That morning I felt nauseous. The world spun around me, and my eyes ached as if they were being pierced by very fine needles.

  Some of my classmates kept repeating,

  “You look pale.”

  With the little strength I had left, I stood up from my seat.

  “Miss, I need to go to the bathroom.”

  It was only the second period, so everything was still clean and quiet.

  I splashed water on my face. The dark circles under my eyes were terrible, my lips dry and cracked. I slapped my cheeks lightly.

  “What’s wrong with me now?”

  It’s been a few days since that incident, and my body hasn’t had a single moment of rest.

  I haven’t been able to sleep.

  And in the early hours of the morning, a horrible pain grips my jaw—as if it’s about to split in half.

  I hate all of this. Every day I regret giving in to curiosity and going with…

  Iris.

  She must be fine. If that vampiress said she would take care of her, then someone like her must know exactly how to nurse someone back to health… right?

  The last thing I remember from that meeting—

  “She’s not human.”

  She never specified what she became exactly. Is she the same as her? If so… how enviable. To be a creature of the night, a beautiful and immortal monster—isn’t that a blessing?

  I can’t remain standing. The pain is overwhelming.

  I slid down into a corner of the bathroom, resting with my head tilted back. Hundreds of thoughts rushed through my mind. One of them:

  Who else knows about this? The police?

  There was no way the authorities would ever take something like this seriously.

  I feel ridiculous. Was any of it even real? I mean… Iris usually hangs out with strange guys. Could she have drugged me without me realizing it?

  Ah, I wish that were the case.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Where are you, Iris?

  …

  It seems I fell asleep.

  What is this?

  The room is completely different—monochrome. My hands, my feet… everything is drained of color.

  Silence.

  I can’t hear anything. Not even the sound of my own footsteps.

  Am I dreaming?

  I step outside the room. Beyond the door stretches a long corridor with no distinguishable end. On each side there are metallic doors, each marked with a number.

  The door I came from is number 0.

  The rest begin at 3. Directly across from it is 4. And so on, consecutively.

  I’m afraid to open any of them. So I simply walk straight ahead, my eyes scanning cautiously from side to side.

  Under door number 17, a glow seeps through. Red. Completely irregular in this monochrome space.

  As I pass it, I notice something for the first time—I can smell something.

  A metallic scent. So strong it feels like I can taste it in the air.

  The walls are green. The floor is polished white, so glossy that there isn’t even a trace of my shadow.

  My body tenses. My throat tightens slowly; breathing becomes difficult. My chest feels like it’s about to explode.

  The further I walk, the more disturbed I become by what lies inside.

  First, two bodies. One on top of the other. A cross carved into their left arms.

  The taller one is an adult. Judging by his condition, he’s been here a long time. The other is a young woman with very long, silver hair.

  Both of them have their mouths open. Neither has a single tooth. Removed surgically—there are no signs of violence. It looks as though someone simply dismantled them, like taking apart a simple toy.

  I stop looking. My mind begins to blur. After all, it’s the first time I’ve seen a corpse. But…

  This feeling is familiar.

  The room is incredibly wide—about five or six meters across—and stretches into what seems like infinite depth.

  The deeper I go, the more corpses I see. Arms. Viscera everywhere.

  I don’t want to keep looking. It’s difficult not to, because the pain returns stronger than before—that sharp, crushing agony in my jaw.

  …

  In the middle of it all, a man.

  He is bound to a wall that divides the room into two separate passages.

  His skin is extremely pale. His eyes are purple. A crown of thorns pierces his head, drawing blood.

  With the hand that is free from restraint, he points toward one of the entrances.

  At first, I avoid meeting his gaze.

  But the sense of authority he exerts over me is indescribable.

  In a fleeting moment, I look directly into his eyes.

  “Daughter,”

  he whispers.

  And I…

  My jaw loosens. My mouth opens unnaturally wide. The bones of my face shift into a grotesque new alignment.

  I lunge at him.

  My hands tear through his skin, blood and fat splattering across my distorted face. I pause for a moment—his leg muscles are dense, tough—so I move downward and with a single bite I shred them apart.

  I devour him as if it were a New Year’s feast. I cannot describe the overwhelming pleasure of my teeth ripping through everything in their path, while my hands explore every inch of skin, muscle—every fragment of that exquisite body that is no longer bound to the wall, but to my arms and my mouth.

  When I suck down the last drop of blood, I am soaked in red. Viscera cling to my skin.

  A purple door appears before me.

  I step through it.

  I’m back in the bathroom.

  I look at the mirror.

  I can’t believe it.

  I tear off my clothes, grab a bucket, fill it with water, and dump it over my head.

  Again.

  And again.

  Until not a single trace of red remains.

  I enter a stall and sit down.

  No.

  No.

  No.

  What is this?

  What am I?

  Why?

  As I question what just happened, a serpent slithers out from behind me.

  “Child,” it says softly,

  “You have made a mistake.”