Light
I open my eyes. I don't understand. Eyes. What are they? Words, thoughts, flicker in my mind—eyes are what I see with. What do I see? Everything around me is strange, unclear, unfamiliar. It's as if shrouded in fog. Who am I? Where am I?
Thoughts emerge in my head. Questions, questions. After hours, knowledge begins to form. I haven't moved. Knowledge? It's what I possess. But what do I possess? Questions, questions. Many remain unanswered. Many receive invisible answers.
Darkness envelops me, yet faint light seeps through cracks in gray stone. The world around me is alien, but it doesn't concern me. Questions still swirl in my mind. Something catches my gaze—a sharp beam piercing through a crevice. What is it? A glint? What's a glint? Answers appear in my head, as if by magic. Head? Magic.
The sun. It irritates, scratching at my senses like a claw on bone. I close my eyes, and the light fades. Back then, I didn't know what eyes were, didn't know words, didn't know anything except the emptiness in my throat—itching, craving blood. Much knowledge came with time, not at once.
But even then, my thirst for something was boundless.
I open my eyes again. Cold touches my skin, but it doesn't harm. Nothing harms, except the thirst. It burns within, commanding me. Muscles tense, bones crack like dry wood snapping. I rise; it's time to move. Thoughts form in my mind. My body is tall, covered in hard plates, like armor forged by nature. Armor? Nature?
My head strikes an icy ceiling, my horns—sharp, cumbersome—carve deep grooves. They catch on everything, hindering me, but I don't know how to remove them. No knowledge appears for that. They're a nuisance. Irritating.
My fingers end in black claws, long as blades. Inside, hunger grows—not for meat, not for water, but for something warm, alive, flowing. This hunger is a driving force, compelling me to move, to think, to live.
I emerge from the cramped shelter. I turn back. Just a hole in the stone. Am I large? Or small? An answer forms in my mind. Three meters tall. What is three? What are meters? No answer comes. Underfoot, white, prickly stuff crunches, spreading like an endless blanket. I crouch, touch it—it's snow. I know this. But how? Wind hurls sharp grains into my face, but they don't hurt. Annoying. I stand. Before me lies a vast wasteland. The land is flat, dotted with low, thorny bushes and sparse trees, their needle-like leaves bending under an invisible weight. That weight is gravity. It exists on all planets, except…
My head aches. What is pain? Pain is an unpleasant or distressing sensation, a physical or emotional suffering. It serves as a protective signal of real or perceived damage to tissues or psychological distress; pain can also stem from disruptions in the nervous system.
Where do these words come from? Nervous system? Do I have one? Yes, I do. The answer arrives.
Questions, questions. Ants called questions scurry through my mind.
In the distance, shadows move—massive, with long trunks dragging through the snow, uprooting something beneath the white blanket. Their scent is heavy, thick, but it doesn't draw me. Mammoths. Their blood is dead, devoid of emotion, of life. I need something else—something that breathes fear, something that trembles.
Human…
I walk. My steps are light, claws barely grazing the snow. The ground is solid, but sometimes it gives way, leaving deep tracks. I don't know where I'm going, but hunger leads me. Time slips away—days, weeks, perhaps months. I just keep moving forward. Animals surround me, predators and prey alike. They scatter at my presence, instinctively sensing death. Bears, wolves, even saber-toothed cats—all flee, tails tucked like cowardly dogs. It amuses me. What is amusement? Perhaps it's what makes me linger, watching their panicked flight longer than necessary.
After a time in this empty world, I find tracks. Narrow, shallow, with two rows of indentations. They smell sharp, alive, calling to me. This is my prey. I follow, my predator's instinct sharpening my senses, making the world clearer. Everything becomes vivid, as if I've been given light. The light of the hunt.
Darkness thickens, the world turns black, but it doesn't blind me—in it, I am stronger. The light above stings my eyes, but night cloaks me. I know this. Somehow. I see heat, like patches of light in the blackness. They move, they smell. The wind howls, noisy, but through it all, I hear breathing—distant, but alive, sweet. So sweet, saliva fills my mouth. It's thick, like resin.
In a hollow where the wind is weaker, red glows. It dances, devouring dark chunks. Around it are five beings. Short, with thick hair hanging from their faces like moss. Humans. So weak, they can't even endure the cold. I don't feel it at all. Their bodies are draped in crude hides, glistening with fat. They sit by the red, holding sticks with sizzling, charred meat. Fire and flesh. The smell is revolting, but their blood… It's potent, flowing warm and fast within them. Thirst awakens, clawing outward like a beast tearing through a cage.
I watch them for a long time, studying their movements, their weaknesses. They're slow, clumsy. Their eyes see poorly in the dark, their ears miss faint sounds. Perfect prey. One stands, moves to the edge of the light, relieves himself. His back is to me. Fool. He doesn't know death lives in the darkness.
Images of the hunt form in my mind. As if I've always known what to do. My movements are fluid, each step precise. The snow no longer crunches under my claws, my breath is silent. I creep up behind, feeling thirst flare brighter with every inhale.
I move. I don't crouch, don't hide—I don't need to. My steps are soundless, my claws don't crack the snow. One raises his head, squinting into the dark, but it's too late. Too slow. I'm already here.
My claws pierce his skull from behind, slicing through like thin ice. Bone cracks with a warm, wet snap. Brain splatters on my fingers—sticky, smelling of iron and something sweet. He makes a short sound, weak, like a twig snapping, then collapses, convulsing. His body still tries to live, but his mind is gone. I watch his pupils dilate, emptying. Fascinating. I'll try it.
The blood is hot, thick, filling me. The taste… extraordinary. Metallic, yet laced with something alive, pulsing. The flesh is unpleasant, foul. I discard it. But the thirst doesn't relent. It burns brighter, demanding more. The others leap up, grabbing sticks with pointed ends. They want to attack me. I slowly raise my head from the corpse, blood dripping from my chin, and look at these pathetic creatures.
Where do these thoughts come from? They appear unbidden. Inferior? Does that mean I'm superior?
Yes, I am superior. I am Higher.
Their movements are clumsy, stumbling in panic. Their hands tremble so much their spears slip from their fingers. How funny. What is laughter? Laughter is a human reaction to internal or external stimuli, involving specific sounds and involuntary movements of facial and respiratory muscles. Human? Face?
I touch my face. It's long, with sharp cheekbones and sunken cheeks. The skin is hard, like old leather. My lips feel fangs—long, sharp. A fitting face for a predator.
I smile. My lips stretch into a grin, baring teeth. One of them screams—a high, panicked sound. But they don't appreciate my reaction to their clumsiness. Perhaps it's my horns, or maybe the blood of their kin on my face. Probably the horns.
"Why don't you smile back?" I say, surprised by the sound of my own voice. It's low, raspy, like stone grinding against stone.
They don't answer. They tremble harder. One tries to run, but his legs fail him. Urine trickles down his leg, staining his hide. The scent of fear thickens, intoxicating, like wine.
My body acts on its own—I lunge at the second. My claws tear into his chest, ripping ribs like bars of a cage. His heart beats in my palm—hot, slick, desperately pulsing. I squeeze, feeling it burst between my fingers. Blood gushes, soaking my face, my chest. It's sweet, heady. He stares at me, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream. Life drains from him, like the fading light of their fire.
The third tries to strike with a spear. The sharp stone pierces my shoulder, but my skin is tough as armor. The spear breaks, leaving only a scratch. I look at him curiously. Painful? No. Just… unpleasant. Like a mosquito bite.
My hand wraps around his neck. My fingers, long, easily encircle his throat. Cartilage cracks like dry twigs. He tries to scream, but only wheezes. His hands claw at my chest, my face, but it's like pinching stone. I squeeze slowly, savoring the sounds he makes. His eyes bulge, his tongue lolls out. Then—silence.
They run. Their sticks lie scattered in the snow, burning brands spark and die. The fire fades, leaving only smoldering embers. I don't hurry. Their scent is strong, their tracks clear. They leave a trail of urine and sweat—a bouquet of panic that guides me better than any path.
The first hunt ignites something new in me. It's not just hunger—it's pleasure. I was made for this, every cell of my body tuned for killing. My interest in everything grows, especially in these weak creatures.
These small creatures, humans… so fascinating. So delicious. So fragile.
I find them later. The sky is dark, veiled by gray clouds. Clouds? What are clouds? Clouds are condensed water vapor suspended in the atmosphere, visible to the naked eye from Earth's surface or near-space.
Earth? Space? My head aches again. No time for pondering.
They hide in a narrow crevice between rocks, where the snow is thinner, and the ground is gray, cracked. Two breathe heavily, their bodies trembling from cold and fear. Their breath forms white puffs. They're ready for death. What is death?
Death is the cessation of life, the complete halt of biological and physiological processes.
Am I death? I end their lives. Perhaps. And I like it.
I descend to them slowly, savoring the moment. They see me, pressing against the crevice's wall. One sobs like a child. The other tries to be brave, clutching a rock fragment, holding it out like a weapon. Courage? Or just stupidity?
"Don't come closer!" he screams, his voice breaking with terror. "Stay back, demon!"
Demon? What's that? No definition comes to mind. But it sounds… fitting.
I take them both. One strikes my head with the rock—a weak blow, like a child's. The stone crumbles against my skull. I seize his arm, twisting it back until bones snap. He screams, but the sound cuts off as my claws pierce his throat. Blood spurts, warm, thick. I let it wash over my face.
The other tries to crawl away, leaving a bloody trail from scraped knees. I step on his back, hearing ribs crack. He wheezes, coughing blood. My claws slide between his shoulder blades, finding his heart. It beats desperately, trying to escape death. I squeeze harder. A spasm—and it's over.
I drink their blood, but the thirst doesn't fade. It grows, like a fire fed with logs. I need more. Much more.
The snow is deeper, my legs sink to the knees. It doesn't hinder me. I feel no resistance. Nor do I feel the cold. Thirst drives me. It's like a beast I feed, but it's never sated.
The wind brings a storm, snow pelting my face, but my eyes see heat through the blizzard. Red shapes move in the white—deer or elk. I find their herd, take one. My claws slice its neck, severing arteries. Blood sprays the snow, staining it scarlet. The taste… bland. Like water after wine. Their blood is cold, devoid of emotion, of fear. It quells hunger but brings no pleasure.
The two-legged ones—humans—are my true target. Only their blood intoxicates, only their fear satisfies.
I learn to hunt better. My claws cut more efficiently at a certain angle—top-down, tearing flesh like soft clay. My eyes see heat even in the thickest blizzard. My body knows no fatigue—I can walk for days without rest.
Humans grow craftier. Their tracks vanish among rocks; they mask their scent with ash and clay. Some groups post sentries to watch the night. But their vision is weak; they don't see me in the shadows.
Once, I step into a pit near their camp. Sharp stakes pierce my leg, sinking deep into flesh. An interesting sensation—not pain, but… awareness of damage. Blood flows, but the wound heals quickly, muscles and skin knitting before my eyes.
I taste my blood—black, thick as tar. The taste is vile, bitter. I spit it out and move on.
Time flows. Days turn to nights, moons wax and wane. I hunt, kill, drink blood. I lose count—how many? Dozens? Hundreds? Each death brings pleasure, each scream is music.
Humans change. Their tools grow sharper, their shelters sturdier. Some groups are larger, stronger. But this only makes the hunt more interesting.
I find a large group—over twenty. Their faces are cleaner, their clothes adorned with colored stones and bones. Wealthy? Strong? I don't care. Their blood is just as red.
Their camp is a circle of hides stretched over mammoth bones. A large fire burns in the center, surrounded by chunks of meat. They make rhythmic sounds—singing? Dancing? It doesn't matter.
I wait until deep night. Most sleep, only two guards remain. I take the first quietly—claws pierce the base of his skull, severing the spine. He doesn't make a sound, just collapses.
The second turns at a noise. He sees his companion's body and starts to scream. Too late. My teeth sink into his throat, blood flooding my mouth. Sweet, laced with adrenaline.
The camp awakens. They grab weapons—stone axes, spears with fire-hardened tips. Some seize burning brands from the fire. Fire… it burns my skin, leaving black marks. Unpleasant, but not deadly.
I kill them all, one by one. Some try to flee, but their legs are short, mine long. I catch them easily. Others try to fight—their weapons break against my skin, their blows merely annoy.
I save the best for last. The elder—gray-haired, his face scarred. He doesn't run, doesn't cry. He stands tall, meeting my gaze. There's no fear in his eyes—only sorrow.
"You've come for us all," he says quietly. I understand his words, though I don't know how.
"Yes," I reply. "For all."
He nods, closes his eyes. I kill him quickly—a single motion. A slash to the head, sent flying. He deserved such a death. Why did I think that? Staring at his body, I couldn't understand. Where do these thoughts come from?
Their blood is sweet, but even this massacre doesn't sate my thirst. It grows. Simple killings grow dull.
I learn a new art—the art of terror.
I begin to play with my prey. I don't kill immediately but stalk them for days. I leave signs of my presence—claw marks on trees, bloody trails, body parts scattered along paths.
Their fear becomes tangible, hanging in the air like fog, permeating everything. Humans stop traveling alone, gathering in larger groups. It doesn't help.
I strike at unexpected moments—when they eat, sleep, or go about their tasks. I don't always kill; sometimes I wound, letting them escape. They tell others of the horned beast, the demon that comes in the night.
My legend spreads faster than I do. Every settlement knows my story; every mother frightens her children with tales of the horned creature.
It's… pleasing. To be fear incarnate. To be a legend.
I find a group of hunters seeking me. Their weapons are better—sharper stone tips, longer spears. They smear themselves with ash and dirt to mask their scent.
Brave. Or mad.
I track them for three days. They know I'm near—they glance around, whisper, sleep in shifts. Their fear is thick, intoxicating. I breathe it in deeply.
On the third night, I strike. I don't kill immediately—I play. I tear an arm from one, gut another. I make them watch their companions die slowly, in agony.
I leave the last alive. He's crazed with terror, his hair turned white in a single night. I let him go—let him tell what he saw.
The world changes around me. Snow recedes, revealing black soil with the first green shoots. Glaciers crack and collapse, freeing rivers. The climate warms.
Time. Months? Years? Decades? I don't care. Time flows. Centuries, millennia. The sun crosses the sky thousands of times. I don't change. The hunt never ends.
Humans change too. Their settlements grow larger, their tools more complex. They tame animals, work the land. But this doesn't make them stronger—only gathers more prey in one place.
I find the first true settlement—dozens of dwellings made of stone and wood, encircled by a palisade. Hundreds live here: men, women, children.
Children… their blood is especially sweet. Untainted by adult fear, pure as spring water. But killing them quickly is boring—they don't understand what's happening.
I infiltrate the settlement at night. Guards doze at the gates, their torches burning low. I take the first on the wall—claws pierce his back, finding his heart. He dies silently.
I move from house to house. Each holds a family—father, mother, children.
By dawn, half the settlement is dead. The rest wake to find the slaughter. Their screams echo through the valley.
Some try to fight back, gathering in groups, waving weapons. I scatter them like kindling. Their blood mingles with the morning dew.
By noon, none remain alive. The settlement is a city of the dead. I sit among the corpses, sated, content. But thirst stirs again.
Years flow like blood. I cross continents; oceans are no barrier—I walk their floors, needing no air. Everywhere, I find humans. Everywhere, I sow death.
Their civilizations rise and fall under my claws, like branches in the wind. I see them build their first stone cities, raise walls, thinking they'll protect them. Naive creatures. Walls shield sheep from wolves, but what can shield them from the embodiment of the hunt?
I remember the first stone city. Thousands of humans, crowded behind high walls. Their scent mingled into a suffocating blend of sweat, fear, and blood from sacrifices to their gods. Gods… laughable. If they exist, where were they when I slaughtered their flock?
Getting in was easy. Their walls were high for them, not for me. My claws dug into the stone, leaving deep gouges as I climbed. Guards on the towers slept, lulled by a false sense of safety.
I took the first quietly. My hands cupped his head, squeezing slowly. His skull cracked like a nutshell, brain seeping warm between my fingers. An interesting sensation—feeling life leave a body through such a simple act.
I moved through the city methodically, house to house. I killed families—it was efficient. While parents slept, I took the children. Not immediately, but slowly. A quiet whimper, then another. Parents woke to the smell of blood, but it was too late.
By dawn, the city was silent. Thousands of corpses lay in homes, streets, temples. I sat on the steps of the main shrine, bathed in blood, watching the rising sun. Its red light played on red pools—a beautiful sight.
But even such a slaughter didn't sate me for long. Thirst returned faster, demanding new victims, new suffering.
Oh, how dull it became. Leaving the burning city behind, I didn't look back, moving on at dawn. It was time to find other cities. Other humans.
Snow recedes, revealing black soil with sparse plants. The earth warms. I see walls, shining like water but solid. Ice. They crack and shift, leaving furrows. They're not alive; I don't touch them. At their base, humans dig, gathering shiny stones. Their blood is rare, weak. Boring. But I take them, break their pits, drink. The earth warms; white comes and goes. So dull. I find other humans—short, broad, faces covered in hair. Their blood is thicker, but they're few. So tasty. They hide in caves. I take one. He gazes without fear, making low sounds. I leave him. His blood isn't needed. Boring. No interest.
The world expands, but my goal remains. I walk, walk, walk. Endless hunt. Endless journey? What is a journey? A journey is travel across a territory or water with the purpose of exploration, education, cognition, sport, or other aims.
My purpose is the hunt. I journey.
I reach water—wide, cold, alive. On the other side, fires burn. I enter the water. It embraces my body, but I need no air. I walk the ocean floor, reaching new land. It takes time. Here, snow is thin, the ground covered in tough green plants. The humans here are different—darker skin, thinner hides. Their blood is the same. I take one by the water. He screams, but no one comes. I drink and move on. The earth warms, the shining walls vanish, leaving streams. Humans build shelters of stone and bone. They learn. Their sticks are sharper, their red brighter. I take them, but it's harder. They wait, defend. I break their walls, but lone ones are my prey. Mass slaughter is uninteresting.
Time flows like blood. Sweet blood, fast as the world around. Some are stronger, some weaker. Shelters, hides, things—all change, all grow. Only I remain unchanged.
I cross lands where sand crunches like snow, but warm. Humans here are rare, their blood strong but scarce. They wear thin hides, faces veiled against the sand. I take them at night, under the open sky. They leave signs—stone circles, tall pillars. I don't understand. What I don't understand is uninteresting.
I move on. In the distance, green appears. Forests greet me—trees taller than I, branches dark. Forest? What is a forest? A forest is an ecological system, a biome where trees are the dominant life form. It's part of nature, viewed globally as part of the biosphere or locally as a stand of trees.
I, too, am part of the biosphere, globally. I am the hunter. The Higher. They are prey.
The lowest form of life.
Humans here are small, climbing like beasts. Animals. Lowly and truly lowly. Their blood is quick, sharp. I take one. He watches as his blood drains. Their shelters are nests in branches. I climb after them, claws gripping bark. I drink and move on. It grows dull after the thousandth.
Humans change, but remain prey. I don't change, only grow stronger each day. I remain the hunter.
Their shelters grow—stones stacked high. They keep animals in pens; their blood is lazy. I take humans—they're tastier. Their sticks shoot sharp stones, wounding, but wounds close. I feel no pain. Just annoyance. I find a place where land sinks into water. Humans sail on hollowed trees, their blood smells of salt. I break their trees, drink. It's new; I like it. They build stone mountains, offer their own, their blood flows, they sing. I take them when they leave. They call me, their sounds loud. I don't know the words but hear. Some come to me. I take their blood. I move on.
I remember a word. Teotl. What is Teotl? Teotl is a Mesoamerican concept of "deity," distinct from tekutli. A central idea in Aztec mythology and philosophy: the supreme, invisible creator and ruler of the universe, commanding thirteen major deities and two hundred lesser ones, each tied to a specific day or festival.
What is a god? Pain tore through my head, and my vision darkened.
I thought no more of gods.
It happened five hundred years later. The hunt never ceased, only grew more varied with time.
I sit in a cave, cloaked in darkness. The blood of a human taken by the water, still warm, drips from my claws, leaving sticky trails on my black plates. Its taste—sharp, laced with fear—lingers on my tongue. This hunt was long, deliberate, like a dance honed over centuries. I found him at dusk, when the sun, red as a fresh wound on these humans, sank below the horizon. He was alone, separated from his group, digging in the soft earth by the water's edge. Foolish? Perhaps. His movements were slow, his breath calm, but I sensed his blood flowing beneath his skin, warm, alive, calling.
I didn't rush. Thirst demanded not just blood but its taste, steeped in terror. I began with shadows. I moved silently, claws barely touching the ground, no pebble crunching. The wind carried my scent away, and he didn't know I was near. I let him hear a rustle—faint, as if the wind brushed a dry branch. He froze, head lifting, eyes scanning the dark. I hid behind a rock, feeling his heart race, his blood singing louder. The first note of my music.
I gave him hope. I retreated, melted into the night, let him return to his digging. He exhaled, shoulders relaxing, but fear had taken root. I waited. As he bent over the earth again, I tossed a pebble into the water—a soft splash, barely audible, but his head jerked like a beast sensing a trap. He stood, clutching a stick with a sharp stone, his breath ragged. I saw his body's heat pulsing in the dark, saw fear tighten his chest. It was beautiful.
I played on. I revealed myself for a moment—a silhouette, a horned shadow flickering between trees. He screamed, a weak, trembling sound, like a child's. He ran, stumbling, dropping his stick. I let him run, feeling his blood sweeten with panic. My steps were light, gliding after him like a shadow, never catching up but never letting go. He glanced back, eyes gleaming with tears, and I smiled, feeling thirst blaze brighter. His fear was my wine, his panic my feast.
Finally, I caught him by the water. He fell, crawling, fingers clawing at the wet earth, leaving furrows. I stepped on his back, claws grazing his skin beneath the shoulder blades, and he screamed—a high, wrenching sound that cut the night. I leaned down, my horns casting a shadow on his face, and he looked at me, eyes filled with pure terror, so tangible I could almost touch it. My claws slid into his chest, feeling ribs snap, hot blood flooding my fingers. I drank until his heart stopped, and thirst, for a moment, retreated. His body lay by the water, empty as a husk, and I returned to the cave, savoring the aftertaste of fear.
But now, sitting in the dark, I sense a change. The sky beyond the cave's crevice flares with light—not the weak, flickering fire of humans, but alive, vast, as if the earth's blood spilled across the heavens. I step out and look up. A being hovers in the sky, its body clad in armor, gleaming like ice but harder than any stone. It's immense, far larger than I, larger than the Moon, Earth's satellite. Its eyes—not eyes, but stars—burn with cold, inhuman light, piercing me through. Six of them, all fixed on me. For the first time, something grips my chest—fear. It's cold, alien, like snow that doesn't wound but suffocates. It flows through my veins like poison, making my claws tremble, my body freeze.
I growl, and rage flares, trying to burn away this fear, but it's stronger. I—the hunter, the Higher, who drank their screams like nectar—stand like them, weak, cornered, facing something greater. Its gaze cuts like my claws, but deeper, peeling back my essence, exposing a void I hadn't noticed. I want to lunge, tear it apart, prove I'm the king of this land, but my legs won't move. For the first time, I understand them, the two-legged ones, whose eyes begged for mercy. Despair chokes me, like their throats under my fingers.
"A-a-A!" I scream, torn by rage and fear. Both crush me.
Humans. Annoying, stupid, weak, vulnerable, inferior creatures. Their fear was my sustenance, their blood my food. Their homes were nothing. Their defenses—nothing. But now it's in me, gnawing from within, a hunger that can't be sated. I want to flee to them, to their protection.
My head splits with contradiction.
I want to charge this being, rip it apart, prove I'm the only predator, but my legs refuse. It watches me, and I know: I'm no longer the king of this earth. Its gaze is a blade, slicing my essence, exposing a weakness I didn't know. Despair crashes over me like a wave, drowning me in my own emptiness. I, who drank others' fear, now choke on my own. My thirst, my strength, my horns, and claws—all are nothing before this being. I am prey.
Then light tears the night. It doesn't come from the being but pours from above, from the heart of the sky. From the cosmos. A mass descends, white, blinding, piercing the planet like a spear driven into its flesh. I glimpse a silhouette, like the one watching from above, curled within this mass. Small, folded in on itself.
What is it? Answers don't come in time. An explosion of unimaginable force follows, a pivotal moment in my growth.
The light burns away the darkness, the shadows, even my fear, leaving only emptiness. I stand. The light blinds, seeping through my eyelids, filling me, and I feel my body change. The plates on my skin crack, my horns blaze as if reforged, and my thirst—my eternal companion—morphs into something greater, a hunger not for blood but for essence. The shockwave lifts me like a leaf in a storm, and I fly—through smoke, through ash, through the ruins of a world crumbling under this light.
Water engulfs me, cold but alive, like the earth's blood. I sink, but the darkness is already within me. It's not mere shadow—it's the beginning. My eyes close, and in the final moment before consciousness fades, I see: the silhouette in the light watches me. It knows who I am.
Beast.
Darkness.