He woke up on a cold, stainless steel table, the harsh fluorescence of the morgue lights overhead casting an eerie pallor over the room. His breath came out in visible puffs, the air itself feeling frigid and uninviting.
With a groan, he pushed himself into a seated position, his movements slow and unsteady. His mind raced, trying to grasp what had led him to this unsettling place. Memories from the past two months were like fragments of shattered glass, elusive and incomplete. The dimly lit morgue was lined with rows of gurneys, each bearing a covered body. The acrid scent of disinfectant hung in the air, mingling with a faint, metallic tang.
Rain beat against the small, frosted window high on the wall, casting distorted, wavy patterns of light and shadow across the room. Outside, the city was cloaked in darkness, the streets slick with the incessant downpour.
After searching for a bit, Evan found a set of clothes to cover himself. After seeing his reflection on a metal tray, Evan's realization that his hair was now a shock of pure white only added to his sense of disorientation.
Evan's gaze shifted to the morgue's heavy, metal door. ith trepidation, he pushed it open, and it groaned ominously, revealing a dimly lit corridor beyond. The pale glow of flickering overhead lights barely illuminating the path. Each footstep reverberated in the cold, linoleum-floored corridor.
Evan's journey led him through winding hallways that seemed to stretch on indefinitely, their monotony broken only by the occasional flickering light and the echoing drip of water from unseen leaks.
The sound of footsteps approaching echoed down the corridor. Panic seized Evan, and he quickly veered into a nearby room. Inside, he found himself in an office Tattered, yellowing documents littered the floor, and the remnants of what was once a workspace now lay in disarray.
The footsteps grew louder, drawing nearer. Evan's breath caught in his throat. He realized that the tension he felt wasn't because of fear. He was restraining himself. Restraining the ravenous hunger he felt starting to cloud his mind.
In the dimly lit corridor of the morgue, the mortician, Sarah, walked alongside the uniformed police officer, Officer Reynolds.
Sarah's footsteps were hesitant and measured, but the police officer's presence offered some reassurance. She had just finished her late-night shift and was glad to be accompanied by a law enforcement officer as they navigated the labyrinthine corridors. The police officer asked her to show her the lastest body brought to the morgue. He seemed oddly interested in seeing it, and insisted that it was an urgent matter.
They continued their journey, discussing mundane matters, their conversation punctuated by the occasional flicker of lights overhead.
As they reached the end of a particularly long corridor, the flickering lights finally failed, plunging them into darkness. Sarah fumbled for her phone, her movements frantic. She clicked turned on the flashlight, cutting a narrow path through the blackness.
That's when the attack happened.
It was the body she had just examined, only that it was alive, and had changed into something inhuman. His mouth was filled with razor-sharp teeth, and his eyes reflected an otherworldly hunger. It lunged from the shadows, his pale form a nightmarish apparition. In an instant, he was upon Sarah, pinning her to the wall.
The officer, shocked by the sudden brutality, reacted instinctively. He drew his firearm and fired several rounds into Evan's chest.
The impact should have been fatal, but Evan's body was no longer human. He staggered back, his chest riddled with bullet holes, but within moments, his wounds began to close. His pale skin knit itself back together, and the bullet holes sealed shut.
Reynolds became the focus of his hunger. The monster lunged at him, taking one last shot to the head in the process. The police officer struggled in vain. The monster bit into his neck, tearing away at his flesh and consuming his thyroid gland. The coppery scent of blood filled the air.
Evan Harker fled from the morgue, his senses overwhelmed by the savage act he had just committed. The rain fell in unrelenting torrents, drenching him to the bone. His dark cargo pants clung to his legs, and the raincoat, now stained with blood, billowed like a shadowed shroud.
As he stumbled through the city's desolate streets, the uninviting ambience was inescapable. The cold, unforgiving rain battered him, each drop stinging like a shard of ice.
Evan's breath came in ragged gasps as he fought to regain control over the savage urges that surged within him. Consuming the thyroid gland had partially sated the monstrous hunger that had overtaken him, allowing him to escape before he attacked the mortician as well.
Dim recollections stirred in his mind, like shards of shattered glass slowly coming together. He remembered that he had once lived in a small, run-down apartment on the other side of the city. He managed to recall where the apartment was located, and decided to make it's way there.
The city was a sprawling maze of concrete and steel. The neon signs that hung above seedy bars flickered eerily in the rain, casting unnatural glows on the wet pavement. The few people he passed on the street hurried along, their faces hidden beneath hoods and umbrellas. He alto stried to obscure his face, but in his case it was to hide his razor sharp teeth.
Evan's journey through the unforgiving night had brought him to the entrance of the nondescript apartment building that he had once called home. It was in a weathered building in the heart of the city, its exterior marred by the stains of time and neglect.
The sound of his footsteps echoed in the dimly lit lobby as he entered. Flickering overhead lights cast a pallid illumination on the worn carpet and battered mailboxes that lined one wall. The smell of dampness and old wood clung to the air, mingling with the faint hint of stale cigarette smoke. Had his senses become sharper?
His journey up the creaking, dimly lit stairwell was a slow, laborious ascent. His drenched clothes clung to him uncomfortably, and the raincoat felt like a shroud that weighed heavily on his shoulders.
The door to his apartment, bearing the familiar number 4, came into view.
He was already reaching to open the door when he realized he had no key. However, much to his surprise, the doorknob turned effortlessly.
The apartment was a modest space, a sanctuary that had once been his. The living room held a mismatched collection of furniture. A threadbare couch faced a battered television, and a small dining table stood in the corner, its surface covered in forgotten papers and empty takeout containers.
He could recall the hours spent on that couch, the laughter of friends, and the warmth of shared meals. A life that now seemed to belong to someone else.
He sank down onto the couch.