The Monsters Rebellion

The first time the world saw Igor Melchoir, it was through a shaky and trembling cell phone lens. A pale silhouette hunched in an alley, feeding like a mosquito, its shadow stretched thin against a wall of graffiti. The footage spread before dawn, carried on the fevered wings of social media. Some laughed, cheap prosthetics, bad lighting, just another internet ghoul. Others swore the man’s body, limp and lifeless, was no social media stunt, and somewhere between ridicule and dread, Igor found his opening. For centuries, he had crouched in the margins of history, an afterthought, in attics, basements and sewers, gnawing on scraps of life while kings burned and beheaded and towers fell. His name had rotted into myth, but now, instead of fleeing the cameras into the night, he leaned close to the lens. His first livestream was crude; a dangling bulb and his gaunt face framed by shadow, his breath hissing through crooked and sharp teeth. “Yes,” he rasped, voice like dead leaves dragged unwilling across stone. “I am Nosferatu. Yes, I drink blood, but tell me, am I worse than the ones who drain you every day in banks, in offices, in parliaments? They titled me a monster, but what does that make them?” The chat spat mockery, nice filter, Grandpa Dracula. Go back to your coffin. Fake AF. But in the midst of the jeers were sparks. He’s right, though. The boss cut my hours again. Monsters in suits are scarier than this guy. By the time the broadcast ended, Igor felt something he had not felt in centuries, not hunger. Not fear, but freedom.

Mia found him two nights later in a dead factory. The air was pungent with rust and mildew, the walls mottled with graffiti like old scars. He sat in the middle of it all as if enthroned, gaunt, crooked but commanding. His eyes gleamed like a cat in the dark when it caught her light, catching every flicker of the camera. “You came alone,” he rasped. His voice was quiet, yet it singed and vibrated in her through her bones. “Brave,” he tilted his head, “Or stupid,” he mused. “I came for a story,” Mara said, steadying the shaky phone in her hand. “The internet thinks you’re a fraud. Why feed their delusions?” Igor smiled, wide enough to show uneven fangs. “Because lies have sharper teeth than truth. People prefer monsters they can laugh at, and I intend to show them a monster they can follow.” She meant to scoff, but there was steel in his spine and fire in his words. For a moment, she saw not a grotesque caricature, but a man lit with conviction. “You think I am cursed?” he questioned, leaning into her light. His skin drank it in, cadaverous but regal. “No. I am liberated. I kneel to no master, I beg for no crumbs, I take what I need. That, Mara, is freedom. And you, you will carry my voice.” Her throat tightened. The smell of decay pressed in around her, yet she felt only the pull of the story. A story could ruin her or make her immortal.

The city’s gutters had always overflowed with the forgotten, but now those shadows whispered Igor’s name. He staged his hunts like a theatre. A CEO cornered in a glass tower’s parking lot. A landlord was dragged into the glow of a streetlamp. A senator who had pocketed disaster funds was found weeping on a livestream. He never killed them; he drank just enough to leave them crumpled, humiliated, exposed to millions. His followers, faces hidden behind Nosferatu masks, filmed every second. “Better monster than slave.” “Freedom tastes like this.” Graffiti bloomed on walls; slogans spread like wildfire. To the rich, Igor was a terrorist. To the poor, he was a prophet. Mia’s coverage shifted. At first, she told herself she was documenting history, not participating, but each night the line blurred. Igor seemed less monstrous. His skin glowed faintly with stolen vitality, his voice grew smooth and magnetic, and in fleeting moments, he even looked beautiful. One night she asked, “Do you ever regret what you are?” he shook his head. “Regret is the chain they bind you with. Humanity was never salvation. Humanity was the cage.” “And me?” she whispered, not sure why. His smile was slow, deliberate, and animalistic. “You already rattled the bars. You haven’t decided whether to break them.”

The city changed. Workers went on strike, and rallies swelled with masks and torches. Igor appeared on rooftops, alleys and livestreams. His words spread faster than bullets, his face painted on banners and walls. The city trembled on the brink of something new and ungovernable. One evening, Mia joined him on the rooftop. The skyline pulsed with sirens, a restless sea of light. Ifor’s robe billowed in the wind like a banner of rebellion. “They fear what they cannot control,” he murmured. “I am alive, not because I am better, but because I am free. And freedom is contagious.” Mia’s voice caught in her throat. “And if they kill you?” she questioned. He turned, eyes burning like coals. “Then I will leave a spark behind. And you, Mara, you will carry the fire.” Her chest tightened. She didn’t argue; she didn’t need to.

The raid came at midnight. Sirens wailed like sacrificed babies, floodlights sliced shadows like a hot knife through butter. Soldiers in black armour swarmed the factory floor, rifles raised but trembling. Igor stood calm at the centre, as if presiding over a mass. Around him, his followers formed a human shield, Nosferatu masks painted, livestreams glowing like fireflies. Mia pushed through the chaos, phone raised, broadcasting every frame. Her pulse thundered, but her lens never wavered. “Igor Melchoir,” barked the commander, “you are under arrest for terrorism, murder, and incitement.” Igor tilted his head, almost amused. “You call it terrorism. They call it survival.” His gaze swept across the room, catching every trembling hand. Then he fixed on Mia. “This is your moment,” he said, loud enough for the world to hear. “Tell them what I am. A monster or their mirror.” The commander lifted his fist. Soldiers advanced, and Mia’s breath fractured. She could cut him into a nightmare, the story the government demanded, or she could let his words burn, raw and unbroken. She raised the phone higher. Igor spread his arms wide, a grotesque messiah. “Yes, I am Nosferatu. Yes, I am a monster. And so are you, if you have ever longed to be free!” The first bullet tore through his chest. He staggered, coughed ash, but smiled. More shots followed, riddling him until his body collapsed and dissolved into soot, drifting like funeral incense across his followers. Screams erupted, rage, grief and ecstasy, and still the cameras rolled. Mia lowered her phone, breath shaking. The world had just watched him die, and yet staring at the fire in the eyes of the crowd, she knew his rebellion had only begun.

Weeks later, his face was everywhere, on the walls, on shirts, on masks. Some painted him a saint, others a devil. Either way, Igor Melchoir had escaped death. Mia sat before her camera, livestream open, audience in the tens of thousands. The same audience that once mocked Igor now filled her chat with his words, better monster than slave. Freedom tastes like this. She lifted a glass chalice, and the liquid shimmered deep crimson. Not wine, not water. Blood, donated willingly by a believer. Her hand trembled only once, and then she raised it to her lips. The taste was iron and fire, her veins burned, and her heartbeat roared in her ears and when she lifted her gaze again, the reflection in her lens was no longer human. Pale skin, sharp fangs and eyes that are alive with hunger and freedom. She leaned in close to the camera, her voice bell-like, steady, intimate, almost tender. “Igor was right,” she whispered. “I am a monster. And so are you. The only difference is whether you’ll admit it.” The chat exploded. Fear, awe and worship. Mia smiled, fangs gleaming as she raised the chalice in a toast. “To freedom,” she murmured with a catlike grin, and drank deep.