Coker's breath came in sharp bursts. His knuckles ached from the fight. His shirt clung to his skin, wet with sweat and something warmer—blood, maybe his, maybe not.
The moon above looked strange tonight. Too big. Too close.
He knew something was wrong even before the whisper came.
*"You're not done."*
Coker froze. The voice was not in his ears—it was inside his skull. It felt cold, sharp, and ancient. He scanned the alley, but it was empty.
"I'm not… done?" he muttered, confused.
*"They will come again. Stronger. Hungrier."*
He swallowed hard. "And you… what are you?"
The voice didn't answer. Instead, the shadows in front of him rippled—like water stirred by wind. From that shifting dark, a figure stepped out.
It wasn't human.
It was tall, its body thin but packed with an awful kind of strength. Its skin was like ash, and its eyes glowed faint red. The mouth didn't move, yet the voice spoke again.
*"You carry the mark. That makes you mine."*
Coker took a step back, fists up. "I don't belong to anyone."
The thing tilted its head, like it was amused. *"We'll see."*
Then it moved.
The speed was unreal. One moment it was three meters away, the next its claw was inches from his chest. Instinct screamed. Coker threw himself to the side, feeling the air tear as the claw sliced through it.
He rolled, got to his feet, and charged.
His fist connected with its side—it was like punching stone. Pain shot through his hand, but he didn't stop. He kept hitting, kept moving, refusing to give it a clean shot.
The thing caught his arm.
The grip was iron. Coker tried to pull away, but it yanked him close, so close he could see the cracks in its skin.
*"Weak. But not for long."*
Then it slammed him into the wall. The bricks shook. Air fled his lungs.
Coker slid to his knees, gasping. His vision blurred. He felt warmth trickling from his forehead down his cheek.
"Damn… you," he hissed.
The thing reached out, its claw glowing faintly. It touched his chest—and a wave of something tore through him. Pain. Pure, searing pain. His body arched as if lightning had struck him.
He screamed.
*"Good,"* the voice inside him said. *"You can take it."*
The thing let go, stepping back into the shadows. As it faded, its words stayed in his head. *"When the mark burns again… follow it. Or die."*
And then it was gone.
Coker collapsed, his heartbeat like war drums. He lay there for what felt like hours before forcing himself to stand. His legs shook, but he made his way out of the alley.
The streets were quiet. Too quiet.
When he finally reached his apartment, he locked the door and sank onto the floor. His body was one giant bruise. His mind buzzed with the voice's words.
*Follow it or die.*
He didn't know what "it" was. But something deep inside told him—he would find out soon.
---
Morning came harsh and loud. Coker woke to pounding on his door.
"Oi! You alive in there?"
It was Dane, his loudmouth neighbor.
Coker groaned, forcing himself up. Every muscle screamed. He opened the door.
"Holy hell, man," Dane said, eyes wide. "You look like you fought a truck."
Coker gave a humorless laugh. "Something like that."
Dane leaned closer, lowering his voice. "There's talk going around. About people disappearing last night. They're saying… it's the Night Demons again."
The words hit Coker like a blade. "Night Demons?"
Dane nodded. "Yeah. Old stories. Things that come out when the moon's too big. Most people laugh it off, but…" He looked uneasy. "Last time they showed up, the city went quiet for a week."
Coker shut the door slowly. His heart was pounding again.
Night Demons.
If that thing last night wasn't one of them, it was something worse.
And if Dane was right… they were coming back.
---
The mark on his chest burned later that day.
It started as a small throb, then grew hotter, sharper—like claws raking from the inside. Coker gritted his teeth and clutched at his shirt.
The voice returned. *"It's time."*
He didn't know why, but he ran. Out of his building, down the streets, following the pull of the pain. People stared, but he didn't care.
The pull dragged him into the industrial district, a maze of rusted metal and broken glass. The air smelled of oil and rain.
Then he saw it—movement between the shadows of two old warehouses.
A figure. Smaller than the thing from last night, but its eyes still glowed faint red.
It hissed when it saw him.
Coker clenched his fists. His body screamed for rest, but the voice whispered—*"Break it."*
The thing lunged.
This time, Coker moved first.