Maya's body stood still, but inside, her other self was trembling.
Not with fear. No. Fear had never been a part of her.
This was something else.
Something more raw. More consuming.
She had waited.
Waited so long.
When she had first awakened, she had no voice, no form—just a whisper in the depths of Maya's mind, a lingering shadow that could do nothing but feel. She had screamed, cried out, tried to reach, but Maya never heard her. The silence had been unbearable.
So she had learned. Adapted.
She had pressed against Maya's emotions, nudging them, twisting them, making her hunger when she didn't understand why, making her crave when she thought it was unnatural. The taste of blood, the scent of it, the need—it was all her, buried beneath layers of control.
And then the charm had come.
A bridge. A fragile, delicate link that had let her voice slip through, at last. She had spoken. She had been heard.
But it had still not been enough.
