Bloodscript

The next morning, Aiden awoke to an unnatural stillness in his apartment. His body ached from the previous night's beating, and dried blood cracked on his lip as he winced. He glanced at the Bloodscript, still open on his table, its crimson-tinted pages pulsing faintly in the dim morning light.

The events of the night replayed in his mind: the assault, his desperate scribble in the Bloodscript, and then... nothing. He had passed out before he could see if the book's command had worked.

The phone on his bedside table buzzed, pulling him from his thoughts. It was a message from Danny.

Danny:

Dude, you're not gonna believe this. Those thugs who hang out with Calvin? They got picked up by the cops this morning. Cops found them wandering near the old industrial park at 3 AM. Said they didn't know how they got there. Weird, right?

Aiden stared at the screen, his fingers tightening around the phone. It worked. Again.

For a fleeting moment, a sense of satisfaction swelled in his chest. The Bloodscript was real, and its power was undeniable. But the weight of what he'd done wasn't easy to ignore. He wasn't just influencing events—he was controlling lives.

His stomach churned. What if I'm becoming the monster I feared Calvin and his gang were?

That night, Aiden sat at his kitchen table, staring at the Bloodscript. The air felt heavier, as though the book itself was alive, watching him. The faint crimson glow of its pages illuminated his face.

He had questions—so many questions. Where had the book come from? Why had it chosen him?

And most importantly, what was the price of its power?

As if responding to his thoughts, the text on the open page began to shift. Letters twisted and reformed into coherent sentences, as though the book had been waiting for him to ask.

"Every action shapes the script. Every choice demands a cost."

Aiden frowned. The words vanished, replaced by a new line.

"The Ink of Fate runs deeper than blood. Will you learn its truth?"

Before Aiden could process the cryptic message, the shadows in the room seemed to stretch, warping unnaturally. The temperature dropped, and his breath misted in the air.

From the corner of the room, a figure began to take shape—a silhouette emerging from the darkness.

Aiden's heart raced as he pushed himself back in his chair. The figure was tall and lean, its face obscured by a hood that seemed to absorb all light. Its presence was suffocating, an overwhelming aura of dread that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

The figure spoke, its voice like a whisper carried on a storm.

"You've opened the door, Aiden Volke."

Aiden's mouth went dry. "W-who are you?"

The figure stepped closer, its movements unnaturally fluid. "A better question: What have you summoned?"

"Summoned?" Aiden repeated, his voice trembling.

"You've written in the Bloodscript," the figure said. "Every word binds you further to its ink. And now... I am here to ensure the pact is honored."

Aiden's pulse quickened. "Pact? What are you talking about?"

The figure chuckled—a low, resonant sound that seemed to vibrate through the walls. "You are bound to the Bloodscript, mortal. Its power is not free. Every command you write, every fate you twist, draws you closer to the truth. But truth... has its price."

Aiden swallowed hard. "I didn't agree to anything."

"Did you not?" the figure asked, tilting its head. "You took the book. You wrote the first name. You accepted its ink."

"I didn't know—"

"Ignorance does not absolve you," the figure interrupted, its voice cold.

Aiden's mind raced. He thought back to the first moment he opened the book, the strange pull it had on him. Had he unknowingly made a choice?

"What happens if I stop using it?" Aiden asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The figure laughed again, a sound devoid of warmth. "There is no stopping. The Bloodscript has chosen you. You will write, whether willingly or not."

Aiden clenched his fists. "Then what do you want from me?"

The figure leaned closer, its hooded face mere inches from Aiden's. "To warn you. The ink you write with is not ordinary. It binds the world, yes, but it also binds you. Every stroke of the pen shapes fate, but it also weaves your own thread tighter into the script."

Aiden's breath caught. "What does that mean?"

"It means," the figure said, straightening, "that you will learn the truth in time. But tread carefully, mortal. The ink is not endless, and neither is your soul."

The figure began to fade, dissolving into the shadows from which it had emerged.

"Wait!" Aiden called out. "What are you? Why are you telling me this?"

The figure's voice echoed as it disappeared. "Because I was once like you. And I have seen how the story ends."

The room fell silent.

Aiden sat in the oppressive stillness, his mind reeling. The figure's words replayed over and over, each one carving deeper into his psyche. The Bloodscript wasn't just a tool—it was a curse.

But it was also a weapon.

He looked down at the book, its faint glow now pulsing like a heartbeat. He knew he should fear it. He knew he should walk away.

But the power it offered was intoxicating.

And the world wasn't kind to people like him.

With a trembling hand, Aiden picked up the pen.

He didn't know if he was writing his own fate or sealing it.

But he couldn't stop now.