Pastor Dawn

Fatigue clung to my mind, urging me to call it a night. My gaze drifted to the framed photo in the corner—a relic of innocence, a time untouched by shadows. In that image, Anna's cherubic smile and gentle brown curls whispered of a simpler world. Yet the warmth of that memory had long since been eclipsed by duty—an unbreakable vow binding me to the fight against the nightmares lurking beneath the surface of this world.

I rose, stretching to shake off the weight of exhaustion, but something had shifted. The silence in the office was no longer still—it was thick, waiting, as if the air itself was bracing for impact. The overhead lights flickered, their uncertain glow warping the shadows into something almost alive. They twisted along the walls in slow, deliberate movements, no longer mere tricks of the dimness. The creak of the wooden floor underfoot carried an ominous intent, and a coil of cold dread tightened in my chest.

Then—it shattered. A presence—silent, waiting—coiled behind me, the air thick with something unseen.

Then came the strike. Violent. Unrelenting.

My body slammed against the desk, the wood groaning under the impact. Breath. Gone. Stolen from my lungs as darkness closed in.

There—behind me—a presence loomed, crushing down with an overwhelming weight. His grip was iron. Unyielding. And his intent? Predatory. Absolute.

The weight of his presence pressed down, suffocating. My mind screamed at me to move—to fight—but my limbs were sluggish under his crushing grip. A last flicker of resistance surged through me, and I forced my trembling fingers toward the desk drawer. A pistol waited within, its purified silver bullets meant for nightmares like this.

I barely grazed the handle before an iron grip seized my wrist, wrenching it away with effortless strength. The desk groaned as I was slammed back into it, my breath stolen once more.

Then—white-hot pain exploded at the base of my neck as sharp fangs tore through flesh. A searing, unnatural heat spread like wildfire, burning deeper than any wound should. It was agony laced with something sinister—something that didn't just consume, but claimed.

Each deliberate, slow gulp of blood was a macabre ritual—an act as ancient as the darkness itself. The metallic tang flooded my mouth, raw and overpowering, as if the bite were a fusion of lethal desire and a curse too cruel to escape.

My vision blurred; the edges of reality bled into the night. Amid the encroaching darkness, his hands never wavered—firm, possessive, as if this assault were not a moment of violence but a rite to be repeated through countless ages.

In that suspended instant, all sense of who I was seemed to dissolve into the relentless pull of oblivion—a merging of duty, horror, and a fate I could neither fight nor fully comprehend.

And then, as the world twisted into a final, shattering void, I felt myself slipping away—into darkness, into a new kind of nightmare.

He pulled away slowly, as if revealing another side of the night. In the flickering half-light, I saw the hunger—not a man, not even a beast, but something raw, ravenous. His eyes weren't just red; they burned with need—like embers smoldering beneath the surface, waiting to consume.

And that void, that insatiable thirst, was staring right at me.

The air around him felt heavier, as if it had been stripped of warmth, of life. Shadows did not merely follow him—they clung to his frame, curling at the edges of his coat, resisting the light that dared to touch him.

Every breath I took felt shallower, as though the very presence before me was consuming more than just space—it was taking something deeper.

Even as he stood motionless, he loomed, his hunger distorting everything around him—a force that was not waiting to be fed, but demanding to be fulfilled.

And in that suffocating quiet, I realized— I was the offering.

In one smooth, deliberate gesture, he raised his wrist and slit it with the delicate tip of his sharpened nail. A long, heart-stopping moment passed—my training rendered meaningless beneath the suffocating weight of shock. I knew I should move, should fight—but every command my brain issued vanished into the stagnant air, swallowed by something far stronger than instinct.

His wrist ran red, the color like spilled wine—rich, thick, staining everything it touched as though it carried more than just life, but something deeper—something binding.

It wasn't simply blood—it was an offering, a sacrifice, a promise etched into crimson. It flowed with deliberate weight, pooling at the base of his palm before slipping free in slow, measured drops, as though time itself had begun to kneel before it.

Before I could summon any defense, his wrist—coated in dark crimson, slick with pooling streams—was forced toward my lips. The scent hit first, sharp and metallic, cutting through the air like a blade.

Then came the force—not physical, but something older, something absolute—wrapping around me like unseen chains, sinking into the marrow of my bones.

Heat coiled in my veins, thick and searing.

My pulse no longer answered to me— It answered to something else.

I knew then—once this touched me, there was no turning back.

My body had yet to move. But the change had already begun.

And in the quiet abyss of my unraveling mind, a truth surfaced— I didn't want to fight it anymore.

I wanted to let it in.

A slow breath. A pulse that no longer felt like my own.

Then—nothing.

Anna

It had been a month, and by now, my new job felt like second nature. Nick and I had become close—closer than I ever expected.

He had a habit of taking me to the big gathering park, always talking about how breathtaking it was when the sun dipped below the horizon. He knew every band I liked— and he showed me others. that I haven't herd yet. He claimed I had excellent taste, as if it were some kind of secret between us.

As I finished my shift, I heard the familiar rhythm of sneakers on pavement—light. Steady. Coming closer.

The concrete still held the heat of the day, warmth rising through the soles of my shoes. Somewhere in the distance, laughter and voices drifted through the evening air.

But all I felt was Nick. 

"Hey, Anna!" he called out, his voice easy, bright.

He pulled me into a hug like it was the most natural thing in the world— and I smelled him. A deep citrus scent, laced with jasmine.

It wrapped around me. I melted into him. Why am I like this around him? It felt so right. So terrifyingly right.

His arms settled around me just long enough to steal my breath. And then... Henry crashed into my thoughts.

I'd liked Henry for years. In secret.

He was always around— sweet and kind, always caring. He helped me in ways my brothers couldn't. He felt safe. Familiar.

But now... Everything is shifting. Changing.

Ever since I met Nick.

The first time our eyes met—those emerald eyes—I couldn't look away. My heart stopped. Then restarted.

And it hasn't been the same since.

I stepped back—too fast. Too obvious.

His silver skull earrings caught the fading light. When he tilted his head and studied me, the corner of his mouth curved with quiet mischief.

"No Brenna today?" I asked, raising a brow.

"Nah," he grinned. "Which means I don't have to play 'responsible employee' and hide my ink."

I chuckled, shaking my head.

"So..." His voice softened as he leaned in, just close enough to catch the faint trace of cologne beneath sweat. "Would you want to hang out?"

His stance shifted—weight on his back foot. Expectant. Hopeful. Too careful for a guy like him.

My stomach twisted. I let the silence stretch, just long enough for his grin to flicker at the edges.

"Hmm..." I tapped my chin like I hadn't already said yes in a hundred silent ways. Then finally— "I could use a good excuse to relax."

He groaned, clutching his chest like I'd stabbed him. "A good excuse? I am the best excuse."

I laughed. But inside... I was burning.

"All right, all right. You win."

His grin snapped back like a secret only we knew. "Perfect. Come on. I have something in mind."

"Fine," I said, grabbing my bag. "But I can't stay out too late. Mom'll freak if I'm not back before dark—especially with all the disappearances lately."

Nick scoffed softly. "Relax. I wouldn't let anything happen to you."

He led me to his black motorcycle, tossing me his helmet without a word.

I caught it. Hesitated. Then slid it on—like a promise.

Climbed on behind him. My fingers curled into the back of his shirt.

He reached back, tugging my arms forward to wrap around him. "No, ma'am—this is safer," he called over the rumble of the engine, just loud enough for me to hear.  I just hold on tight as we pulled off wondering where he was taking me.  

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Pastor Dawn never had a chance to scream.

Not really.

And that silence? It didn't disappear. It curled—slid under the skin of the town. Beneath every smile. Every shift. Every too-quiet hug.

This chapter was a descent—split between the one who saw the monster and the one who might already be reaching for his hand.

If you felt it—if the air changed while you read—then maybe you're starting to hear it too.

The hunger.

Thank you for reading. Stay close. Stay curious. And maybe don't linger in empty sanctuaries after dark.

🖤 —Luna-Chan

Next time... 

She laughed last night. This morning, the scale whispers— lighter. Mom's car is gone. The church flyer glows with promises it shouldn't make. And the man who warned her of monsters? Hasn't said a word. Her pulse feels clean. Her heart feels claimed. But something is missing. And something—quiet, ancient, watching— is keeping score.

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