Page 3 of Map of Pain
The creature moved like a shadow, sidestepping with milliseconds to spare. The bolt embedded in rusted bus metal with a hollowthunk. Distant streetlight caught the monster’s face clearly for the first time.
Recognition flashed between hunter and prey. They’d danced this dance before—Nick stalking through abandoned buildings, striking from shadows, retreating when his strength failed. The creature always let him escape. Always watched him with that same strange intensity, like Nick was a puzzle to be solved rather than a threat to be eliminated.
Nick exploded from cover, closing distance before it could retreat. No time for the crossbow now. His hunting knife materialized in his grip—an extension of his arm, perfectly balanced for killing. The blade caught ambient light, gleaming dully as he charged with everything left in his failing body.
Its jade green eyes widened—genuine surprise flickering across inhuman features. But no fear. Never fear. It stepped aside with dancer-like precision, moving just enough to avoid the blade’s arc. Nick pivoted, slashing wildly, fighting through tremors that wracked his frame. The fever burned in his veins, but the hunt burned hotter. This was what he was made for. This was his purpose.
Metal cut through empty air. The creature kept retreating, watching Nick with that unsettling focus. Playing with him. They always played with their food before the kill.
Nick lunged forward, knife extended toward its sternum. His infected arm throbbed with each heartbeat, shooting phantom pain to fingers long gone. The monster blocked his strike with an open palm, catching Nick’s wrist in a grip like iron manacles.
This close, Nick could see its face clearly—angular features, green eyes that held too much intelligence. They’d played this game before through empty streets and abandoned buildings. Nick had landed hits, drawn blood, came close to ending it. But never this close. Never trapped.
Its grip tightened, but only enough to immobilize, not crush. Nick could feel the restrained strength—enough to snap his wrist like kindling but choosing mercy instead. Worse than violence. Pity.
Nick twisted, bringing his knee up toward its groin. The creature deflected with its free hand, movements fluid and economical. No wasted energy. No heavy breathing. No signs of mortality.
“Let go,”Nick snarled, struggling against the unbreakable hold.“Fight me, you bastard.”
It tilted its head, studying Nick like a specimen under glass. Its free hand reached toward Nick’s face with deliberate slowness.
Nick jerked back, but cool fingers connected with his forehead anyway. He braced for pain—for teeth in his throat, for nails through his chest, for the final darkness that had been stalking him for months.
Instead, the pain vanished.
The burning fever, the throbbing infection, the aching joints—all gone in an instant like someone had thrown a switch. Nick gasped at the sudden absence, blessed relief washing through him like cool water after years of desert thirst.
But his legs betrayed him first. The adrenaline that had propelled him forward evaporated, leaving nothing but bone-deep exhaustion. His knees buckled. The knife slippedfrom nerveless fingers, clattering against concrete. His vision narrowed to a pinpoint, darkness creeping in from all sides.
Nick fought the encroaching darkness, fumbling for the fallen blade. His fingers scraped against dirt and broken glass. The world tilted sideways. His ears filled with cotton, muffling everything except his own ragged breathing and slowing heartbeat.
One last effort. Nick swung wildly at where he thought the creature stood, but his arm moved through empty air. His body gave out completely, systems shutting down one by one like lights going out in a dying city.
As consciousness fled, Nick felt cold hands catching him, preventing his skull from cracking against concrete. The monster’s face hovered above him through the narrowing tunnel of his vision, expression unreadable in the gathering dark.
Darkness took him mid-curse, his body going limp in his enemy’s arms.
Chapter two
Wrapped in vanilla stubbornness...
Luka
The hunter’s weight settled against Luka’s chest like a fevered stone, all sharp angles and burning skin beneath tattered fabric. The broken human’s pulse hammered against Luka’s sternum—erratic, desperate, the rhythm of something dying. Even unconscious, tension carved lines around his eyes, jaw clenched against invisible enemies.
Protect this one, his beast murmured, curious rather than hungry.He belongs with us.
Luka had expected satisfaction when their game finally ended. Instead, something hollow expanded behind his ribs, cold and unsettling. The feeling didn’t make sense, so he let it flow through him without analysis. Feelings rarely required logic.
The hunter’s head lolled as Luka adjusted his grip, exposing the bandaged stump where his left hand should have been. Yellowish fluid seeped through filthy gauze, tinged with blood and reeking gas. The stubborn fool had been treating infected flesh with gasoline.
Luka knelt carefully, laying him on cracked asphalt to examine him properly. His fingers found the hunter’s throat, counting the frantic pulse beneath skin that radiated heat like a furnace. Temperature dangerously high. Breathing shallow, too quick. The infection smell that had been building for weeks now screamed of imminent death.
Sepsis.
He unwrapped the sodden bandage, revealing angry red flesh beneath. The amputation site showed no signs of professional care—ragged tissue, improperly cauterized, infection climbing toward the elbow in furious streaks.
His beast stirred, protective rather than predatory.This one fights. Even dying, he fights.
