"When terror carves itself too deep—
Even kindness tastes like blood."
—The Author
It was 2:45 a.m.
Not even a stray dog braved the storm.
Thunder cracked across the heavens like a cruel war drum, echoing through the soaked, shuttered streets. Rain fell in relentless sheets, swallowing light and sound. Beneath that downpour, a lone boy walked—fast, arms crossed tight against his chest, half stumbling as he moved through the darkness like a shadow trying to outrun itself.
He had no destination. Only the knowledge that he must keep going.
His t-shirt, once pale blue, now clung to him like a second skin, soaked and transparent, outlining the sharp lines of a narrow body too thin to be strong and too old to be mistaken for a child. Nineteen years—ripe with grief, and yet untouched by even the illusion of safety.
Even with the moon sealed behind black clouds, his skin glimmered faintly—gold, not the warm glow of health, but the dangerous glint of metal heated to molten, shaped and cooled into flesh. It shimmered like a secret, as though his blood ran with fire and light. In the storm's embrace, he looked both impossibly real and not real enough.
Rain traced the fine cut of his face: cheekbones sculpted by hunger, jaw tight with the effort not to cry. His eyebrows were dark and straight, now heavy with water. Droplets slid from their edges like something in mourning. His eyes—wide, black as floodwater, rimmed with glassy terror—flicked from alley to alley, searching for some invisible threat.
His lips were full, trembling with cold, the soft pink of rose petals soaked through. They parted, as if to call out—but no sound came. Only the wind replied.
His name was Niloy.
He moved as though something followed him.
And it did.
He felt it—that presence, cold and terrible—lurking just behind the curtain of rain. His breath caught. A whisper escaped him, fragile as silk in a storm: "Niloy... you shouldn't be here."
But then came another voice, firmer, rising from deep inside like a last ember flaring up against the dark: "Whatever happens... I won't be afraid. I'll make it. I'll live."
He forced one foot in front of the other.
"Come on, Niloy," he muttered to himself. "You can do this... Believe. Just believe..."
He turned—
—and the night tore open.
A shadow emerged from the rain, fast—too fast. Before he could run, a hand seized his arm, fingers digging into his skin like iron hooks. Niloy cried out, but the man's strength was inhuman. He was yanked forward, dragged into an alley that swallowed all light and sound. The air reeked of rust, filth, wet concrete. The stink of something older. Darker.
Niloy struggled. "Let me go!"
But the man only grinned.
"Mn... you little bitch," he said, voice thick with hunger. "Golden skin... I bet your flesh tastes even sweeter."
And then he struck.
Niloy was shoved backward with the force of a falling tree. His spine hit the earth—hard. Mud splashed up like blood from a wound, soaking his clothes, plastering his body in filth. The sky above him cracked open again with thunder, but even that roar felt distant, hollow, like it came from another world.
The man fell upon him like a shadow with weight.
He pinned Niloy's wrists above his head with one hand, grinding them into the wet stone. The other slid down—slow, repulsive—spreading heat through his drenched shirt like rot blooming in cloth. His breath was foul, rank with smoke and old metal. His face pressed too close.
Then—wet.
A tongue, rough and bloated, licked a slow, obscene line up Niloy's cheek to his temple.
Niloy flinched violently. Disgust rose in his throat like bile, but his body was locked in place, pinned and trembling.
"Gold," the man whispered, almost reverent. "Soft. Warm. I wonder how easily you break when you're opened."
And then—pain.
The man bit into the side of Niloy's neck with teeth, not lips—sharp, brutal, deep enough to bruise, maybe bleed. Niloy gasped, body jerking in shock. His legs kicked out instinctively, but there was nowhere to go.
The hand that wasn't pinning him slid lower, fingers gripping at his waist, then tugging at his trousers, yanking them down halfway, soaked fabric resisting the motion. The mud squelched. His t-shirt rode up.
"After I'm done," the man muttered, "maybe I'll let you crawl away. Don't scream. It won't help you. Not in this rain, pretty thing."
And then the man seized his jaw.
He forced Niloy's face upward, leaned in, and kissed him.
No—that word was too kind. It wasn't a kiss. It was a desecration.
The man's mouth crushed against Niloy's, lips splitting skin, teeth colliding. His tongue forced its way in, thick and invasive, tasting of rust and rot. Niloy gagged, twisted, tried to scream, but all sound was swallowed. He felt his own blood in his mouth, sharp and coppery.
The man moaned into him, low and guttural, like he could drink the panic from Niloy's lungs. His hips ground forward, a slow, perverse rhythm against Niloy's soaked thighs. His hand slid up beneath his t-shirt, cold fingers spreading over his ribs like mold finding the tenderest cracks.
Niloy screamed.
The sound burst from his throat, raw and sharp—but the storm drowned it out, swallowed it whole.
No one would hear.
He kicked wildly, scraped the ground, clawed at the man's face. His nails caught skin—he felt flesh give, and the man hissed—but he was still pinned, still smothered beneath that foul, unrelenting weight.
And yet—
In that hellish moment, when the rain blurred sight, sound, and sanity—
His fingers closed around something.
Stone.
Rough. Cold. Solid.
Without thinking, Niloy brought it down.
The crack was loud, sharp, final.
The man reared back, shrieking, hands flying to his bleeding head. He stumbled, slipping in the mud, groaning, cursing.
Niloy's limbs screamed as he twisted free. He scrambled to his feet, breath hitching in wet sobs, clothes torn, neck burning. His skin was streaked with dirt and blood.
He didn't look back.
Behind him, the man's voice rose in fury—a howl of hatred spat into the rain.
But Niloy was already running, heart hammering, eyes wild.
Out of the alley. Into the night.
He found himself by the river.
The Ping flowed slow and wide, silvered beneath the rain, as if the sky had fallen to earth and bled into water.
There, pacing the bank, was another figure.
Tall. Alone.
He walked like the rain didn't touch him—lazy, fluid, a creature made of bone and fire. From behind, he was a vision of restrained danger: a man dressed in nothing but sin—low-slung jeans clinging to his hips, soaked through to the skin, and a white shirt so wet it had become translucent.
The shirt stuck to his back, revealing the long, clean lines of muscle beneath: the spread of his shoulders, the slope of his spine, the power coiled in each slow step. His arms hung loose, hands buried in his pockets, movements languid, but sharp-edged like a blade still warm from the forge.
Every inch of him moved with a quiet rhythm, hips rolling with each step like he was dancing with the storm. The wind caught the hem of his shirt, tugged it up, revealing glimpses of skin—pale, flushed, and smooth as wet porcelain.
Black hair clung to the back of his neck, plastered to a jawline sharp enough to draw blood. And though he walked without urgency, there was something in him that warned: danger.
Rain hammered down. But the man walked as though born of it.
And Niloy—mud-smeared, breathless, bleeding—stood frozen.
Because something in him whispered:
This is not the end.
With chiseled cheekbones streaked by rain and lips bitten raw, Niloy cried out. His voice, fragile yet piercing, flew into the storm like a thread of silk cast to the wind.
"Stranger!" he shouted, his breath ragged. "Stranger!"
The cry tore through the rain, but the figure ahead did not turn.
He was just meters away, yet felt like a mirage. The storm howled around them—wind lashing, rain striking like needles. But Niloy's urgency could not be mistaken. It filled every step, every tremble in his soaked limbs. His voice cracked, hoarse from screaming, but he kept calling.
"Stranger—! Stranger... stranger..."
"Stranger... help... please—help!"
But the figure didn't pause. He walked as if he heard nothing—as if the world, and all its suffering, had long stopped mattering to him.
Desperation surged in Niloy's chest like a flood breaking its dam. He ran—he ran—driven by something beyond reason, something that lived beneath language. His bare feet splashed through waterlogged ground, and when he reached the stranger, he didn't think—he couldn't. His trembling fingers seized the man's shoulder.
In that instant, the scoundrel behind him howled like a wounded beast. One look at the newcomer's tall frame.
"I'll find you again, you golden whore!"
Niloy turned his head slowly.
He and the stranger watched the man disappear into darkness.
And then—silence. Deafening silence.
Their eyes met.
They stood on the very edge of the Ping River, the water swollen and black beneath the storm. The rain did not fall—it slashed, hissing against their skin like it meant to wound.
Niloy looked up at the stranger. In those eyes, he saw no warmth—only cold fury and profound solitude, as though the man had long since carved out his soul and buried it beneath ice. And yet, in that same moment, the stranger saw Niloy's gaze: wide, trembling, filled with innocence and terror, like a deer caught in a hunter's shadow.
But the moment did not last.
The stranger moved. Sharp. Sudden.
He shoved Niloy away.
Perhaps he meant only to break the touch. Perhaps he didn't realize where Niloy stood. But Niloy was right at the river's edge, his heels already grazing water. He staggered backward—and instinctively, blindly—he reached out, clutching the stranger's collar.
And so they both fell.
The world tipped sideways. Sky became water, water became sky. The river swallowed them whole.
Black water surged up, violent and endless. Niloy didn't even scream. His mouth filled with cold before sound could escape. He flailed, eyes wide, chest seizing. He couldn't swim.
The current pulled hard, dragging him down.
His limbs thrashed, but there was nothing to grasp. Only water. Only black.
Then—
An arm.
A grip around his waist.
The stranger.
Through the chaos, he pulled Niloy into his arms—tight, firm, unyielding. Niloy clung to him with everything he had. There wasn't even space for air between them, their soaked bodies crushed together by fear and water.
Niloy's breath came in gasps, sharp and desperate, as he held the stranger like a lifeline—like the only real thing left in the world. His skin was cold. His eyelashes trembled. And through half-lidded eyes, he looked up.
The stranger's face hovered just above his, rain and river gliding down the sharp edges of his jaw. He said nothing. But his gaze never left Niloy's face—watching as those lashes fluttered closed, as Niloy fell limp in his arms.
Still, he held him.
It was just past five in the morning.
The storm had passed. The sun had not yet risen, but its presence was already known—diffused in soft gold, curling at the edges of the sky, painting the treetops in tender warmth. Dew clung to every blade of grass.
Niloy was on ground and The stranger knelt over him.
His hair, dark and dripping, clung to his cheeks. Water trickled from his jaw onto Niloy's unmoving form. His chest rose and fell in short, rigid breaths, but his eyes remained sharp. Cold.
Niloy wasn't breathing.
The boy lay still, rain-slick gold skin streaked with mud, eyelashes wet and unmoving. His lips, once soft with life, were pale and blue-tinted. His t-shirt clung to his ribs, soaked through. Water still pooled in the hollow of his throat.
The stranger pressed his palms hard to Niloy's belly, forcing it down in slow, steady compressions. Nothing.
He rubbed at Niloy's arms, his wrists, then cupped his face and shook it gently. Nothing.
His frown deepened. For a long moment, he hesitated.
There was no one else.
No footsteps in the distance. No houses. No voices. Nothing but wind, trees, and the chill.
He leaned closer.
Niloy's lips were ice.
The stranger's hand hovered over them—hovered, faltered—then curled into a fist and dropped to the ground.
He exhaled slowly. The air fogged before him.
Then he bent down.
With careful pressure, he sealed their mouths.
Warm breath passed into cold.
The difference was startling—Niloy's lips unyielding, barely pliant, while the stranger's were firm, alive, carrying the heat of a soul unwilling to give up. He pushed air into Niloy's lungs, withdrew, and breathed again. Again.
Each time, their mouths met more completely—until the stranger's lips pressed deeply against Niloy's, their teeth nearly brushing. He felt the dampness of Niloy's tongue, the wet edge of his canines, the faintest tremor from somewhere within his throat.
Still, Niloy didn't stir.
Again. The stranger closed his eyes and breathed into him.
One minute. Then two.
Then—
A flicker.
Niloy's eyelashes twitched. His chest gave a shallow, shuddering rise.
The stranger withdrew a fraction, watching.
Niloy's eyes opened.
Not fully. Just a crack—slivers of dark glass behind gold-drenched lashes. But his breath returned in staggered gasps. And in that dazed half-awareness, Niloy felt something soft and foreign against his mouth. Warm. Pressed deep.
The memory struck like lightning.
The man from the night before—his breath, his mouth, the weight.
Fear rose like bile.
Niloy jerked upward with a raw sound and shoved the figure away.
His palm shot out in a single, searing motion—a slap sharp enough to echo across the clearing.
Crack.
The stranger's head turned with the blow, cold eyes widened—sharp, glinting, as if for the briefest instant, he might raise his hand in return.
"You—" he began, his voice low, almost dangerous.
Niloy's entire frame trembled. Rain still clung to his lashes, his lips were pale, and his body weak with exhaustion.
The stranger's gaze swept over that expression—terror laced with defiance—and something shifted in his eyes. The tightness in his shoulders eased.
He drew in a slow breath and said, with a tone flat but unmistakably sincere,
"Trying to save you."
Niloy's rigid stance faltered.
His features softened, brows drawing together in remorse. The flush of shame bloomed faintly across his cheeks. He lowered his head and whispered, "I'm sorry." Then, quieter still, "I thought..."
The stranger's eyes narrowed. He stared at him.
"Thought what?"
Niloy opened his mouth—but nothing came. The words caught on the edge of his throat, too bitter, too humiliating. He could only look away.
But the stranger was already watching too closely.
A flicker of something passed through his eyes—shock, disbelief—and then they hardened with sudden clarity.
He rose to his feet, expression unreadable but taut with restrained fury.
"You thought I was trying to molest you."
Niloy flinched at the words. He forced himself upright, swaying slightly, rain-matted hair sticking to his brow. His voice came out hoarse, barely audible.
"I shouldn't have..."
But the stranger said nothing more. Without so much as a backward glance, he turned and began to walk away—