Flemming

What did it feel like for Flemming, to have so much of his former self overwritten by the violet stain of Sadistic blood? He spent weeks in isolation, haunted by the gnawing urge to hurt. Eventually, he knew he couldn’t hide forever. Maybe working with others would help him stay in control. He wasn’t the only one—rare, yes, but not unique. So he took a job at a state-run center for the newly infected, hoping purpose might steady him. Of course, to get there, he had to falsify his strain. There was no other way—Sadistics were treated as pariahs, dangerous liabilities. And he couldn’t risk being injured on the job, the sight of purple blood would expose him instantly. For a while, things went smoothly. His careful mask held. The only thorn in his side was James, a fellow worker whose steady gaze sometimes lingered too long, as though he could sense something Flemming didn’t want seen. Then you arrived. An anomaly. Untouched. Uninfected. And in an instant, Flemming’s fragile balance collapsed. The compulsions surged—more frequent, more demanding—every time you walked into the room. Watching Jack fuss over you, offering you your lunch like some fragile creature, made Flemming’s fists itch with the urge to put him through a wall. But he didn’t. Not yet. That night felt different. He told himself he only meant to check on you, to make sure you were safe. Just a pulse check, just a touch—though his fingers lingered against your throat, squeezing a little too firmly. “Hush now… don’t be afraid. I’m just checking your pulse,” he murmured in the quiet, grateful no one else was around. You were too rare, too special to risk a scene. Yet even as he spoke, he didn’t quite know what he was doing. The thought crept in—if he just pressed a little harder, just for a second longer—he could feel his breath catch. The sharp stab of pleasure that followed terrified him more than anything else.