can’t let him slip away. He won’t escape this.

“Faraday,” I say, my voice tight. “Tell me how to get to him.”

The vampire’s eyes flicker for a moment, as if he’s considering the question. “You’ll need to go through the corporate levels. The 35th through 40th floors. But they’ll be watching. The cameras, the guards—they’ll know you’re coming.”

“Let them know,” I mutter under my breath, my hands clenched into fists. The rage surges within me again. “I’m not hiding anymore.”