CHAPTER 156: MONSTERS ARE REAL

CLARK POV

"I said now," he snapped, and the music seemed to dip for just a second—like even the bass itself feared him.

I wanted to run. God knows I did. But...

"I... I don’t know the way," I mumbled, barely audible under the pulse of music, laughter, and murmured sins around me.

But he heard me.

Of course he did.

He closed his eyes and let out the kind of sigh that said I’m-this-close-to-snapping-your-neck. His fingers pressed to his temple, like just existing near me was giving him a migraine.

"Okay... let’s go," he muttered finally, rubbing his head like I was some slow, lost child who’d wet himself at a shopping mall.

"But—my friend—Sara," I tried again, voice shaking. I wasn’t trying to be brave. I was just trying to survive. Trying not to let her disappear into this twisted, glossy hell like a breath in the cold.

That’s when he stopped walking and turned.

And if looks could kill, I’d be a chalk outline on the tiled floor right now.

"Listen here, little lamb," he said, voice low, dangerous, like something ancient had stirred behind his eyes. "I am not your friend. Not your hero. You’re just lucky my demons find your scent interesting, or you’d already be drained, buried, and forgotten."

And just like that—

He threw me over his shoulder.

Like a sack of potatoes.

I didn’t even have time to yelp.

He strode through the party, past the strobe lights and perfume haze, as if none of this madness touched him. No one batted an eye. Not even when he walked straight toward the exit with a whole ass human flailing on his shoulder.

Then, somewhere between the hallway and the front door, another voice piped up.

"Ohhh, Prince Blaze, I see you’ve already found yourself a new blood bag."

Prince?

Did he say prince?

Wait—BLAZE?!

His name was Blaze?!

Since when was Ziprey ruled by a monarchy? Was that on the brochures? Because I swear when I applied here, no one mentioned vampire nobility, blood cults, or psycho speed demons.

Blaze didn’t reply.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even slow down.

He just carried me like I weighed nothing—which, by the way, rude—and marched through the exit like he had somewhere much more important to be than babysitting a twitchy, half-hysterical freshman.

Then I heard it.

"Fuck it," he muttered under his breath.

And suddenly—

We moved.

Fast.

Like... not normal fast.

The corridor blurred, the wind howled in my ears, and I swear my lungs were still trying to catch up to my body. It wasn’t running. It was freaking teleportation with style. Walls zoomed by, and the world twisted and folded like reality was just a thin sheet of paper he could tear through.

And just like that—

We were at the front of the male dorm building.

He set me down gently—if dumping someone onto their feet like a dropped rag doll counts as gentle. My knees buckled, and I had to lean against the wall to stop myself from falling.

I looked up at him.

Really looked.

His skin was pale, like moonlight over ice. His eyes weren’t just dark—they had depth. Like there was something swimming behind them. Something old and very, very tired of humanity.

I stepped back.

"What... what are you?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t even blink.

He just looked at me the way a lion might look at an ant—unbothered, uninterested, unimpressed.

And then—

He vanished.

VANISHED.

One second he was standing there, and the next—poof. Gone. Like the shadows swallowed him whole. Like he had never been there to begin with.

I screamed.

Like... really screamed.

Then I ran. I bolted to my room like the floor was lava and the shadows were hands reaching out to grab me. I scrambled at my door like a raccoon in a panic, finally getting the damn key into the lock and flinging it open.

Safe.

Maybe.

I slammed the door shut and slid down onto the floor, my chest heaving, ears still ringing.

People don’t disappear like that.

People don’t carry others like they weigh nothing.

People don’t freaking fly down hallways at the speed of sound.

This wasn’t just some weird school with an old castle aesthetic and moody hot seniors.

Something was very, very wrong.

And I was smack in the middle of it.

I found Lucas lying on his bed, scrolling through his phone like he wasn’t a roommate in a freaking horror movie. His eyes flicked up, and the moment he saw my face—pale, sweaty, wide-eyed like I’d seen death itself—he sat up slowly, his phone slipping from his fingers.

"You saw them?" he said, voice hollow. "I told you. Now you believe me?"

I couldn’t speak. My throat was dry, my heart thundering in my ears.

Lucas stared straight into my soul, his expression dead serious now. "Did... did they also suck your blood?" he asked quietly. "Did you feel the life leaving you when their fangs bit into you?"

That snapped me back to life. "Wait. They—what? You were bitten?"

His gaze dropped. "She looked normal. Pretty. Friendly, even. Then she said I smelled sweet. I thought it was a joke. Next thing I know, I her fangs are on my neck pain and life being drawn out of my body."

The redhead. That’s what she had been trying to do to me. She wasn’t just being flirtatious or high on whatever drug they spiked the punch with. She was hunting.

I didn’t say anything else. I just crossed the room, nearly tripping over my own feet, and grabbed my laptop from the desk. If the world was burning, then Google had to be the last lifeline.

"Are vampires and werewolves real?"

Nope. All fiction.

Wikipedia. Mythology blogs. Reddit threads full of wannabe vampire roleplayers. Zero actual proof.

My hands trembled as I opened a new tab.

"History and legends of Ziprey country."

Yeah, sure. There were wacky stories. Superstitions. Tales told by old women sitting by the fire. Creatures of the night. Spirits that walk beneath a full moon. Giant wolves glimpsed at the edge of the forest by hunters who swear they weren’t hallucinating.

But nothing solid. Nothing credible. All marked "folklore," "urban legend," or worse: "tourism myths."

No mention of vampires.

No official record of werewolves.

But then I tried something different.

"Causes of death in Ziprey."

The first result?

Anemia.

A weirdly high number of deaths in people aged 17–24. Labeled as "sudden severe anemia" or "unexplained blood deficiency."

I kept scrolling. Some reports were quietly buried. Some obituaries mentioned students dying in their sleep. One particular blog post from a former teacher mentioned a "pattern" no one wanted to talk about. Young students going pale, getting sick, complaining of strange dreams and fatigue—before just disappearing.

"Accidents." "Sudden illness." "Transferred schools."

Right.

Lucas was watching me, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie.

"They call it anemia," I said, my voice barely audible.

He gave me a humorless smile. "Sure. ’Anemia.’ That’s how they cover it up. No one asks questions if you make it sound medical."

I closed the laptop. My mind was spinning.

No. This couldn’t be real.

Vampires? Werewolves? Hidden blood cults in a school that parades itself as elite?

It was impossible.

Ridiculous.

Insane.

But I’d seen their fangs.

Heard their growls.

Saw a girl on all fours, her face buried in one guy’s lap while another... another was—

I shuddered.

"They’re not supposed to exist," I said. "Vampires. Werewolves. They’re not real. They’re supposed to be fiction."

Lucas laughed, bitter and raw. "Yeah? Then what do you think you saw tonight, Clark?"

I didn’t answer. Because I didn’t know.

My brain was trying to logic its way out, but my body knew better. My instincts were screaming. And they didn’t care about facts or Wikipedia or how many documentaries I’d watched about folklore being fake.

My instincts said: RUN.

But to where?

Back to the party, where people were laughing with creatures wearing human skin?

Into the halls, where shadows whispered and howled and followed you when you weren’t looking?

Back home?

Yeah, right.

If I left, they’d come for me.

Or worse—for Sara.

And I had no idea where she was.

"Clark," Lucas said suddenly. "If she’s still with them, you have to accept something."

"What?" I croaked.

"She might not be the same."

I stared at him.

"No. She’s Sara. She—she hates blood. She faints at needles. She gets queasy from papercuts—"

"She went to them," Lucas interrupted. "And she didn’t run."

My heart cracked. The image of her smiling, laughing, surrounded by those guys—those things—clawed into my brain.

"She didn’t know," I whispered. "She didn’t see what I saw."

Lucas leaned back on the bed. "Then we better hope she never does. Because once you know... there’s no going back."

"We need to get out of this fucking place," I said, every syllable trembling with urgency.