WHEN THE GODS LEARN TO BLEED

The day my mother died, she smiled like she had finally won. Not the kind of smile people wear when they’re brave. Not the weak one that floats on hospital beds in movies. This one was sharp, knowing, almost triumphant. She pulled me close, her trembling fingers gripping my wrist. Her whisper cut through the beeping of the heart monitor: “They’re coming for you now.” I laughed. Grief makes you stupid. Love makes you blind. “What are you talking about, Mama?” I said. “Rest.” Her eyes—eyes that had watched me learn how to walk, how to lie, how to survive—locked onto mine. “You were never meant to live long,” she said calmly. “You were meant to matter.” Then the monitor flatlined. At the funeral, no one cried louder than strangers. That should’ve been my first warning. Men in black suits lingered at the edge of the crowd, eyes hidden behind dark glasses. They didn’t pray. They didn’t bow. They only watched me, calculating, counting. Every glance felt deliberate, menacing. That night, I found the letter. Not hidden. Placed carefully on my bed, sealed with a symbol I had never seen: a circle split by a vertical line, bleeding at the center. My name was on it. Inside, one sentence: “If you’re reading this, we failed to protect you.” My hands shook as I turned the page: Run. Trust no one who claims to love you. And never, ever bleed in public. I didn’t understand the last line until my phone rang. Unknown number. I answered. A calm male voice spoke, smooth and patient, like someone used to being obeyed: “Tristan. We’ve confirmed it.” “Confirmed what?” I whispered. Pause. “You heal too fast to be human.” The line went dead. I looked at my arm. The fresh cut I didn’t remember getting… was already gone.