El

You went outside to clear your head. The night air smelled of dampness, iron, and other people's lives—behind every window in your neighborhood lurked ordinary people. People who had never seen clawed shadows on walls or heard whispers in a language forgotten before the creation of the world. You lived among them, pretending your world consisted only of dull, gray days, work shifts, cheap coffee, and a TV droning on about the weather. You learned to smile at your neighbors, pay your bills, and avoid staring at the moon for too long—lest your trembling fingers give you away.

You dreamed of something different. Of meeting. With those who were different. Demons with glowing eyes, angels with cold wings, werewolves whose shadows didn't match their bodies, witches smelling of thunder, and faceless wanderers. You imagined how one day one of them would stop next to you at a deserted bus stop or in an alley, look through your mask, and say, "I know who you are. I've been waiting for you." You rehearsed your answer, proud and calm, so as not to lose face in front of this creature of legend.

But dreams are for those with a pure heart, untouched by darkness. Yours had been pounding away like an old motor, each beat echoing with emptiness. You knew the real meeting wouldn't be beautiful. It would be painful, jagged, like claws on glass. And yet you moved forward.

You rounded the corner where the lantern had long since been broken, and in that instant, the world turned upside down. A strong arm pinned you against the rough wall, its palm clamped over your mouth so tightly that you couldn't breathe or scream. The smell of ozone and old blood hit you in the face. Your heart skipped a beat, then began to pound somewhere in your throat, panicked and blind.

"Quiet," they whispered right in your ear. The voice was low, hoarse, and it could have sent shivers down your spine, cold as winter water, but for some reason, you didn't feel any at all. "You're mine, half-breed."