It's been two full days since I woke up. Everything around me looks calm, yet a swarm of thoughts keeps racing through my head, stopping me from focusing or finding any peace. I keep circling the same questions: where is Stella, who is really behind the disappearance of the sun, and why did I spare her? What are these creatures that murder humans like we're nothing more than flies? I've had several late‑night talks with Steve, but he seems just as terrified. Why are these things here? What makes them hunt us? Maybe they're simply stronger than anything else alive. Every time I see the scars across my chest and ruined hand, I feel that old spike of fear. There's one fresh scar on my ribs; I don't even remember it being made, it must have happened that night, hidden beneath the shock.
I can't just sit in this house, waiting to be next. It's shameful that I let Stella go, rude or not, and that teen girl was nothing but an innocent swept into something massive; maybe she escaped, maybe she was caught again. I want to rescue them, but I'm half‑broken: one eye, four missing fingers, stamina gutted. If I rush in now, I'll die for nothing, and no one will remember me. So I force myself to think straight. I need a plan smarter than simple rage.
I flip on the TV only static. I charge my phone for the first time in weeks. Fifty missed calls from my love, ten from Steve. I hit her number. The line rings. A dry voice answers: "No, sweetie pie here. Only death." The call ends. My heart caves in. She was the love of my life, her laugh, her white smile, that easy kindness. I was ready to marry her, raise a kid, and build a future. Why does life hate me? I slam the wall and shout until my throat burns. Mom, Grandma, and Steve hover in the doorway but can't get close. The last thread that kept me grounded just snapped.
My grief turns poisonous. I swear to butcher every Deroloc. I'll slice their throats, tear out their eyes, and drag them to hell. I open the laptop and dive into black‑market forums. After hours of scrolling, I find a seller who ships in forty hours. I order two daggers, a longsword, paralytic poison, a stack of grenades, a Kevlar vest, shotguns, pistols, a portable flamethrower, and, because legends never die, an AK‑74. When the crate arrives, I disappear into training. Mom keeps checking on me, but my whole world has narrowed to one goal.
Archery is torture with one eye and a mangled hand, yet I practice twelve hours a day. After a month, the bow feels natural.
Tonight is showtime. Mom tries to block the door; Steve begs me to take him. I leave without another word. The streets are empty, streetlights flickering over cracked asphalt. Three shapes appear ahead: two women in their forties, a man to match. Their smiles are too smooth, their eyes too flat. Deroloc.
"Where are you off to, handsome?" one woman purrs.
"Looking for dinner," I grin.
She promises food if I follow, so I let them lead me through twisting alleys. My pistol sits at my spine; daggers rest in my coat pockets, grenades on my belt. Seven minutes in, we reach a dead‑end lane. They whirl, faces blank and hungry.
I draw the pistol and empty the magazine. Bullets rip flesh; dark blood sprays, but wounds knit shut in seconds. I drop the gun, yank both daggers, and slash hard. The man boots my jaw, rattling my skull. One woman buries a fist in my gut. I stagger, jam a poisoned blade into the man's neck. His pupils flare, limbs wobble. I yank a grenade, sprint, and dive behind a dumpster. The blast shreds bodies, arms tumble across the wet pavement, but I'm already limping away.
Observation: my first cuts wounded them; once soaked in their blood, my daggers hurt them more, and their wounds had more time to heal. My blood coating might be the key. Back home, I soak every weapon and magazine in my blood. I swapped the eyepatch for wrap‑around glasses last time their stare felt like a knife. Three days to heal and let them hunt me.
On the third day, I hiked to my sweetie pie's house. The neighborhood is dead silent. Her front door stands unbroken, no blood trail. Maybe she ran. Inside, the living room is messy but not ruined only a few dry smears of blood. Hope flickers.
A distant floorboard creaks. Knife ready, I slip into the back bedroom, press to the wall, and wait. The intruder's shadow crosses the threshold. I strike, he weaves aside, jabs a one‑two into my cheek. Stars burst behind my eye. I slash again, forcing him right, then hook a left into his chin. He reels. I shoot in, catch his legs, heft him onto my shoulders, and slam him to the carpet. He throws a triangle choke, but I grab the fallen dagger and drive it into his shoulder. The poison seeps; his limbs sag like wet rope.
I rip a curtain into strips, bind his wrists and ankles tight, then sit back, wiping sweat and waiting for the toxin to fade.
Five minutes later the guy twitches, then groans. The paralysis has worn off just enough for him to lift his head and glare at me.
"Who are you? What the hell are you doing?" His words come out thick, like his tongue is still half‑numb.
"Question's mine first," I answer, stepping closer. "Who are you? I'm the boyfriend of the woman who lives here."
"You mean Suzy?" he croaks.
Blood pounds in my ears. "How do you know her name? Do you know where she is?"
"She's at our headquarters," he says, meeting my stare. "Look, we're not monsters. We're a crew that hunts them and helps people. Your girlfriend and her sister are safe with us." He hesitates, voice dropping. "Her parents didn't make it. I came to collect the bodies, but it seems someone beat me to them."
"So you're some kind of anti‑monster gang."
"Yeah. Now untie me," he snaps, anger flashing across his face.
My throat tightens at the thought of Suzy alive. "Sweetie pie… thank God." I cut the ropes and haul him to his feet. "Take me to her right now." I plan to ask him questions the second he can talk.
While I wait, I scan the dim room her framed photos, a clock frozen at 11:07, her perfume still hanging in the air. I whisper a promise: I'll find you. I'll end these monsters. I'll drag a dawn back to this endless night, even if it costs my last drop of blood.
But I'm not done yet. I still need to test the blood‑coated blades on fresh prey to confirm what I learned. I won't rest until I have proof. Those three Derolocs were just the opening act. Next time, I'll hunt smarter and I'll bring more grenades.
Mom thinks I've lost my mind; Steve calls it paranoia. Maybe it is. But paranoia keeps me breathing. In two days, I'll leave again, better armed, harder inside. My scars itch under the bandages. My missing fingers ache like phantom lightning. But I embrace the pain; it tells me I'm still alive, and that means I can still fight.
And if fighting is all that's left to me, if the world offers only endless night, then I'll be the spark that forces morning, or die striking steel on stone until sparks fly.
I follow the guy, who says his name is David, out into the street. We keep a quick pace toward his group's headquarters, moving in silence until the city disappears behind a line of dead trees. My mind won't shut up, so I break the quiet.
"So, what's your method for killing Derolocs?"
He glances over. "You figured out the blood trick, right? Coat your blade in your own blood; it slows their healing. But the real killer? Go for the heart. Destroy that, and they stay down."
My theory, confirmed. I almost smile. Maybe I could join these people to save Stella and that teen girl, and finally make a difference.
I ask, "Why do you do this? What's your story?"
David stiffens. "Names are more important than stories. Mine's enough: David." He doesn't elaborate, and I let it drop.
After what feels like an hour of weaving through alleys and back roads, we crest a rise. Ahead, an old transit depot squats in the darkness, windows barred, rooftop bristling with spotlights. David nods toward it.
"Home," he says. "And if Suzy's anywhere safe, it's in there."
I've never felt this happy. I'm already day‑dreaming about making babies with my sweetie pie shit, everything's good. I look good, I smell good, and life finally feels nice, thank you, life.