Chapter 3 – The One Who Woke Too Late
Darkness clung to him.
Not the gentle darkness of sleep—but something thick, heavy, and endless.
Max's fingers twitched.
Pain followed.
Not sharp pain. Not dull pain.
It was the kind of pain that felt wrong, like his body no longer belonged to him.
His eyes snapped open.
The first thing he smelled was blood.
So much blood.
It coated the air, soaked into the stone, crawled into his lungs. His heart—no, something pretending to be his heart—lurched violently.
Max sat up with a gasp.
The movement was too easy.
Too fast.
He froze.
Bodies surrounded him.
Hunters.
Broken armor. Torn flesh. Dried blood blackened with age. Faces twisted in fear, surprise, agony. Some had been torn apart. Others looked like they never even had time to scream.
Max stared.
"…Rodriguez?"
No answer.
His voice echoed back to him, hollow and cracked.
Time had passed.
A lot of time.
The blood was dry.
The air was stale.
His hands trembled as he touched the ground—then he noticed it.
The corpses were untouched.
No scavengers.
No rot.
As if something had kept everything away.
As if the place itself feared him.
One Week Later
Max stumbled out of the basement.
The sunlight hit his eyes—and he screamed.
Not because it burned.
But because it felt… wrong.
His skin crawled. His bones ached. His senses screamed to retreat.
Yet he didn't turn to ash.
Didn't burn.
Didn't die.
He stood there, breathing hard, sweat pouring down his face.
"I… I'm alive?"
The sun didn't kill him.
But it rejected him.
Like his body no longer belonged under it.
The Hunger
It hit him halfway down the road.
A sudden, violent emptiness in his chest.
Not hunger for food.
Something deeper.
Something colder.
His vision blurred. Sounds sharpened. He could hear heartbeats—from animals, from distant villages, from passing travelers.
Too many.
Too loud.
Max collapsed to his knees, clutching his chest.
"Stop… please stop…"
His throat burned.
His mouth watered.
And when he realized what he wanted—
He vomited.
"No… no, no, no…"
Blood.
He wanted blood.
The thought alone terrified him more than the monsters ever had.
Strength That Didn't Belong to Him
When he tried to stand, his hand crushed a stone.
Crushed it.
Max stared at his palm, shaking.
"I couldn't even kill a chicken…"
He touched his arm—muscle coiled beneath his skin like something alive.
He was stronger.
Faster.
Sharper.
And none of it felt earned.
The World Moved On
By the time Max returned to the city, whispers followed him like ghosts.
"—the entire hunting party was wiped out."
"—only two escaped."
"—even the errand boy died."
Max stood in the crowd, hood pulled low, listening to his own funeral.
"Elijah's body was never found."
"They say Max died instantly. Poor kid."
Dead.
They had marked him as dead.
His knees weakened.
Then he heard something worse.
His Mother
He ran.
Through streets. Through alleys.
Straight to the small, broken house he called home.
The door was open.
Too open.
Inside, the room was quiet.
Too quiet.
His mother lay on the bed.
Still.
Peaceful.
Cold.
Max fell beside her, gripping her hand.
"Ma… I'm back… I got the job… I have money now…"
No response.
She had waited.
She had waited—and he hadn't come back.
A sound escaped his throat.
Not a scream.
Something broken.
Something animal.
Something inhuman.
The Saint Who Didn't Know
As night fell, bells rang from the church.
Victoria was praying.
Unaware that the boy who loved her had died.
Unaware that the weakest hunter had returned as something unnatural.
Max stood alone in the dark, tears sliding down his face.
"I'm alive…"
But no one he loved was.
And whatever he had become—
The world would never accept it.