"Meal?" I repeated. "What's that supposed to—"
I gulped, damn it.
"What happens if we don't get these meals?"
The voice didn't hesitate.
[Well,] Yamir began casually, [since you already absorbed the power, no backing out now. Without regular meals… You die. Simple as that. First, you hit a starvation state, and when that happens, I take over to keep us alive.]
He paused.
[Mind you, if I help, I keep all the energy. I won't be sharing it, well let's say 90% would do to keep you alive... Oh—and don't worry, I won't touch your… pets. That is not my thing.]
He said with disgust.
I gulped again.
He had to mean what I thought he meant… right?
"Meals" and "pets"… yeah, I could picture what they somehow were supposed to be.
[Anyway,] he went on breezily, [you're already running low on energy. That transformation took a lot out of you. So—why aren't you moving? Find your friend, meal kid.]
"About that…" I gestured to myself. "Wings. Horns. Tail. Not exactly street-friendly stuff here. Pretty sure I'll get bagged and tagged by a secret government lab if I step outside… I don't want to be experimented on, man!"
The voice inside my head sighed again.
[And here I thought they were fashionable everywhere, fine, fine… But just know—those features are permanent; they came with the package of power. They are an essential part of who you are now. I can conceal them from the lower races, make them invisible, but not completely talk them out of the picture, they will appear when you are at your strongest, so make sure you keep your lust in check… if you don't want them to appear in the middle of the deed that is.]
Suddenly, the weight on my back eased.
My shorts did not have an extra bulge… on the back, that is.
I reached up—my horns were gone too.
I exhaled, relieved—until I felt my hair fall past my shoulders again.
"How about this long hair?"
[Nope. Can't help you there.]
[Just grab scissors. Or a knife. Maybe a chainsaw. It's kind of… durable now.]
I scratched at the long, silky strands, groaning.
What barber was going to use a chainsaw to cut my hair, it must be like steel, I gave it a small tug and found that my strength was too much as I caused my head to jerk forward violently.
[Alright,] Yamir yawned. [I'm off to nap. Find a meal before sunset—or it won't be me you hear next time.]
The voice cut off like a call being hung but inside my mind.
It became dead silent. No snarky remarks, no echo, nothing.
I stood there for a few seconds, staring at the bookshelf like it owed me answers.
I had forgotten to ask about it before the damn guy cut all communications.
"Damn it… what do you mean a meal?!"
I ran my hands through my hair in frustration.
I'm a damn virgin, damn it!
I didn't spend my teen years chasing girls—I spent them buried in books, acing exams, and scraping for scholarships.
I worked my ass off for this house.
Didn't party. Didn't date, hell, I did not live.
It was all about the studies, I would enjoy life in university, not in some old ass high school.
And now this?
I forced myself to breathe. Slowly. In, out. In—
Cough, cough.
Of course, I had forgotten I was in a damn dusty attic, even my own breathing was rebelling against me now.
Panic wouldn't help. I needed to think.
That's when I noticed my glasses sliding down my nose.
I pushed them up—and blinked. The room was clear. Sharp. Vivid.
Wait—what?
I took them off and looked around again.
Perfect vision!
Great. Another perk, I guess. I always hated wearing those damn things anyway.
I tossed them across the room. They hit the old couch, skidded once, twice—then slammed into the wooden armrest with a sharp crack.
The frame snapped clean in half.
"…Damn my strength," I muttered, staring at the broken pieces.
Good riddance.
But the "meal" thing was still gnawing at me.
What was I supposed to do? Just find someone and… what? Feed? Flirt? Pounce?
Before my thoughts could spiral further, my phone buzzed.
Incoming call: Aunt Becca.
Was she still hung up on me getting the house? What did she expect?
She was just Dad's stepsister. There was no blood between us. And from what he told me, his stepmom had bailed on her husband, my grandpa, long ago—
At least, that's what Dad always told me.
Hell, I wasn't even born when all that drama went down.
Was she still hung up that I got the house instead of her? What did she expect, she was just my dad's stepsister; it was not like she could inherit it after her mother ran off on my grandpa.
At least that was what my father told me; hell, I wasn't even born when all that drama happened.
Still… she'd always been sweet to me. Softer than most of Dad's side of the family.
I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the "Accept" button with a little bit of caution.
"Hello?"
Her voice came through instantly.
[Dorian! Perfect, you picked up. I was just thinking about you…]
There was a pause. She sounded tired, maybe strained.
[Your father told me the house was officially in your name now. Do you think… maybe I could stay in it? Just for a couple of weeks. While you sell it. I really need somewhere to lay low.]
Another pause. Her voice lowered.
[Things… haven't been well.]
I didn't even have to guess; it was probably her husband again.
The deadbeat.
Every time he got in trouble, she ended up paying the price. Black eyes hidden behind sunglasses. That fake smile that didn't quite reach her voice when she said she was "just tired."
Yeah. I knew this tone. Heard it before.
And now she wanted to stay here.
"Did you finally decide to leave him—uhm, yeah! Aunt Becca, you're welcome to stay. I probably won't sell the house, though. I'm still cleaning it out, so it's a bit messy right now, but if you don't mind that, sure."
A sigh of relief came from the other end of the call.
[Good. I was hoping you'd say that. Anyway, I'm already packed. I'll probably be there in a few hours—hopefully with enough strength to help you clean. As thanks for letting me crash, Dory. Just don't put me on heavy lifting. I'm getting too old for that.]
"Yeah, no problem there. I'll have everything set up before you arrive. Might be a little dusty, but nothing too bad."
I flexed my arm without thinking and caught the sight of a solid bicep bulge.
Damn, I look good!
[Great. I'll bring something to eat then. See you soon, Dory.]
The line went dead.
I set the phone down and ran a hand through my hair, then looked around the room.
I needed to clear my head.
There was no better way to stay sane than to stay productive.
At least, that had always worked for me.
And with a house that needed cleaning, well—that was something I could control.
I tore a strip from the part of my shirt that had already ripped and used it to tie my hair back. I wasn't a fan of it brushing against my shoulders—it was distracting, and honestly, annoying.
There was still something strange about all this—my vision hadn't just returned; it was better than perfect.
I could see through the dim light like it was midday. Crisp edges with no blur, no strain, it was awesome for someone who had to use glasses since he was five.
"Well… not everything went to shit," I muttered. "Let's get to work. This power won't make me money."
I started with the attic. No more stuffing things up there—I didn't want any more surprises hidden above my head. One by one, I moved boxes down with ease, storing everything neatly in the garage.
And then I saw it.
Covered in a dust-streaked sheet, resting at the far end of the garage, was something I hadn't really noticed before.
Curious, I walked over and grabbed a corner of the fabric.
With one pull, it came off in a load of dust—revealed an old car beneath it.
There, right in front of me, was a rusty classic. No wheels, lifted up by a pair of old tires. Neglected… but still beautiful.
The silver paint was dulled by time but still regal, like the metal itself refused to rust. The long hood, the wide grille, the split-star emblem—all pristine.
But it was the doors that caught my breath.
I ran a hand over the smooth metal, tracing the elegant line from front to rear.
"…Why the hell would Grandpa leave this here?" I whispered.
Then again… why wouldn't he? That old man never liked sharing his stuff.
The door clicked, then rose on its hinges—like wings.
I leaned in, half-expecting to be hit with the stench of mildew or the reek of something long-dead.
But instead, I was met with… the scent of genuine leather—and a whole lot of dust.
The interior was aged, sure—slightly dusty and worn in some areas—but it was clean.
The dashboard was a deep walnut tone, polished metal dials catching what little light filtered into the garage. The steering wheel—thin, delicate-looking.
It was bone white, framed by chrome so smooth it mirrored my reflection.
As for the seats, they were slightly faded but still stunning. Black leather with red stitching, like veins tracing across a sleeping body. Cracked in spots, but solid. A little oil, and they'd be good as new.
It was elegant. Untouched by time.
This car hadn't been abandoned.
It had been waiting.
"…Guess I'm not going anywhere anytime soon though."
A damn shame…
That's when the doorbell rang, sharp and unexpected, snapping me out of the moment.
I lifted my smartwatch—still clinging stubbornly to my wrist, despite everything—and checked the time.
A few hours had passed since the call.
Aunt Becca!
I glanced down at myself, brushing dust off my arms, then leaned toward the side of the car to check my reflection in the window.
No horns or wings, good.
Still me—at least on the outside.
Just had to keep it together. Just had to keep her from noticing anything… off.
I rushed to the door, brushing the dust off the new shirt I had changed into.
I opened the door just before she could knock again.
There she stood, Aunt Becca.
Still as lovely as ever—just a little older, just slightly. Time had softened her traits, not dulled them.
Her features held that same gentle charm I remembered a few years ago during the last Christmas party.
Wavy brown hair tied back into a loose bun with braids to the side, sharp honey eyes, and a smile that looked tired but warm.
She never told me her age. I'd always guessed late thirties… early forties maybe. Honestly, she still looked like she could pass for a younger woman, especially since he was packing those luscious curves.
"Hey, Dory," she said with a soft laugh, shifting the weight of a large duffel bag on her shoulder. "You look... ah... taller..."
It was faint—but I could've sworn I heard a gulp.
I wasn't sure though, was it from me... or her?