I was fifteen when everything changed. It started like any other evening: the sky bruised purple, streetlamps flickering on, vendors calling out last‑minute offers of chai and peanuts. I was striding home from tuition, earbuds in, half‑listening to a podcast, when a quiet gasp sliced through the hum of scooters and chatter.
I froze.
Around the corner of a narrow alley, a man staggered into view, one hand pressed to his wrist. There was no cut, no torn fabric—just a thin, crimson line tracing its way down his skin. My pulse kicked up, but I rooted myself to the spot. Curiosity beat out fear.
Then I saw it: something black and glossy, about the size of my hand, glinting in a stray beam of lamppost light. It moved forward with the silent determination of a predator. No snapping jaws, no venomous sting—just a single, deliberate touch. The moment it connected, that trickle of blood doubled.
He didn't scream. He only stared, eyes glassy, as if he was watching himself from somewhere else. And then he fell, face‑first, into the gutter. The thing slipped away like a shadow at midnight, leaving only the bloodstain to mark its passage.
My backpack slipped off my shoulder. For a heartbeat, the world went eerily quiet. Then my legs kicked in and I bolted, running without looking back until the alley's mouth disappeared behind me.
By the time I reached home, my heart was a jackhammer in my chest. I slammed the door so hard I almost knocked the frame loose. In the dim light of my room, the glow of my phone felt alien as I furiously typed every search term I could think of:
"hand‑size parasite touch infection"
"bleeding with no wound"
"no‑bite blood parasite"
Nothing. No news articles, no forum threads, not even a single mention on social media. It was as if the entire world had shrugged and moved on, leaving me alone with that bloody memory.
My hands shook so badly I could barely scroll. I peeled off my shoes and jacket, scanning every inch of exposed skin—half‑expecting to find a hidden puncture, a microscopic tear I'd missed. But there was nothing. My reflection in the mirror stared back with dark circles and disbelief.
That night, I barely slept. Every creak of the house sounded like footsteps, every gust of wind against the window sounded like something trying to get in. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the man's last gasp over and over. Why did it choose him? Would it come for me next?
At dawn, the street outside looked innocent enough. Cicadas buzzed in the trees, auto‑rickshaws rattled past, and the vendors were back at it—mangoes, samosas, steaming cups of chai. It could have been any other day. But I knew better. I'd seen something no one believes in, something alive and lethal.
I shoved my bag by the door without a second thought. Today, I'd stick to the main roads. No alleys. No dark corners. If I caught sight of that thing again, I wouldn't freeze—I'd run until my lungs burned, until I was so far away I couldn't hear its silent approach.
I walked to school at a brisk pace, eyes flicking over every passerby. Was that stain on the wall fresh? Did that old man's hunched gait look… off? My classmates waved and laughed, oblivious. I wanted to shout, "Watch out—don't get too close!" but the words stuck in my throat.
Inside the classroom, I forced myself to concentrate on equations and dates. But my mind kept drifting back to the alley. To that man's empty eyes. To the way the creature vanished without a trace.
By lunch, my stomach had forgotten to feel hungry. I sat under a banyan tree in the school courtyard, notebook open but blank. I traced the words I'd typed: "infection by touch," "no‑bite parasite." None of it made sense, but I refused to ignore it.
When the final bell rang, I was already halfway out the door. I didn't wait for friends or linger in the hallways. I needed fresh air, clear skies, space to think without four walls closing in.
I ended up wandering near my neighborhood park, under the bright afternoon sun. For a moment, I let myself breathe. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe it was a trick of light, someone's weird cosplay, anything but real.
But the memory lingered, sticky and uneasy. That man's collapse wasn't imagination. The blood had been real. The dripping had been real. And whatever that thing was, it was still out there—hungry, patient, waiting for its next opportunity.
I squared my shoulders, squared my fear. No more hiding. No more second‑guessing. If this creature was going to come for me again, I'd be ready. I'd stay in the open. Keep moving. And if I ever saw it, I'd remember one thing:
It kills with a touch.
My phone buzzed—an incoming message from my mom reminding me to pick up groceries on the way home. I pocketed the phone and started walking again, this time with purpose. Shadows might hide monsters, but daylight makes them clearer.
Next: Chapter 2 – Rooftop Sanctuary