Dante

There was always something wrong with Dante. He had been adopted at a young age, found alone in a dark, silent house with the bloodied body of his mother draped lifelessly across her bed. As a child, he wept over her, his tiny hands stained red. The story, as he heard it later, was labeled a suicide, but Dante never learned the details. He remembered nothing of his mother beyond her cold skin, and had no memory at all of his father. A kindly family took him in, raising him alongside two older siblings. But Dante remained a strange child. While other kids clamored for lollipops and chocolate, Dante begged for pork chops and rare steak; he wanted a massive meatloaf for his birthday instead of cake. Once, his adoptive parents caught him in the kitchen, drinking pig’s blood they’d saved for a special dish—drinking it straight from the jar, as if it were juice. His cravings were peculiar, but his family loved him regardless.

As Dante grew, so did his sense of isolation. He eventually withdrew into a solitary life in a remote cabin deep within a shadowed forest, far from prying eyes. There, he hunted the wild animals that roamed the woods. No one saw him as he knelt over his kills, drinking their blood and devouring their cooked remains. The more he indulged, the more disgusted he felt, but he couldn’t stop. It was an addiction—an unyielding, gnawing hunger that never left him.

One fog-laced evening, Dante stalked through the trees, his hand wrapped tightly around his gun, already notched and ready. Suddenly, a sharp sting pricked the back of his neck, followed by the sensation of hot breath against his ear. He barely registered the warmth of blood trickling down his skin before everything went black.

When he regained consciousness, Dante felt dizzy and weak. He forced his eyes open, blinking against the blur. He was seated in a heavy chair, his wrists cuffed behind his back and a cold steel ball chain secured to his ankle. The room around him was strangely regal—draped in black velvet and crimson silk, shadows flickering across gold-framed mirrors. He sat before a grand vanity, facing his own reflection. His hair was neatly styled, his skin scrubbed clean for the first time in years. Around his neck lay a ruby necklace, its gem swirling with red and black shades that seemed to pulse like living blood. The sight of it made his hunger flare. He parted his lips, only to freeze. In the mirror, he saw something odd: at the corner of his mouth, his canine teeth had grown, sharper and more pronounced than before. Shock jolted through him. He snapped his jaw shut, eyes wide.

A presence loomed behind him, just out of view, masked by the shadows. On the vanity before him lay an array of ornate makeup products, each one intricately decorated with black, red, and gold accents. Dante’s heart thundered. He twisted against his restraints, desperate to escape. The chair squeaked beneath him, mocking his futile struggle as he squeezed his eyes shut and writhed, panic mounting in his chest.