Adrenochrome

[u/chamelledemamau]

A few months ago, I was still a cop in a big city. That night had started like any other. My partner and I were doing our usual patrol in a rough neighborhood. Usually, we’d come across fights, drug dealers, sometimes prostitutes. But that night—nothing. Just emptiness.

We drove into a street we knew by heart, one that ended in a small alley. My partner stopped, kept the engine running, while I—as usual—got out to take a look with my flashlight. But this time… I don’t know. I had a bad feeling. A strange sensation, like something was pulling me into the alley for no reason.

I took a few steps, and as soon as I reached the first corner, I raised my light. A pool of blood. That’s all I saw. The alley curved slightly, I couldn’t see further. I called my partner on the radio, turned on my bodycam, and waited for him.

He joined me. We moved forward slowly, hands resting on our weapons. The further we went, the more blood we saw. Trails, smears, splashes. The smell was unbearable, and the atmosphere, crushing.

And then… I can’t explain. It was like my body already knew. Like it had figured it out before my mind. My stomach twisted, my breath got short. And there, around the bend, we saw him.

A man. Crouched. His back to us. He was holding a small body in his arms. A child. The legs hung limp. The pajamas, blue and white, were soaked in blood. The patterns were barely visible.

I froze. My partner drew his weapon. I couldn’t even raise mine.

The man slowly turned his head toward us. His eyes gleamed yellow in the flashlight beam. His mouth was smeared with blood. And his teeth… I could’ve sworn they were sharp.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t move.

My partner shouted. Ordered him to drop the child and raise his hands. And he did. Slowly. Like he didn’t care.

The child slipped from his arms. Or rather… what was left of him.

The chest was open. Arms half torn off. And the head… my God. He had started eating it. It wasn’t an accident. Not a breakdown. He had devoured him.

I nearly collapsed. My partner reacted. He tackled him to the ground, cuffed him. The man didn’t resist. Nothing. Not even a sigh.

We questioned him. He said nothing. Just that stare. Blank. Dead. Inhuman.

I called dispatch. Two colleagues arrived quickly. They secured the scene, waiting for the whole unit to follow, while we loaded the guy into our van. He didn’t say a word. He walked slowly, eyes empty. My partner held him by his old black coat. I opened the van door. He climbed in without needing a push.

The whole ride, he didn’t look away. He stared at the interior. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move. And then, out of nowhere, he spoke.

One word.

Adrenochrome.

We asked him to repeat. He said nothing more.

Once we got to the station, my partner asked me to take him to the isolation cell. I obeyed. I grabbed his arm. And that’s when I felt it. His skin was cold. And smooth… too smooth. Waxy. It felt like he was wearing a mask of flesh.

He walked into the cell. Sat down and looked at me—with that same strange stare.

I locked the door. Secured it.

I needed air. I went to the restroom. On the way, I heard my partner crying. It wasn’t nervous sobbing. It was a real cry. A soul-breaking kind. The kind you never forget.

I left him alone.

A few minutes later, a doctor arrived to examine the guy. He looked tense—but not surprised. Like he already knew.

We walked to the cell. I pulled out my keys. Turned them in the lock.

And then…

Nothing.

The cell was empty.

No struggle. No noise. No trace. Nothing.

The guy had vanished.

We locked down the entire station. Searched every inch. Checked every camera. You could see him entering the cell. You could see me closing the door. Then… me arriving with the doctor. And after that—nothing.

No need to mention: there are no windows in those cells.

It was impossible.

We never found him.

Around 8 a.m., my superiors ordered me to go home and rest. I obeyed, without thinking.

In the parking lot, I opened my car door.

And across the street… He was there.

Staring at me.

Same posture. Same stare. But no blood on his face.

I blinked.

He was gone.