The Silent Hunger

Devonne Kincaid had never known thirst like this.

Water slid down his throat by the gallon, yet his mouth stayed dry, his tongue raw. Coffee, wine, juice—nothing quenched it. At night he lay awake, jaw aching, grinding against a hunger that felt older than he was.

The doctor said dehydration. Work stress. Maybe insomnia.

But Devonne knew the truth in his bones. This wasn’t stress. This was something feeding on him from the inside.

---

The first crack showed on the subway.

The carriage swayed, packed shoulder to shoulder. Devonne leaned against a pole, eyes half-closed, when the smell hit him. Metallic. Sharp.

A boy across the car had a wrist wrapped in gauze. The bandage was slipping. A red thread gleamed where it bled through.

Devonne’s heart kicked hard. His throat closed. His mouth watered so suddenly he nearly gagged.

He couldn’t stop staring.

The boy shifted under his gaze. Devonne bit the inside of his cheek, hard enough to taste his own blood, forcing himself back into his skin.

When the train screeched to a stop, he bolted into the night air, lungs shuddering, hunger screaming.

---

The dreams began after that.

Dark alleys. Footsteps echoing. Shapes moving ahead of him. He reached for them with shaking hands, nails digging into phantom skin, the air thick with copper sweetness.

He always woke with his pillow torn and his teeth aching as if he’d been gnawing stone.

Food tasted like dust. Heartbeats became an unbearable noise. He stopped eating lunch with coworkers, stopped making eye contact, stopped riding the train.

But silence only made the hunger louder. The hunger was not meant to be suppressed.

---

One morning, Devonne woke with dirt packed beneath his nails. His tongue was coated in iron. His reflection in the mirror looked wrong—skin ghost-pale, pupils blown wide, teeth catching the light in ways they shouldn’t.

On the news:

"The body of a man was found drained of blood in an alley off Crescent Street. No wounds were visible on the victim."

Devonne’s coffee mug slipped from his hand. It shattered across the tile.

He looked down towards his shoes laid by the entrance door. Muddy, Thick, wet, black with rain.

He couldn’t remember leaving his apartment nor coming back.

---

Fear gripped him harder than hunger ever had. He kept his blinds shut. He stopped answering calls. He didn’t dare sleep.

But hunger doesn’t care about fear. Hunger grows.

---

It was the stairwell that broke him.

He was dragging himself upstairs when his neighbor appeared—a woman, groceries in her arms, a polite smile on her face.

Then she tripped. The bag split. Apples clattered, a wine bottle shattered, and her hand slid across broken glass.

Blood welled instantly. Bright. Hot. Alive. A beautiful hue.

Devonne froze.

The scent slammed into him. His whole body trembled. His jaw ached. His feet moved before his mind caught up—one step closer, then another.

She swore softly, fumbling for tissues, unaware of the man breathing like a starving animal in front of her.

He reached out. His fingers shook as they hovered inches from her bleeding hand.

Then—he saw it.

The window beside them. His reflection.

Gaunt, hollow-eyed, teeth too sharp. A stranger’s face.

The horror ripped through him.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stammered, voice shredded.

The woman only stared, clutching her wound tighter.

Devonne turned and ran, fleeing his own shadow.

He felt devastated. To himself , he was a monster.
---

That night, he barricaded himself inside. Blinds sealed. Lights out. The world locked away. He sat on the floor, shaking, gnawing his knuckles until they bled, the hunger pounding against his ribs.

And memory rose up.

Not fragments. Not dreams. Whole centuries.

He remembered the graves. The lifetimes. The faces fading pale beneath his touch. Names abandoned. Cities left burning in his wake.

He wasn’t sick. He wasn’t cursed.

He was what he had always been.

Hunger.

---

By dawn, Devonne Kincaid was gone.

The apartment door hung open, the lock split from inside. The mirror lay in shards across the floor.

In the alley two blocks over, a scream split the morning.

The city stirred to whispers of a killer who left no wounds.

The killer who fed so quietly no one ever heard.

The silent hunger.

---