I was born under a blood moon, or so my grandmother claimed before she vanished into the jungle. They said she was mad. But she knew—the blood remembers.

Now, standing on the rooftop of my apartment building, I feel it again—the pull in my spine, the fire in my veins. The city sprawls below, loud and filthy, but my ears catch something else: a chittering in the dark, a scent like wet fur and iron.

They’re here.

I crouch, muscles coiling, fingers curling into claws. My breath fogs the air, not from cold—from rage. From hunger.

A shadow drops from the next roof. Not human. Not quite.

It bares teeth. I bare mine.

This is no longer about hiding.

This is about survival.

And maybe… finally becoming what I was meant to be.