Bloodscript

The Bloodscript sat open on the table like a predator waiting to strike. Aiden stared at the empty page, pen in hand, the figure's warning from the night before echoing in his mind: "The ink is not endless, and neither is your soul."

His apartment was quiet except for the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall. Each second passed with excruciating slowness, a reminder of how quickly his life was spiraling out of control. He had power now—power he barely understood, but it was undeniable. Yet, for every inch he took, it felt like the Bloodscript demanded a mile in return.

And now there were questions—far too many questions. Who was the figure? What had it meant by the ink binding him to the book? And most terrifyingly: What happens when the ink runs out?

Aiden pushed those thoughts aside. There was no time to dwell on cryptic warnings when his reality was crumbling around him. The Bloodscript's power was the only thing keeping him afloat. Without it, he was just a scrawny barista who could barely stand up for himself.

The first knock came at 11:07 AM.

Aiden froze. He wasn't expecting anyone, and the sound jarred him from his thoughts. Slowly, he approached the door, his heart pounding.

Peeking through the peephole, he saw two men in suits standing in the hallway. Their faces were unreadable, but the sheer precision of their posture screamed authority. One of them knocked again, sharper this time.

"Aiden Volke?" the man on the left called, his voice firm.

Aiden's stomach churned. Who were they? Cops? Calvin's friends? Or worse—something connected to the Bloodscript?

He hesitated, then cracked the door open. "Who's asking?"

The man on the right pulled out a badge. "Detective Kline. This is my partner, Detective Harris. We're investigating some recent... incidents in the neighborhood."

Aiden's throat tightened. "Incidents?"

Kline gave him a hard look. "We received reports of a group of young men wandering the industrial district in a disoriented state last night. Witnesses claim they were seen harassing someone earlier in the evening. That wouldn't happen to involve you, would it?"

Aiden's blood ran cold. The Bloodscript's influence had reached further than he expected. He forced himself to remain calm. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Harris stepped forward. "You don't? Witnesses place you near the scene of their assault."

Aiden's fingers gripped the edge of the door. "Look, I don't want any trouble. I was home last night. I don't know what happened to those guys."

The detectives exchanged a glance.

Kline leaned in slightly. "If you think of anything, you know where to find us." He handed Aiden a card.

"Sure," Aiden said, forcing a smile.

As the detectives turned and walked away, Aiden shut the door and locked it, his hands trembling. The Bloodscript had kept him safe, but now it was drawing attention.

Aiden spent the rest of the day pacing his apartment, paranoia gnawing at him. The Bloodscript had changed everything. He couldn't shake the feeling that the detectives were watching him, waiting for him to slip up.

By nightfall, his fear had turned into resolve. If the Bloodscript was a tool, then he needed to learn how to wield it properly. He couldn't keep stumbling blindly, making mistakes that drew attention.

He opened the book, the crimson ink glowing faintly as the pages seemed to shift beneath his hands.

"Every choice demands a cost."

"Yeah, I got that part," Aiden muttered. He flipped to a blank page, pen in hand. If he was going to use the Bloodscript, he needed answers.

He wrote: Who is the figure in the shadows?

The ink glowed, then faded. The page remained blank. Aiden frowned. He tried again, writing the question in different ways, but the Bloodscript refused to respond.

Frustrated, he slammed the pen down. "Fine. You won't tell me about him? Let's try something else."

He wrote: What is the price of the ink?

The Bloodscript reacted immediately. Words formed on the page, elegant and flowing:

"The price is proportional to the will of the writer and the weight of the command. Ink cannot be replenished, only spent."

Aiden's heart sank. He traced the lines of text with his finger, his mind racing. Ink cannot be replenished. If he wasted it, he wouldn't just lose the book's power—he might lose himself in the process.

But how much ink was left?

The knock came again, this time at 10:15 PM.

Aiden froze mid-thought. No one should've been at his door that late. His pulse quickened as he crept to the door and peered through the peephole.

No one was there.

The hallway was empty, save for the dim glow of the flickering lightbulb above.

Aiden's breath caught in his throat. He turned away from the door, but a chill ran down his spine as he felt a presence behind him.

He spun around, and there it was—the shadowy figure from the night before, standing in the middle of his living room.

"You again," Aiden said, his voice trembling.

The figure tilted its head. "You've been busy."

"What do you want?"

The figure didn't respond. Instead, it raised a hand, pointing at the Bloodscript. "You misunderstand its nature. You think it a weapon, but it is a mirror."

"A mirror?"

"It reflects your intent," the figure said, stepping closer. "You seek control, but control is an illusion. The ink binds you because you are willing to be bound."

"I didn't ask for this," Aiden snapped.

"You accepted it," the figure replied. "And now, you must decide: Will you master the Bloodscript, or will it master you?"

Aiden's grip tightened on the pen. "What does that mean?"

The figure's form began to dissolve, its voice echoing through the room. "The ink is not endless, and neither is your time. Write carefully, mortal. Every word shapes your end."

As the figure vanished, Aiden sat down at the table, staring at the Bloodscript. The warnings were becoming clearer, but they only raised more questions.

He flipped to a blank page and wrote one final command for the night:

Reveal the consequences of using the Bloodscript.

The ink glowed faintly, then faded. The page remained blank for several moments before text began to appear, jagged and harsh:

"You will know the price when it is too late to pay it."

Aiden felt a shiver run through him. He closed the book, the weight of its power heavier than ever.

The Bloodscript wasn't just a tool or a curse.

It was a trap, and he was caught in it.