Chapter 3: The Blood Price

Chapter 3: The Blood Price

Gatsby’s hiss was a razor blade in the silent apartment, slicing through Aaron’s shock and confirming the impossible. The cat saw it too. This wasn't a hallucination. This was an invasion.

The rage that had been simmering since he woke up in the hospital boiled over, scalding away the last of his fear. They hadn’t just tried to kill him; they had followed him to the one place he thought was safe, tainting his brother's home with their grotesque spectacle. He wouldn’t be a victim cowering on the floor this time.

His eyes darted around Ethan’s kitchen, landing on the magnetic knife block by the stove. His hand shot out, wrapping around the solid, reassuring handle of a steak knife. The serrated edge gleamed under the kitchen light. It was a pathetic weapon against whatever cosmic horror lurked in the pantry, but it was his. It was a declaration.

Clutching the knife, his knuckles white, he turned back to the impossible doorway. The jaunty jingle was playing, the canned applause echoing from a place that had no physical dimensions. He took a deep breath, the sterile scent of Ethan’s kitchen mixing with a strange, loamy smell from beyond the threshold, like damp earth and ozone.

He stepped through.

The world dissolved. The polished floor of the kitchen was gone, replaced by soft, mossy ground. The applause and music faded, replaced by the hushed whisper of wind through unseen leaves. He wasn’t on a game show set anymore. He was in a forest at twilight, a place of twisted, skeletal trees whose branches clawed at a bruised purple sky. There was no audience, no velvet curtains. Only a single, stark spotlight cutting through the gloom, illuminating a small clearing.

And in the center of that light stood the host.

But it wasn't the woman.

This was a man, impossibly handsome in a way that felt unnatural, sculpted rather than born. He wore a sharp, tailored suit the color of deep forest moss, and in one hand, he held a gleaming golden microphone. His hair was black as a raven’s wing, and his eyes… they seemed to hold a faint, internal luminescence, piercing the shadows. He offered Aaron a smile that was a masterpiece of cosmetic perfection, yet it held all the warmth of a shark’s.

“A change of scenery, a change of face,” the man said, his voice a smooth, captivating baritone that wrapped around Aaron like silk. “We like to keep things fresh. You can call me Lugh.”

Aaron raised the steak knife, the gesture feeling clumsy and childish under the host’s placid gaze. “I’m not here to play your game,” he snarled, the words feeling rough and inadequate. “You tried to kill me.”

The rage was a fire in his chest, fueling him, sharpening his resolve. He remembered the searing pain, the feeling of his own body betraying him. He would carve that memory into this creature’s perfect face.

Lugh’s smile didn’t falter. He simply raised the golden microphone. “Oh, but you are here to play, Aaron. Everyone plays.”

He spoke the words softly, but they didn’t just enter Aaron’s ears; they seeped directly into his mind. The effect was instantaneous and horrifying. The inferno of his rage was doused as if by a tidal wave. The hatred, the thirst for vengeance, the righteous fury—it all just… dissolved. It melted away into a calm, placid sea of compliance. His anger didn't just feel pointless; it felt embarrassing, a childish tantrum he was suddenly ashamed of having thrown.

The steak knife in his hand grew heavy, ridiculous. An accessory to a crime he no longer wanted to commit. His arm lowered to his side, all the fight draining out of him. He was a puppet whose strings had been cut, only to be reattached to a new, more masterful puppeteer.

“That’s better,” Lugh cooed, his glowing eyes fixed on Aaron. “Now, last time you picked the Reward. A lovely vintage, wasn’t it? This time, to keep things balanced, you’ll be taking… the Risk.”

Aaron opened his mouth to protest, to scream, to say anything, but no words came. His will was not his own. He could only stand there and nod, a silent, sickening consent forming in the back of his throat.

“Excellent,” Lugh beamed. “The price for playing this round is a simple one. A small donation. Let’s say… two ounces of your own blood.”

The command was absolute. A chilling, ethereal vessel, like a cup made of smoked glass, materialized on a tree stump between them. He had to do it. He didn’t want to, every rational part of his brain screamed in silent protest, but his body was already moving.

He looked down at the steak knife, the tool of his failed vengeance. Now, it had a new purpose, one dictated by his tormentor. With a detached sense of horror, he raised the knife to his left forearm. His hand was steady. Too steady. He pressed the serrated edge against his skin.

The pain was a distant, sharp shock. He drew the blade across his flesh, a clean, deep line. Dark blood, almost black in the twilight of the forest, welled up instantly, spilling over the edge of the wound. He held his arm over the smoky cup, watching as his life force dripped down, a thick, crimson stream that made a soft pattering sound as it hit the bottom. He felt light-headed, not from the blood loss, but from the profound violation of being forced to harm himself.

When the cup was filled to the designated level, it vanished. The wound on his arm continued to weep blood, a stark and brutal reality.

“Payment received!” Lugh announced with theatrical flair. “And now for your reward!”

A small, crystal vial materialized in Lugh's hand. Inside, a liquid swirled with a soft, internal light, the color of honey and dawn. He held it out to Aaron.

“Drink up. You’ve earned it.”

Compelled, Aaron took the vial. The glass was warm to the touch. He brought it to his lips and drank.

The elixir was cool and sweet, tasting of rainwater and fresh mint. The moment it touched his tongue, a current of pure vitality shot through him. He looked at his arm in astonishment. The bleeding stopped. The edges of the cut pulled themselves together, the raw red flesh knitting into a thin pink line, which then faded into smooth, unblemished skin. There wasn't even a scar.

But the miracle didn't stop there. The warmth spread from his stomach through every vein and capillary. The dull ache from the poisoning vanished. The chronic tightness in his lower back from hours spent hunched over a keyboard disappeared. The fatigue that had been his constant companion for years evaporated like mist in the sun. He felt… new. Better than new.

He looked at his hands. The skin seemed smoother, healthier. The faint data-entry callous on his right index finger was gone. He felt a jolt of dizzying energy, a lightness in his limbs he hadn't felt since he was a teenager. It was more than healing. It was rejuvenation. He had stepped into this forest a weary, anxious 23-year-old. He now felt like a vibrant, unbeatable 18.

His awe, however, was quickly consumed by a creeping, invasive horror. This incredible feeling, this gift of vitality, it wasn't his. It was alien. He could feel it humming in his cells, a foreign power that had overwritten a part of his own biology. It felt like a brand, burned not on his skin, but into his very soul. He was marked. He was property.

Lugh’s knowing, predatory smile was the last thing he saw. “A wise investment on our part,” the host said, his voice a triumphant purr. “Now you’re in perfect condition for our future games. We’ll be in touch.”

With a final, maddeningly cheerful wink, Lugh and his twisted forest vanished.

Aaron was standing in Ethan’s kitchen again. The overhead light was humming, Gatsby was nowhere to be seen, and the steak knife lay on the floor at his feet. He staggered to the small bathroom off the hall and stared at his reflection in the mirror.

The face looking back was his, but it wasn’t. The tired shadows under his eyes were gone. His skin had a healthy glow it hadn't possessed in years. The perpetual five o’clock shadow he’d been too tired to shave this morning looked out of place on a jawline that seemed sharper, younger.

The elixir wasn't a reward. It was an alteration. A claim of ownership. The game hadn’t just healed him; it had remade him in its own image, tuning his body for its own cruel purposes. He was no longer just a player. He was part of the game itself.