BARRY

They say the first time changes you. That once you've crossed the line, there's no going back. They're right. I was sixteen when I first killed a man. Not because I wanted to. Not because I planned it. But because something inside me decided it was time.

It was the pain that started it—the kind that didn't feel human. It came suddenly, sharp and blinding, like my entire body was being torn apart from the inside. My bones cracked, stretching in ways they weren't meant to. My skin rippled, splitting open as something else tried to push through.

I remember falling to the ground, my fingers clawing at the dirt, at my own flesh, trying to hold myself together. But the more I fought it, the worse it got. And then I smelled it. Blood. It hit me like a drug, thick and coppery, soaking the air around me. My vision blurred, turning red at the edges, and suddenly, I wasn't me anymore.

I was something else. Something hungry. When I woke up, I was on the forest floor, naked and freezing. The first thing I noticed was the silence. No wind. No insects. No rustling of leaves. Just a heavy, suffocating stillness. And then I saw him. The boy.

He was about my age, maybe a little older. His body was twisted, arms bent at unnatural angles, eyes wide and staring. His throat—God, his throat was gone. Torn open. Ripped apart.

And I knew, with a sick, sinking certainty, that I had done it. I stumbled back, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my hands shaking violently. Then I saw the blood. It was everywhere. On my hands, my arms, my chest. The metallic scent clung to my skin, thick and suffocating. I wanted to scrub it off, to tear it away, but no amount of wiping would make it clean.

I was a monster. A murderer. And the worst part? I didn't remember doing it. There was no rage. No hatred. No reason. Just instinct. A deep, primal hunger that had taken over—and won.

Then I ran. I didn't stop to think, didn't stop to breathe. I just ran, faster than I ever had before, my legs burning, my lungs screaming for air. By the time I reached home, the sun was rising, painting the sky in soft golds and pinks. It felt wrong. The world shouldn't look beautiful after what I had done. I climbed through my window, my body weak, aching in ways I didn't understand.

Then I saw my reflection. The boy staring back at me wasn't human. My skin was pale, my eyes darker than they had ever been. My lips were dry and cracked, and beneath my nails—blood. Not mine. His. I bit down the bile rising in my throat. I needed to hide this.I needed to pretend it never happened.

I scrubbed the blood from my skin until it was raw. Changed my clothes. Buried the evidence. And when my mother called me for breakfast, I forced myself to sit at the table like everything was normal. But it wasn't. Because that morning, the village found the body. And The Calendar was born.

The first time it happened, I thought I was dying. It started as a slow, creeping heat deep in my bones, a fever that had no name. My skin burned, my muscles clenched, and my skull felt like it was cracking apart.

I could hear my heartbeat—too loud, too fast, too wrong. Then came the hunger. Not the kind you get from skipping a meal. No, this was deeper—ancient, insatiable. It gnawed at my ribs, clawed up my throat, made my teeth ache like they were waiting for something to tear into.

That night, I sat at the dinner table, trying to act normal. But the food tasted like ash. The clinking of silverware was unbearable, each scrape against the plate like nails in my skull. My mother's voice was distant, muffled, as if she was speaking through water.

And the smell—God, the smell. Not of food. Of them. My parents. Their skin. Their blood, rushing just beneath the surface. I swallowed hard, my fingers gripping the edge of the table so tightly my knuckles turned white.

Something inside me wanted out. I excused myself, barely making it down the hall before the pain hit. A white-hot explosion deep in my core. My spine arched violently, my hands slamming against the wall as my bones snapped.

I tried to scream, but what came out wasn't human. It was a growl. Low, guttural. Wrong. I collapsed onto the floor, convulsing as my body twisted. My nails lengthened, thick and sharp. My jaw ached as my teeth pushed forward, serrated edges glinting in the dim light. My skin rippled, stretching over something larger, something that shouldn't fit inside me—

But it did. Because it was always there. Waiting. I don't remember leaving the house. I don't remember the door breaking off its hinges as I crashed through it, or the trees splintering as I ran into the forest, my limbs moving too fast, too strong. But I remember the hunger. And I remember the kill.

The scent of prey hit me first—sharp, intoxicating. My vision tunneled, instincts screaming for me to chase, to hunt. And so I did. The boy never saw me coming. One moment he was walking, humming to himself. The next, he was on the ground.

I don't know if I spoke. If I hesitated. If I gave him a chance to scream. But I do know that when the red haze cleared, my hands were drenched in blood. His throat was gone.

His eyes, wide and empty, stared up at me. And I felt nothing. No guilt. No horror. Just… silence. The world around me was still. The trees whispered, the wind carried the scent of iron, but inside—inside, I was calm.

I had never felt so right. So whole. And that terrified me. I stumbled back, gasping, hands shaking as I wiped at my face, my mouth, my skin—all stained with him.

I turned and ran, leaving the body behind.

But no matter how far I went, no matter how fast—

The monster inside me came, too.

They say killers always leave something behind. A signature. A pattern. Something that whispers their name long after they're gone. I didn't plan to leave a mark. It just happened.

The night was thick with the scent of rain, damp earth, and something else—something sharp and metallic. Blood. Mine? No. His.

I stood over the body, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My hands—God, my hands—were painted red, the warmth of fresh blood clinging to my skin like it belonged there.

Like it had always belonged there. I should've run. Should've buried the body, erased every trace. But instead, I just stood there, staring at what I'd done. Then, I reached for the knife. It wasn't instinct. It wasn't necessity. It was… something else. Something deeper. Something that had been inside me for a long, long time.

My fingers closed around the blade—shiny, sharp, slick with his blood. And then, without thinking, I carved the mark. A single line, deep into his skin. Then another. And another. Not random. Not careless. Purposeful. Precise. A symbol. A message.

I didn't know why I did it. Only that it felt right. Like scratching an itch I hadn't realized was there. Like claiming something that was already mine. When I stepped back, the shape stared back at me from his flesh. A calendar date. The fifth. Because it was the fifth day of the month. Because something inside me whispered that it had to mean something.

That this was just the beginning. I staggered back, my stomach twisting, my vision blurring at the edges. What had I done?

I turned to run, but my legs felt heavy. Like they weren't mine. The trees around me seemed taller, their shadows stretching, twisting. My own breath sounded wrong, like something was breathing with me—something bigger, something darker. I collapsed against a tree, my fingers digging into the bark. My nails were longer now—sharp, inhuman. My teeth ached, my jaw stretching in ways it wasn't supposed to.

And inside me, the thing that had guided my hands, the thing that had drawn that mark, was laughing.

It wasn't just hunger anymore.

It was something worse.

A purpose.

A ritual.

A need.

And I knew, deep in my bones, that this wasn't the last time I would leave my mark. It was only the first. They say redemption is a road paved with suffering. A long, winding path where every step forward feels like dragging the past behind you, its claws sinking deeper into your flesh. They never tell you how heavy it gets.

Every morning, I wake up before the sun. Not because I want to. Because I have to. Because the nightmares don't stop when my eyes open. The past is a shadow that never fades, stretching long and dark behind me. I hear it in the silence. I see it in every reflection. I feel it in the way people look at me—like they know. Like they sense something is wrong beneath my skin, even if they can't name it.

They don't see the bodies.

They don't hear the screams.

They don't smell the blood that will never wash off.

But I do.

And some days, I wonder if I deserve to.

Some days, I think that maybe I'm not supposed to outrun it. That maybe, redemption isn't something you earn. Maybe it's a weight you carry until it crushes you. And maybe I deserve that, too.

Yuccavale is peaceful. At least, that's what people tell themselves. A quiet town, tucked in the woods, untouched by the world beyond its borders. A place where people feel safe. A place where monsters don't belong.

I wear a badge now.

A symbol of law.

A promise of order.

I pin it to my chest every morning, knowing full well it doesn't belong there. That I don't belong here. Because once, I was a hunter. Once, I was the thing that kept people up at night. And now, I'm the one who's supposed to protect them?

It's a joke. A sick, cruel joke.

But I play my part.

I walk the streets. I shake hands. I smile when I need to. I keep my head down and pretend I don't feel the pull of the forest, the whisper of something feral in my blood. And at night, when the town is quiet, I sit in my office and stare at my reflection in the window. Waiting for the day someone sees through the mask. Waiting for the day they look at me and remember.

Samuel Holt watches me like he knows something. I see it in the way he lingers after patrol, the way his questions dig just a little too deep. He doesn't say anything outright—not yet.

But he's waiting. And I wonder what he'd do if he knew the truth. If he knew that the sheriff he looks up to was once a monster. That sometimes, when the moon is full and the night is too quiet, I still feel that monster stirring beneath my skin, whispering in my bones, begging me to let go. Redemption is supposed to set you free. But all it's ever done is chain me to a life I don't deserve. And every day, I wonder if today is the day it all falls apart.

Then, a knock at the door yanked me out of the past. I sucked in a sharp breath, my entire body tense, drenched in sweat. My hands were clenched into fists, nails digging into my palms. For a second, I thought I'd see blood.

But I didn't.

Not this time.

The knock came again, harder this time. I forced myself up, shaking the ghosts away, and opened the door. Samuel stood there, his face unreadable.

"Captain Stone's in town," he said, his voice low. "She's been asking questions. About you."

And I followed him, by the time I reached the village square, Captain Helena Stone was already in the middle of an interrogation. She stood tall, her sharp uniform pristine despite the dust that clung to the streets. A woman built for war—cold, efficient, dangerous. She was speaking to Gideon Blackwell, the old drunk who spent more time spreading rumors than actually working.

I stayed in the shadows, watching, listening.

"What do you know about the sheriff?" Stone asked.

Gideon scratched his beard, eyes flickering toward me for half a second before he answered.

"Quiet type. Keeps to himself. Works hard. But…" He hesitated, his voice lowering. "Man like him? He's got secrets. Everyone does."

Stone studied him carefully. "Have you ever seen him… do anything unnatural?"

My blood ran cold.

Gideon shrugged. "Can't say I have. But I'll tell you this—there's somethin' off about him."

Stone didn't react. She just nodded, turning away.

But as she walked past, her eyes landed on me.

And for the briefest second—

I saw recognition.

Like she already knew. Like she had always known. I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to stay calm. Because if Stone was here, if she was really digging this deep— It was only a matter of time before she uncovered everything.

26 Yamibi, Mokhwa 1312 Third Age, Yuccavale

His hand hesitated. Then, carefully, he began to write.

The new entry

"I saw her today. Captain Helena Stone. I saw the way she looked at me. The way she measured her words. She's hunting something, and she thinks she's getting close. Maybe she is."

"But she doesn't understand what she's really chasing."

"She doesn't know that I've already written the ending to this story."

"She doesn't know that every step she takes is leading her straight into the dark."

"She asked me about the Calendar. About the killings. About the blood spilled under the moon. She thinks there's a new monster out there. She thinks it's someone else."

"And maybe it is. Maybe the Calendar is just a shadow now. A ghost of something I left behind."

"But ghosts have a way of coming back, don't they?"

"I told her I'd look into it. I told her I'd keep the people of Yuccavale safe. I think she believed me."

"Or maybe she just wants to see how long I can keep lying to myself."

"Because I know the truth."

"I know what's inside me."

"I can feel it, breathing beneath my skin, whispering in my veins, waiting for the next hunt."

"And I know—"

"One day, I won't stop it."

Barry closed the journal, his fingers tightening around the leather cover as if he could smother the words inside. The wind howled through the trees, carrying the scent of pine and distant rain. In the darkness beyond, something moved—a rustling, a presence, a whisper of hunger. He exhaled through his nose, slipping the journal back into his coat. The night was quiet. For now.