Was that the word? The body, this body-that-was-hers-but-that-was-not, this trembling body, remembered the word.
“C-c-cold,” Sirja said through chattering teeth. “Cold” did not exist in her world.
One of her white fangs plunged into the soft flesh of her lip, and blood began to flow down her bare chest, the warmth of the black fluid spreading across icy skin.
Pain. Pain was familiar. Her world was pain. Her pain, the pain of others, the pain of the world itself.
A whistle cut through the dark night. Sirja turned to its source. Far off, at the other end of the strange stretch of smooth stone, a lone figure, a man, watched this-body-that-was-hers-but-not with predatory eyes. The stranger stood at the edge of the cone of light projected by one of those little fires trapped in glass and metal cages, as if hesitating to expose himself.
Sirja expanded her chest with icy air, shook her profile in a serpentine manner, nodded at that man with this body-that-was-hers-but-not-really. And then, she crossed the portal into that place that she had heard passers-by calling a “restroom.”
There was more light here. Sirja looked at her reflection in the cristal wall. The body that mixed her shapes with those of the … other creature … It was beautiful, curvy, the perfect bait. How well had this place treated her, yes.
But all the blood, the blood of her previous prey, the blood that covered most of this body … No, it could not be, it would not do, it would scare away the one whose footsteps echoed ever closer.
Sirja pricked one of her nails-which-were-hers-but-were-not, a sharp, pointed nail driving into her right breast just below the clavicle.
Black blood began to flow, and more and more, as she wiggled her finger, as she opened the wound further, pierced a hole in the half-lent body.
Pain. Pain. PAIN!
And the light from the restroom lamps was sucked like a liquid by a straw, sucked into the black hole that was her self-inflicted wound.
The man stepped into a pitch-black public restroom.
The predator smiled a fanged smile.