Midnight Blues

City shadows clung to the alley’s brick like oil, thick and heavy, refusing to let go. A single streetlamp buzzed overhead, its dying filament spitting a weak, yellow pulse that carved the dark into restless fragments. Beneath that sickly glow, something shuddered.

It was almost a man—almost—but its form sagged and quivered as though remembering what shape it should have taken. Wet light slid over patches of raw, slick meat, tendons twisting like cables beneath translucent skin. Each twitch sent a ripple through the mass, bones jutting at crooked angles before sinking again into the pulsing tissue.

A noise bubbled up from it, like breath forced through a clogged drain. “You…” The word dripped from its throat in a voice that didn’t belong to any living thing. “You… promised…”

The creature dragged itself forward, its motion a slow crawl of sinew and sludge. A trail of inky fluid smeared across the pavement, steaming faintly in the cold. “Why?” it wheezed, tone warping between fury and despair. “Why have you done this… to me?” The last syllables collapsed into a choking gurgle, the sound echoing off the narrow walls until it became part of the city’s breath—half wind, half death rattle.

The stench followed. Copper, rot, and a humid, earthy reek—like the breath of a forest floor turned sour.

From deeper in the alley came the tap of a cane. One step. Then another. Sharp, deliberate. Each click of the heel struck like punctuation in the dark. The creature froze mid-slither, trembling under the faltering lamp.

A man’s silhouette emerged from the gloom, tall and lean, coat catching the faint neon shimmer bleeding down from some unseen billboard above. He walked as if he owned the silence. The polished tip of his cane touched the ground with a soft metallic ring before stopping just at the edge of light.

“I warned you.” His voice carried a smooth, detached calm that cut cleanly through the stinking air.

The creature whimpered, its mass sagging.

The man tilted his head, and for a fleeting instant, the light caught his face—pale, composed, the faintest trace of amusement curling his lips. “It was never time for you to take flesh,” he said softly, as if explaining something to a child. “But you insisted. You wanted to see the world through eyes again.”

He raised the cane, resting its tip against the asphalt beside the writhing mass. The sound of sizzling static filled the alley as the neon reflection rippled over the black surface of his shoes.

“Now,” he murmured, “you’ve learned what impatience costs.”

The streetlamp flickered one last time—and died.

The viscous mass quivered, muscles that weren’t quite muscles shuddering under the half-light. “Bastard!” it roared, the word rupturing through a throat that sloshed rather than spoke. The sound hit the alley like a shockwave—wet, furious, inhuman.

A whip of sinew burst from the sludge, a malformed limb of tendon and shattered bone slicing the air toward the man’s legs. The motion was pure rage—mindless, desperate.

The man didn’t so much as blink. His wrist flicked. Clang!

The cane snapped up in a blur, steel kissing the limb mid-strike. Sparks fanned out like fireflies before dying against the damp brick. The impact rang, sharp and final, echoing through the hollow corridor of the alleyway.

The creature screamed—more gurgle than voice—and recoiled violently, its mass collapsing into itself with a nauseating splash. Black fluid spread across the concrete, bubbling where it touched the man’s shoes.

He watched, unbothered. Then a soft, knowing chuckle slipped past his lips. “You poor, eager soul,” he said, eyes half-lidded with amusement. His tone carried a thread of pity stretched tight around cruelty, each word deliberate, almost tender.

The puddle twitched.

A ripple traveled through it, small at first, then violent—something inside trying to remember how to be alive. It convulsed and swelled upward, dragging itself into the shape of a nightmare.

Strips of necrotic tissue sloughed from the surface as a ribcage pushed free, glossy and wet beneath the streetlamp’s anemic glow. Veins of half-formed muscle threaded across it, pulsing weakly. The creature’s upper body took shape, if only barely—a torso built of intention more than anatomy. Two arms erupted from the mass, skeletal and trembling, the fingers stretching outward like hooks desperate to seize form itself.

Steam rolled from the thing as it steadied on uneven legs, a low hiss rattling through its torn throat. Then its face split—a ragged gash where a mouth shouldn’t be.

“Don’t mock me!” it spat, every syllable trembling between pain and hatred. Its voice crackled like wet wires, the fury inside it human enough to make the air feel colder.

The man’s expression didn’t change. Only the faintest gleam of interest crossed his pale eyes, as though he were watching a flawed experiment struggle toward sentience.

The man’s lip curled into a faint smirk—more reflex than expression, like a cruel memory surfacing. In one smooth, almost elegant motion, he drove the cane forward.

The steel tip struck with surgical precision. Thunk.

The blade bit deep into the mass, piercing through half-formed ribs and sludge. The creature convulsed, a grotesque shudder rippling outward before it collapsed into itself. The sound was a wet, heavy thud that seemed to suck the air from the alley.

Foul fluid sprayed the brick walls, hissing where it met the cold. A rancid mist hung in the air, glinting briefly in the flicker of the dying streetlamp.

“Hush now,” the man murmured. His tone was almost soothing, as though comforting a restless animal. He withdrew the cane with a slow, deliberate pull; the flesh clung to it like tar before snapping free with a soft squelch. He gave the weapon a sharp flick, scattering red-black droplets across the pavement. “Not all is lost. Your entry into this world is merely… delayed.”

He straightened, letting the neon glow from a distant sign trace the edge of his face—the sharp lines of cheek and jaw, the faint reflection in his eyes. “You must consume the flesh of others,” he continued quietly, “if you wish to walk among us. That is the only way.”

The puddle trembled, its anger bubbling up through the liquid body. A distorted shriek tore through the silence. “Don’t leave!” it howled, voice breaking into static and gargles. “I’m not finished with you yet!”

The man paused. One gloved hand came to rest against the brim of his hat, pressing it down just enough to shadow his eyes. He scraped his shoe against the asphalt—slow, grating—wiping off what little of the creature still clung there.

“I suppose you’re not,” he said. A laugh followed, low and distant, carrying no warmth at all. He didn’t turn to face it. Instead, he walked, the rhythm of his steps echoing down the alley like a clock counting toward something inevitable.

“Find me later, then,” he said, voice fading with each stride. “Or perhaps I’ll find you—once you’ve made yourself worthy of this world.”

The creature twitched violently, refusing to die. Two malformed arms clawed their way from the puddle, fingers like hooks dragging through grit. It hauled itself toward the wall, away from the light, the sound of its movement thick and wet.

“Later, you say…” it rasped. The words lingered, more curse than promise.

Then silence reclaimed the alley—just the soft drip of fluid finding cracks in the pavement, seeping into the city’s veins.

As the last echo of his footsteps dissolved into the dark, the city exhaled—slow, indifferent. The wind stirred, carrying with it the faint hum of power lines and the distant whine of maglev traffic. Somewhere above, a neon sign blinked back to life, casting fractured pinks and greens down the slick alley walls, as if the world itself were sealing up its wound.

A few blocks away, the nightmare’s gravity evaporated into routine.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in a twenty-four-hour grocery, their sterile glow bleaching the aisles in tired white. Refrigeration units hummed in mechanical rhythm, pushing chilled air over rows of neatly stacked produce. The smell of plastic wrap, detergent, and faint citrus filled the space—a symphony of the ordinary.

A clerk yawned behind the register, scanning a carton of milk for the only customer in sight. Outside, rain began to fall again—light, rhythmic, harmless. None of them could have imagined what slithered beneath the city’s surface, or that only a few streets away, something not quite human was learning how to rebuild itself.

The city breathed, unaware.

~

Apricot Signa knelt in front of the dairy cooler, her reflection ghosted faintly on the glass door. Frost gathered along the seams, a thin crust of white clinging to the metal edges as if even the machine was tired. She stacked cartons of milk on the lowest shelf, fingers moving in small, mechanical motions—anything to keep from thinking.

The cooler’s low hum vibrated through her knees. Around her, the grocery store droned with after-midnight lethargy: the steady beep of scanners, the squeak of a cart wheel in need of oil, a tired pop song leaking from ceiling speakers. It all felt distant, warped, as though she were submerged beneath cold water.

I’m in so much trouble. The thought repeated like a static pulse at the back of her mind.

She shoved the next carton into place harder than she meant to. Condensation slicked her palms, the chill biting her skin. A single droplet slid down the plastic, tracing a path to the metal grate below. She stared at it longer than she should have—watched it fall, splatter, disappear. Something about that tiny vanishing drop hollowed her chest.

“I won’t amount to anything,” she muttered, voice catching halfway between anger and exhaustion. The words came out small, brittle. The taste of fear rose sharp in her throat, acidic and sour.

I’ll be stuck here forever, she thought, stocking shelves while people like Jasper move on. Jasper—the golden student, perfect grades, bright future. She could already see his grin, that smug way he’d pretend not to mention her failure while doing exactly that.

Her hand lingered on the next carton. She pressed her fingers into the chilled plastic until they ached.

And then came the thought she didn’t want: Mom. Dad. Her breath faltered. The image of their disappointment settled over her like a lead blanket. If they found out she’d nearly been expelled—and worse, that she’d somehow crossed a line with the law today—what would they say?

Apricot squeezed her eyes shut, a tremor running through her as she drew a slow, shaky breath. The hum of the cooler filled the space where words should have been.

“Focus on the positives,” she whispered finally, the mantra barely audible beneath the store’s fluorescent buzz. But her reflection in the glass didn’t look convinced.

She had gotten one of the biggest scoops of the year—hadn’t she?
A front-row seat to a robbery, a hostage, a survivor. That was supposed to mean something.

Apricot eased another carton onto the shelf, telling herself she hadn’t completely ruined everything. People would kill for that kind of story. But the thought soured as fast as it formed. The image of flashing lights and shouting officers cut through her mind—the smell of smoke, the sharp metallic taste of fear. I’d be dead if not for them, she realized.

Her hands trembled, faint ripples distorting her reflection in the cooler glass. I almost died today. The thought hit harder when she let herself believe it.

And yet, here she was—kneeling on cold tile, stocking milk. You’d think nearly getting shot would earn her a night off. The irony made her throat tighten. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to focus on the neat white rows in front of her.

That was when the weight landed on her back.

A heavy hand—warm, damp, sudden. Her heart seized. For a split second she was back there—in the bank, hearing the gun click.

Apricot jerked, breath catching in her throat as she spun around.

The man behind her was too close. His face loomed large, scarred and worn like old pavement. The reek of cigarettes clung to his breath, mixed with something sour and unwashed. Before she could even stand, he bent down, pressing a knee against her shoulder as he reached into the cooler beside her. The scratchy fabric of his slacks brushed her cheek.

Apricot froze. Every instinct screamed wrong, but her body defaulted to customer service. Her lips curved into a trembling smile.
“Th-Thank you for shopping at Ichigari Grocery,” she said, voice cracking into a pitch she didn’t recognize.

The man grinned. His mouth stretched too wide, the cracked skin of his lips splitting faintly at the corners. The smile never touched his eyes—bloodshot, half-lidded, studying her. He kept one hand on her back, thumb pressing lazily against her shoulder blade while the other clutched a gallon of milk.

Apricot’s muscles locked. Seconds dragged. He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, bleaching his scars to gray.

She felt the prickle of gooseflesh creep up her neck. Her lungs forgot how to breathe.

With a cautious motion, she shifted her weight and inched sideways, enough to slip his touch from her back. “Excuse me,” she murmured, trying to keep her voice steady.

He didn’t take the hint.

The grin stayed—empty, unbroken—as the hum of the lights filled the silence between them.

Apricot lifted another carton from the crate, careful not to meet the man’s gaze. The plastic was slick with condensation, the cold biting at her fingers. She focused on the simple motion—lift, align, slide—trying to drown out the heat crawling up the back of her neck.

She could still feel him staring. The weight of his eyes pressed against her temple, needling into her thoughts. Her jaw locked tight, muscles twitching beneath her skin. Why is he just standing there?

The silence stretched until it became unbearable. Then came the sound—thud… thud… thud—his foot tapping against the tile, slow and deliberate. The rhythm matched her heartbeat, each strike a dull echo in her skull.

“And…?” he drawled finally, voice thick and expectant, dripping with the kind of smugness that came from knowing someone wouldn’t fight back.

Apricot forced her face into a smile. The effort felt mechanical, a mask stitched too tight. Her cheeks burned from the strain. “Have a nice day, sir!” she sang out, her tone bright enough to hurt. It was a practiced sweetness—hollow, brittle, the kind that cracked if you looked too close.

For a second, his grin froze, something mean flickering in his eyes. Then he shifted. The spell broke. The hand slipped from her back, and the man turned, placing the milk in his cart. He lingered just long enough to make sure she saw his stare—flat, unreadable—before rolling away down the aisle without another word.

Apricot exhaled. The air left her lungs in a shaky rush. Every nerve in her body felt scraped raw.

“This is what I have to look forward to for the rest of my life?” she muttered, barely audible over the hum of the cooler. “Getting pawed at by creeps in grocery aisles? Kill me now.”

Her voice was low, bitter, half a joke that didn’t quite land. She ran a hand through her hair, pushing it out of her face, her fingers trembling. It wasn’t the first time she’d dealt with someone like that, but it never stopped feeling wrong—like a stain she couldn’t scrub out.

Perfect, she thought, lips twisting. Survive a shootout, get groped at work. Real inspiring comeback story, Apricot.

The sound of footsteps cut through her thoughts—sharp, measured, and far too familiar. Click. Clack. Click.

She didn’t even need to look. That rhythm was unmistakable. Mr. Kyabetsu.

Her stomach tightened. The man had a way of turning his own walk into an announcement—each step a warning shot before his voice ever reached you.

Sure enough, when she glanced over her shoulder, there he was rounding the corner: clipboard in hand, shirt tucked too tightly, grin stretched wide enough to make her skin crawl.

That grin never meant anything good.

Apricot pushed herself up from the floor, brushing dust and condensation from her knees. The cold air from the cooler spilled across her skin as she straightened, forcing her tired posture into something resembling alertness.

Mr. Kyabetsu was already closing in. The overhead fluorescents gleamed against the sheen of his scalp, outlining him in a sterile halo as he rocked on his heels. His grin was wide, rehearsed, and too quick to appear genuine.

“Apricot!” he boomed, the forced cheer cutting through the low murmur of the store.

She mirrored it with practiced reflex, tugging the corners of her mouth into a polite smile. “Hello, Mr. Kyabetsu,” she said brightly, the same brittle tone she’d just used on the creep in the aisle. “How are things tonight?”

His fingers twitched on the pen clipped to his clipboard. Tap, tap, tap. The sound came rapid and light, like a nervous tic disguised as rhythm. “Going well, going well,” he said, voice clipped and automatic. His eyes didn’t quite match the tone—they were busy measuring the half-empty crates at her side.

“How’s your little project coming along?” he asked. “Everything on schedule?”

Apricot followed his glance. The sight of the stacked cartons made her stomach tighten. She wasn’t even halfway through, and she could already feel where the conversation was headed.

“It’s going okay,” she replied cautiously. “I’m almost done stocking these. Then I just have to clean up, and after that I can head out. I, um…” She hesitated, softening her voice. “I’ve got an important article due for class tomorrow morning.”

She let the words hang there, hoping he’d take the hint—remember she wasn’t some career employee, just a student burning midnight hours to stay afloat.

Mr. Kyabetsu’s grin twitched wider. His laugh was short and dry, the kind meant to sound casual but carried something else underneath. “Good, good. Glad to hear it.”

Tap tap tap tap. The pen danced faster against the clipboard. The sound set her nerves on edge, like a clock counting down to something she didn’t want to hear.

“Since you’re almost done,” he said at last, tilting his head, “I have one more tiny thing you can help out with before you leave.”

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Apricot felt the knot in her stomach pull tighter.

Apricot’s heart sank. Of course he did.

She forced a breath through her nose, trying to keep her face neutral. “Sure… what do you need?” she asked, her voice steady but tight. Maybe it’d be something quick—five minutes, tops.

Mr. Kyabetsu puffed his chest out as though unveiling a grand idea. “I need you to mop the sidewalks out front and the parking lot,” he said. “They’re filthy. Can’t have that, can we?”

Before she could even react, he was already turning away, humming off-key, clipboard tucked under his arm like a badge of importance. “Shouldn’t take too long,” he called over his shoulder. “Thanks a bunch!”

Apricot stood frozen, watching him go. Her jaw clenched so hard it ached. The fluorescent light gleamed off the metal shelving beside her, sharp and sterile, reflecting her scowl back at her in warped fragments.

She glared after him until he vanished around the corner, his humming fading into the store’s dull mechanical buzz. Her stomach twisted, anger flaring hot and bitter beneath her ribs.

“I’m not even supposed to be working today,” she hissed under her breath. The words came out louder than she meant, her voice cracking with exhaustion.

The thought hammered in her skull, over and over.

Her gaze drifted to the crates still waiting beside her—half-full, sweating cold against the tiled floor. Then to the automatic doors beyond the registers, where the night outside loomed like an uninvited thought. The glass reflected only darkness, streaked with faint traces of neon. Somewhere out there, the city pulsed on, uncaring.

A tear threatened at the corner of her eye. She blinked hard, shaking her head. Don’t you dare cry over this.

Biting down on her frustration, Apricot turned back to the task. Her hands moved faster now, slamming cartons into place one after another until the sound of plastic and metal clattered through the aisle. The cooler door snapped shut with a metallic thud that echoed down the row.

She exhaled sharply, chest tight. “The sooner I finish, the sooner I can get the hell out of here,” she muttered.

The words hung in the cold air, nearly swallowed by the steady hum of the cooler—an indifferent reminder that, no matter how hard she worked, the night still wasn’t over.