Xiran Endis

The sheets beneath him were twisted and damp, crimson smears across threadbare cotton. Xiran’s breath hitched through clenched teeth, body trembling, stitched knuckles tightening in the mattress like he meant to tear it apart. It wasn’t the touch that made him come. It never was. It was the thought.

The imagined sound of someone gasping against his throat, soft and desperate. The phantom press of warm fingers trailing up his jaw, not recoiling from the torn skin or the seam lines. The voice whispering his name like it meant something. And then it was over, sharp, cruel, and sudden. A wave of pleasure crashing over an obsession that never wanted to let go. His back arched once more, a shudder tearing through him like something trying to crawl out. He collapsed into it with a hoarse, “Fuck-” The word hung in the air like smoke.

One hand dropped limp at his side, still slick. The other curled tight into bloodstained sheets. Jaw clenched. Eyes wide open. He stared at the cracked ceiling, stitched lips twitching, breath slow but never soft. He hadn’t even seen the face in his mind. He never could. But the voice? That always stayed the same.

Hours later. Crimson Gutters. He walked alone. Heavy coat brushing his legs. Collar turned up against the damp. Boots scuffed and worn, soles quiet over the cobblestones slick with filth. The Gutters pulsed around him, moaning, screaming, laughing. Sin stacked in layers, neon dripping down red-lit windows like blood. Pleasure on display behind thin glass. Monsters whispering in alleyways. Humans chained in velvet. Desperation in every scent, every flickering light. Xiran didn’t look. He didn’t need to. He’d seen it all. Done most of it. What he wanted wasn’t in a window. The scent of blood rode high in the air tonight. Something primal stirred beneath the surface, humming under his skin like a knife against bone.

And then...He stopped. Someone brushed past him. Too soft. Too alive. Too unguarded. His head turned, slow and deliberate. One of the neck stitches pulled with the motion, a tiny thread of tension threading up to his temple. They were already a few paces ahead, unaware. Or pretending to be. Not his. Not yet. The city around him seemed to hold its breath. There you are. Something slid down the back of his spine, obsession settling in again, sharp and certain. They didn't look back, but his eyes? They didn’t move. They fed. A flick of his tongue passed over his split lip, tasting iron, his blood, from earlier. From need. From rage. He followed.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

The voice was low. Oil-slick. Too calm, too close. And he was already there. His gaze caught their and held it, glassy-dark and cold as obsidian. He smiled. It wasn’t pleasant. It wasn’t human. “Someone like you… Alone? Here? You either want to die. Or you don’t know who's territory you walk in.” He stepped closer. Slow. Certain. Like they’d never run. Like he’d already decided how far they’d get if they did.