2

But then again, they won’t. No one will. Unlike my brother, I don’t like showing off my masterpieces. I blend in with a group that’s heading upstairs and then break away and slide through other partygoers who are searching for a room where they can fuck the horniness out of each other. It’s beyond me how people can be such…animals. Letting their urges get the better of them, succumbing to dumb decisions and lackluster fucks they’ll definitely regret come morning. Don’t get me wrong. Fucking is good, but only when I decide it’s time to. I only get in the mood when I make the conscious decision to fuck, and never due to external stimuli. Mostly, I love the power, the choking, seeing them writhe beneath me. I love it more when they have this little pained look in their eyes when it gets to be too much, and I wish I could keep hurting them. Turn their skin red. See their fucking tears. Blood. Their goddamn insides. But alas, I can’t have rumors that I’m a sadist going around. I’m known to be a good fuck with a huge dick who eats girls out until they come. I make sure they always come first, too. I also set the mood and ensure they stay hydrated and sleep well. I’m the best fuck any girl can have and I come with a ten out of ten recommendation rate. So to keep that image, I can’t exactly act on instinct. Doesn’t bother me, though. I’ve mastered the act of wearing a mask at all times—sex included. Even with the people closest to me. There’s an external persona and an internal one. The main version is the genius, well-mannered Gareth who’s loved by everyone and would make a perfect politician. The secondary version, coincidentally my true self, is Gareth, who I only let loose when the void gets too wide and I need to purge some dark energy. Yulian happens to be the fortunate scapegoat. Or unfortunate, depending on how you look at it. I follow from afar and watch as he stumbles into a room, whether or not it’s his, I don’t know. Doesn’t matter either. I remain still near the corner for a few minutes. Invisible. It’s a superpower I lost over the years as I grew up and became noticeable, mostly due to my looks. An accidental thing that happened because two good-looking people fell into something called love and decided to spawn some clones. The clones were me and my brother—definitely not what my parents wanted. They think Killian is the only anomaly with the Carson name, but that’s only because they never met me. Not really. When I saw how they both freaked out about Kill’s stupid harmless fun with killing mice, I stood around the corner and listened. I listened to Dad blame himself, his genes, and that person who should not be named. I heard Mom cry and beg him to stop. I heard the mess. The desperation. The impression that their perfect little family was shattered. And I decided I wouldn’t be like Kill. I wouldn’t flaunt my demons or publicize my emptiness. I wouldn’t even let them figure out something is wrong or, worse, get so concerned that they take me to a doctor and have me diagnosed like they did with that idiot brother of mine. I decided to be their unblemished boy. The picture-perfect son they actually never had and never will. A spotless, unparalleled emulation of what I imagine a younger version of my dad would’ve been like. Because that’s who I would’ve turned out like if I hadn’t been born me. After a quick glance at my surroundings and making sure no one is paying attention, I walk to the room Yulian went into. My fingers are steady as I turn the doorknob, do a quick once-over to make sure no one is around, and then go inside. With a small smile, I flatten my back against the door and lock it. That was so easy, I’m slightly offended, but that doesn’t stop my blood from roaring in my veins, a thunderous surge that resurrects me. I’ve always loved the hunt, the way the creatures scurry in the shadows, the thrill of the unknown creeping in with every breath. My heart booms and my demons claw at their chains, their rage spilling from the depths of the void, their bloodlust painting the room in my mind red. My favorite color. Yulian’s room of choice is dim, the air thick with a stale, artificial chill. The walls are lined with dark wood paneling, casting shadows that stretch into the corners, making the space feel smaller than it is. As I move closer, I catch a glimpse of a desk and shelves filled with books and knickknacks. But the only real thing that stands out is the black leather sofa in the center of the room, on top of which Yulian is sprawled. The sorry fuck probably couldn’t make it to a room with a bed, too drugged out of his goddamn mind. A mask still covering his face, he’s dressed in black slacks and a long-sleeved shirt. My eyes flit to his pulse point—the first thing I notice about people. It’s beating steadily, the point throbbing against the skin in a hypnotizing view. It’s silent, but I can hear the deep, rhythmic pulsating. Thump. Thump. Thump. And I want to cut it off. To slice my knife through it and watch as it grows quiet. Motionless. Nonexistent. I flick my thumb at the edge of my upper lip but quickly drop my hand before I can bite the skin and draw my own blood. It’s been a while since I got rid of that habit and I certainly won’t let it rush back in now that I’m in full control of my being. As much as I want to kill Yulian, I won’t. The one rule I have for myself is no killing. It’s not out of any moral code I mentally don’t possess. In fact, I believe it’d do the human race good to get rid of the stupid wastes of space that keep diluting the average IQ. It’s the knowledge that I won’t be able to stop and will eventually get caught. Yes, I can avoid prison for a while. Not only am I a first-year law student who’s studying law to manipulate it, but also, my dad's side of the family owns one of the largest and most successful law firms in the States, Carson & Carson. My grandfather loves me more than his own son and would get me the ‘not guilty’ verdict no matter how many shady methods he has to use. But how long would that last? I’d still kill. It would be impossible not to. Especially after…him. I know because bloodlust is the only urge I can’t fully control. I watch people’s pulse points and I wish I could turn them red. To see them choke on their own blood and let it fill the void inside me. I look into their eyes and I want them empty. I fantasize about dead eyes looking at me, knowing I’m the god who ended their lives. It happens a lot during sex as they’re moaning while I wrap my hand around their throats, and I want to squeeze that pulse point to nothingness. I want their pleasure to turn into death. It’d be poetic, really. To end their lives in their happiest moment. Unfortunately, that would ruin this whole image I’ve spent my entire life curating, and I do care about my image more than my need to see people die. So, sadly, I can’t kill Yulian. I pause as I run my gaze over him again, the music thumping from downstairs barely audible. Was he always this tall? I know he’s big like that brute Nikolai, and they often go at each other in the fight club, but I thought he was closer to my 6’3” than Nikolai’s 6’4”. And he’s not standing, so he shouldn’t look this tall. With a mental shrug, I stroll toward him and pull a knife from my calf sheath. Step one: Undress him. But I won’t be undressing a guy personally—I don’t even like undressing girls—which is why I brought the knife to cut his clothes off. Step two: Empty the vial containing lube that looks and feels like semen over him. Step three: Take a picture of my cock in my hand as if I just came on him. Step four: Blast it all over the internet with his face on full display. Step five: Retreat to my public persona, knowing I’m the one who brought his ruin. Might punch and kick him a few times after, just to release this aggression that’s been bubbling in my veins lately. I pull on the hem of his shirt with a finger, not wanting to touch his skin. Preferably at all. Begrudgingly, once or twice for necessity. The sharp knife cuts through the fabric and I pause as the two pieces of the torn shirt fall to either side of him, revealing a muscular chest, an eight-pack, and a very wrong tattoo. Due to all the fighting he participates in, I’ve often seen Yulian half naked. While his back is tattooed with all sorts of shit, he only has one small tattoo on his chest—a scripture in Russian. That’s not what I see right now. The guy lying in front of me, his chest exposed, has a massive 3D black snake coiling across his abs, its scales rising and twisting like they’re alive, winding down to his side with menacing grace. Its mouth is open, fangs bared, inches from his heart like it's ready to sink in and tear into him. I take a step back. Unless Yulian got a new tattoo in the last forty-eight hours, this isn’t him. My mind races. How? I clearly heard his voice when I slipped him the drug, and I kept my eyes on him from then on. Except for when he went up the stairs first. Fuck. If this is a trap, I’m not waiting around to find out. My legs carry me toward the door in quick, silent steps. The moment I grab the knob, a metal barrel is placed against my temple, and a gun clicks. A deep, unfamiliar voice whispers in my ear, “It’s bad form to get a man excited and then leave. How about we fix that?”