I’m not a monster—at least, not by choice. I was born human, lived clean, died once, and woke up thirsty. They call me Johnny now, though I don’t remember giving it out. Every night after my shift at the morgue, I feed. Not because I enjoy the pain, but because the hunger never stops. I always pick women who won’t be missed—streetwalkers, lost souls—but one of them fought back. She shouldn’t have survived. She shouldn’t have remembered anything. But she ran, bleeding and broken, into the arms of the police. And now, even if she can’t name me… I know she feels me still. If I don’t find her first, the city will burn with what I am.