A black Jeep cut through the night. Its headlights sliced across the empty highway. Trees flashed by on both sides, dark shapes under the pale moon. The engine hummed steadily. He was driving fast, well above the limit, but his hands stayed calm on the wheel.

This wasn’t reckless.
This was normal.

He liked the night.
Fewer people.
Fewer questions.

Cold air slipped in through the open window. It smelled of asphalt, wet earth, and rain. Humans called nights like this eerie. To him, they felt real. Daytime was the lie — fake smiles, small talk, pretending to belong. The night didn’t pretend. It simply existed.

He could drive for hours like this. He often did. Distance mattered. Cities blurred together. Names meant nothing. He lived in weeks, not years. Faces lasted days, not lifetimes.

Blue and red lights suddenly flashed in his mirror.

He didn’t react. Didn’t tense.
A siren followed, sharp and brief.

He took the next exit and guided the Jeep into a broken parking lot beside a run-down gas station. The lights above the pumps flickered weakly. Trash rolled across cracked concrete.

The police car stopped behind him.

He put the Jeep in park. His face stayed calm. Empty. The same look he wore before a kill — or something close to it.

One officer stepped out. Young. Tired. One hand near his gun, out of habit.

“License and registration,” the officer said. “You were—”

The driver turned slowly and met his eyes.

Something flickered in his gaze. A soft red glow. Like embers under ash.

“You’ll forget this,” he said quietly.
“You never saw me.”

The officer froze. His face went blank. His breathing slowed. Confusion crossed his features, then faded.

The man stepped out of the Jeep and walked past him. He opened the police car, reached for the dash camera, and switched it off. One more click erased the recording.

He closed the door gently.

The officer stood still for a moment. Then he returned to his car. No memory. No report. Just emptiness.

The cruiser drove away, its tail lights shrinking into the dark.

Only then did irritation crawl under his skin. Not anger. Just discomfort. He hated being interrupted. He hated being noticed.

The lot was silent. No cars. No eyes.

Good.

He brushed a hand over the jeep roof, once. Then he began to undress. Boots. Jeans. Belt. He folded everything neatly and placed it inside the car.

Under the weak yellow light, his body was lean and still. He stood motionless for a moment, breathing slow and even.

Then he walked into the darkest corner of the lot.

He exhaled and let go.

His body shifted. Bones cracked softly. Muscles twisted. Black feathers burst through skin and spread across his arms. The change was fast. Controlled. Not hunger — release.

Seconds later, a black crow stood where the man had been.

It lifted into the air. The night felt cool and clean against its feathers. From above, the gas station looked small and pointless. Just a dying pool of light.

He circled once, letting the tension fade.

For a moment, he simply flew.
Not hunting.
Not hiding.
Just being.

Then he landed near the Jeep and shifted back. Skin returned. Bones stretched. He dressed calmly, piece by piece, as if rebuilding himself.

Inside the car, he unlocked his phone.

The screen lit his face. Dark eyes. Sharp features. A faint red glow still hiding beneath the surface.

He opened the Airbnb app.

He needed privacy. Distance. Woods nearby. A place easy to leave.

He found it — a small studio at the edge of a forest. Balcony. Quiet road. Friendly host. Those were always the easiest.

He booked it for two weeks.

Fourteen days was enough. Enough to feed. Enough to leave before anyone noticed the cold that followed him.

He dropped the phone aside and started the engine. The Jeep rumbled, ready.

The road opened before him. Darkness swallowed the car.

He didn’t know the name of the town ahead.
He didn’t need to.

Names changed.
Faces faded.
Hunger stayed.

And somewhere ahead, near the forest, a door waited to be opened.