Chapter 3: Blutgeist Fluch & the Uncanny Encounter
Zeke Ramirez was abruptly wrenched from the depths of his uneasy slumber. The sudden jolt of awakening left him disoriented, his mind struggling to catch up with the reality that was now illuminated by a ghostly blue starlight seeping from the mark on his body. The light cast an ethereal glow across the room, starkly contrasting with the dim, cluttered space around him. As he bolted upright, his head throbbed with a painful intensity, a relentless buzzing that felt like a swarm of angry bees trapped in his skull.
He touched his forehead, feeling the rough texture of the bandage that had been hastily applied. Confusion gripped him. How had he ended up here? His surroundings—a room strewn with coffee-stained sketch papers and empty liquor bottles—told the story of a recent battle with despair. Every object seemed to mock his disorientation: the crumpled papers held fragments of abandoned ideas, and the liquor bottles bore silent witness to a night of self-medication.
As his senses cleared, he noticed the mark that had appeared on his body, its appearance eerily similar to Eric's—the mark of '' His Eric.'' He remembered the days of contemplating a painful ritual to bind Eric to him, to create an unbreakable bond of love and despair even if it was only a tale in other people's eyes. But to him, it was the only way he could make Eric to look his way, to sense his presence, to see his yearnings. But that plan had been dashed by the sins of his past, sins that had driven Eric away and left Zeke with a lifelong ache.
The room seemed to close in on him, its oppressive atmosphere reflecting his inner turmoil. He pushed himself off the bed, his movements sluggish but purposeful. The weight of his grief seemed to drag at his every step as he made his way across the cluttered floor to a small, neglected bookshelf in the corner. Dust danced in the dim light as he reached for an ancient tome titled "The Book of Curses."
The book felt heavy in his hands, its leather cover worn from age. Zeke sank to the floor, the chill of the hardwood seeping through his clothes. He opened the book with trembling fingers, his heart pounding with a mixture of hope and dread. His eyes skimmed the yellowed pages, searching for the chapter he needed. Finally, on page 103, he found it: "Blutgeist Fluch."
The words leapt off the page, their ancient script both enigmatic and foreboding. The passage described the curse in chilling detail:
"Blutgeist Fluch" translates to "Blood Ghost Curse" in German. It manifests as a mark on the bearer's body, resembling a blue-black bruise. This mark binds two individuals through fate and karma. The nature of the mark depends on the connection between them. A mark featuring a tree with exposed roots, surrounded by angelic silhouettes, symbolizes a bond of love and beauty. The initials of the bound individuals will appear in the center of each other's mark. The presence of the mark is confirmed when it appears simultaneously on both individuals within a 500-meter radius.
However, this mark did not appear on everyone's body. It is exclusive to those of a specific bloodline, cursed by an ancestor who performed a dark, painful ritual. This curse condemned the lineage and chooses his descendants meticulously, and only those chosen by the 'Blutgeist' would bear the mark. Those with the tree mark are fortunate, finding true love without the threat of betrayal. In contrast, the mark with a half-moon surrounded by black clouds and dripping blood is much darker. It represents a bond forged in karmic strife and an incredibly difficult love, like being bound to fallen seraphs with no escape. This mark can only appear after a rare blood fusion between the individuals, a condition met only in extraordinary circumstances. The full extent of this curse remains shrouded in mystery, known to few and understood by even fewer."
As Zeke read, a cold shiver ran down his spine. The realization of the mark on his body struck him like a physical blow. He leapt up and hurried to the mirror, his heart racing. With frantic movements, he ripped open his shirt and exposed his shoulders to the reflective glass. There it was—the half-moon mark, surrounded by ominous black clouds and dripping blood. The sight was both confirming and terrifying.
He stared at the mark, a rush of conflicting emotions crashing over him. On one hand, he felt a dark elation, a twisted sense of possession over Eric, as if the curse had made him truly belong to him. But the joy was tainted by a deep, gnawing anguish, as though his heart was being pierced by a relentless blade. The weight of the curse was almost too much to bear. He knew he was not dreaming the other night. It was really 'Eric', he was really there, in this room, in front of him'. He was sure that it was not the drugs, he never had such a dream despite dreaming of Eric every night. He needed to find Eric, no matter what. He has been waiting for three years and now he came to him on his own.
Desperate to escape the suffocating confines of the room, Zeke sprinted to the door. His mind was a maelstrom of thoughts and fears as he raced down the stairs. He halted at the spot where he had fallen during the chaotic chase after Eric. The bloodstain from before had vanished, leaving a pristine, unsettling emptiness. Someone else had been here—Damien, his personal bodyguard? The thought flickered through his mind but was quickly dismissed.
Zeke burst out of the building and rushed to his black Audi. The car's sleek, polished exterior gleamed under the streetlights as he flung open the door and slid into the driver's seat. The engine roared to life, a powerful sound that seemed to echo his inner urgency. He drove with reckless speed, the road ahead a blur of darkness and fleeting lights.
His motive was clear in his mind, and every mile he covered brought him closer to it. The night swallowed the landscape as he raced against time, driven by a single, consuming purpose—to find Eric before the curse's full implications could unravel their lives further.
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Somewhere in Midnight West City
The chill of the night was palpable. A light snowfall blanketed the streets, tracing every footstep with a thin, white sheet. The city, usually bustling with activity, now lay hushed beneath the quiet of the evening.
Lucian moved with purpose, his mind focused on reaching his destination. As he rounded a corner, he collided with another person. The impact scattered coffee cups across the ground, their contents spilling onto Lucian's black combat shirt. The cold coffee seeped through the fabric, adding to the chill of the night and sending a shiver down his spine.
With an impassive expression, Lucian looked down at the figure who had collided with him. The man, crouched and hastily gathering the spilled cups, looked up, annoyance evident on his face. Lucian's voice, flat and devoid of warmth, cut through the night air.
"Kiddo, watch where you're going. Running through the streets in the middle of the night is hardly wise."
The man, now standing, shot Lucian a glare. His irritation was clear, especially at being called "kiddo" despite being 28 years old. His voice carried an edge, matching the coldness of the night.
"Who are you calling a kiddo? If you're looking for a fight, you've come at a bad time. I'm not in the mood." He pulled out a card from his wallet and handed it to Lucian.
"Here," he said. "My café is just around the corner. Come by tomorrow, and I'll make it up to you for the shirt. I'm sure it wasn't cheap."
Lucian, momentarily surprised by the man's offer, glanced at the card. The man seemed ready to leave, but Lucian's pragmatic nature quickly resurfaced.
"My shirt is ruined, and I need to be somewhere. There are no shops in this alley, I'll need something to wear. You need to provide a replacement" Lucian's tone was firm.
The man was taken aback with this unexpected turned of events. But he was no little bunny to be scared of the man with an eccentric scar on his lips. The mysterious man raised an eyebrow at the directness of the request. He glanced at his own shirt, a hint of amusement dancing on his lips.
"Alright then. The only shirt I have is the one I'm wearing. But are you sure you want to wear this? It might not fit you."
Lucian, replied, "It will do. Black on black should work. I'll return it tomorrow when I come by your café for the compensation." If there was anything Lucian loved in this world, it was ensuring that every loss was met with full payback. He was determined not to let this man walk away without settling the score.
A touch of humor crept into the man's voice. "Fine, fine. I guess you're eager to wear my scent. Here you go." He swiftly removed his shirt, revealing a well-toned torso beneath a snug, sleeveless top. He tossed the shirt to Lucian, who caught it effortlessly.
Lucian's eyes lingered on the man's sculpted physique for a bit longer than necessary before he averted his gaze. He took off his short and changed into the man's shirt. It fit snugly, and Lucian could feel the scent of the man close to him. He adjusted his sports cap, which had slipped off during the exchange, revealing his pitch-black hair and frosty eyes.
The man, now clad only in the sleeveless top, moved closer to Lucian. Their faces were inches apart, and their shared height made the proximity even more intimate. The man's wolf-cut bangs brushed his forehead as he leaned in, his breath warm against Lucian's ear.
"Make sure to come by tomorrow," he murmured in a husky voice. "I'll be waiting."
Without another word, the man slipped past Lucian like a shadow. Lucian remained still, the card still clutched in his hand. He read the name in a low whisper: "Mattias Wren. Owner of 'Nocturnal Souls 'café." A cold wind swept through the alley, making Lucian shiver as he adjusted the shirt and pulled his cap back on. He heard this name before but he could not remember where exactly. He thought for a moment and when he could not remember, he sighed, pushing the thought to the back of his mind for another time.
With deliberate steps, Lucian turned and disappeared into the alley, vanishing into the night. Lucian remained unaware that Mattias, with his keen, almost predatory gaze, tracked his silhouette until he vanished from view. Mattias let out a slow, deep breath, his eyes drifting to the empty to-go cups still in his hand. He could already picture Eric's reaction to his tardiness and disheveled appearance. He knew all too well that Eric would be far from pleased. The biting cold was relentless, seeping through his thin clothes and making his skin prickle. With a shiver, he brushed the snow from his shoulders. Mattias turned the corner and walked away with a heavy heart and a mind burdened by the night's events.