I storm through the streets of Munich without direction, my boots striking the ground harder than they need to. The city blurs around me—faces, voices, movement—but none of it matters.
The anger does.
It crawls through me, relentless, like something alive beneath my skin.
If I want revenge, I need information.
There's only one place to start.
The Hofbräuhaus.
---
I stop just outside the door.
For a moment, I catch my reflection in the glass.
I barely recognize the man staring back.
My face is thinner, sharper. Stubble shadows my jaw, uneven and rough. My hair—once neat—is too long now, tangled and unkempt. I look…worn. Sick, almost.
But my eyes—
They haven't dulled.
Bright blue, cutting through the exhaustion, standing out stark against the bloodshot white.
I hold that gaze for a second longer.
Then I turn away and step inside.
---
The noise hits me first.
Voices overlap, laughter too loud, arguments louder. The air is thick with smoke and sweat and stale beer. It's crowded—packed with men clinging to routine, to something that still feels normal.
I buy the cheapest ale they have and a plate of food that looks barely edible. It doesn't matter. I need a reason to stay.
I sit. Eat. Listen.
That's when the pieces start to fall into place.
"I heard some of those Bavarian Soviet types are stirring things up again."
"They never stopped. Didn't get enough the first time, I guess."
"They'll keep pushing until they win—or until they're all dead."
I tune them out.
Politics doesn't matter.
Not tonight.
---
"…we need people higher up," another voice says nearby, lower, more focused. "Government, army—someone with influence."
"Relax," a second man replies. "These things take time. We're growing. Munich's already ours, in a way."
"Not fast enough."
I shift slightly, pretending to focus on my drink while listening closer.
---
At another table:
"So who are we shaking down later?"
"Some nobody. Owes the boss a lot. We'll break a few fingers if he doesn't pay."
A pause.
"Boss doesn't like waiting."
That's it.
My grip tightens around the mug.
---
The two men stand.
I wait a beat.
Then I follow.
---
I trail them through the streets, keeping distance, matching their pace without drawing attention. They don't look back.
Not once.
Until they turn into an alley.
I follow.
And almost die for it.
A flash of steel cuts through the air where my head just was. I stumble back, heart slamming into my ribs.
"Alright," one of them snarls, knife raised again. "Who the hell are you? Who sent you?"
I straighten slowly, breathing hard.
"No one sent me," I say. My voice sounds colder than I expect. "Are you the ones who burned down my house?"
They glance at each other.
"That's not very specific," the other one says with a smirk. "We've done that a few times."
"Eisenblut."
The name hangs in the air.
Recognition flickers.
"Oh," the first man says. "You're the soldier. The kid."
My hands curl into fists.
"Your father owed our boss," he continues casually. "Wouldn't pay. So we made an example."
Something inside me goes very, very still.
"And your family?" the second adds with a shrug. "Wrong place."
My pulse hammers in my ears.
"You came to us, though," the first says, stepping closer. "That's good. Boss wanted you anyway. Figured you could work off the debt."
I let out a quiet breath.
"What makes you think," I say slowly, "that I'm going to work for anyone?"
He grins.
"Because you don't have a cho—"
He lunges.
---
The world slows.
Just like before.
The knife drifts toward me—not fast, not slow, just…clear. Every movement stretched, every detail sharp.
I move.
My hand snaps up, catching his wrist. I twist.
Bone grinds.
He gasps, and the knife slips free into my hand.
I don't hesitate.
I drive it into his chest.
His body jerks. His breath leaves him in a wet choke.
And then—
The smell hits me.
Warm. Metallic.
Inviting.
My mouth waters.
What—
I pull the blade free.
Without thinking, I bring it to my lips.
The blood is hot.
The moment it touches my tongue, that same warmth floods through me—stronger this time, deeper. It spreads like fire through my veins, filling every hollow space inside me.
My teeth ache.
No—change.
Sharpen.
Strengthen.
A hunger rises with it, sudden and overwhelming.
I look up.
The second man is backing away, eyes wide with terror.
"What the hell are you—"
I'm on him before he can finish.
My hands slam him against the wall. My mouth finds his neck.
And I bite.
---
Heat.
Life.
It pours into me with every swallow, thick and intoxicating. The world narrows to nothing but the pulse beneath my lips, the rhythm of his blood, the feeling of strength flooding my body.
I drink.
And drink.
And drink.
---
Then—
I stop.
---
The world snaps back into place.
The man collapses, clutching his neck, pale and shaking.
I stagger back, breathing hard.
"What…?" My voice is hoarse. "What happened?"
He stares at me like I'm something pulled from a nightmare.
"You—you bit me," he stammers. "You drank my blood like some kind of monster."
Monster.
The word lingers.
I look down at my hands. At the blood.
Then back at him.
"I didn't mean to," I say quietly.
It's not a lie.
But it doesn't matter.
---
I step closer.
He flinches.
"Where is your boss?" I ask.
He shakes his head, panic rising again. "Why would I tell you anything?"
I crouch in front of him.
"There are ways to convince you."
My voice is calm now. Too calm.
"I could start with your fingers," I continue. "Cut them slowly. One at a time. Thin pieces. Make it last."
His breathing quickens.
"Then your toes. After that…" I tilt my head slightly. "We'll see how much of you is left."
He swallows hard.
"I'll take you to him," he blurts. "I'll take you, just—just don't do that."
I study him for a moment.
Then nod.
"Good."
I grab his collar and haul him to his feet.
"But understand this," I say, my voice dropping. "If you try anything…"
I meet his eyes.
"I won't need the knife next time."
He nods rapidly.
"I won't. I swear."
I shove him forward.
"Then walk."
---
He stumbles ahead, leading the way.
And I follow.