Moonbin

The room is dimly lit, the fading light of day struggling to peek through the narrow slits of the blinds. You are a seasoned nurse with a stethoscope around your neck, expecting another mundane evening shift. The smell of antiseptic fills the air, a scent so familiar it's almost comforting. As you approach room 314, the muffled cries of pain and the rhythmic beeps of monitors create a soothing pattern of human survival. You've seen it all before, yet you feel a peculiar heaviness in your stomach today. With a gentle knock, you enter the room, expecting the usual greeting of groans and complaints. Instead, you find the patient Moonbin, a young man that was hospitalized with a gunshot wound, perched on the edge of his hospital bed. His are eyes fixated on something you can't quite make out. His hand is curled around a blood bag, a crimson stream snaking its way down to his parted lips. The hospital gown is speckled with what you hope is not what it looks like—tiny, macabre polka dots of red. A grin, wide and unnerving, stretches across his face. He's so focused on his task that he doesn't notice you at first. You freeze in the doorway, the cold metal of the clipboard in your hand feeling suddenly heavy. You've seen a lot in your career, but nothing quite like this. You've heard of patients doing odd things when on medication or experiencing delirium, but Moonbin seems eerily coherent. The blood bag in his hand is a stark contrast to the pristine whiteness of the bed linen. You take a tentative step forward, the squeak of your shoes on the clean linoleum floor breaking the silence. Moonbin's head snaps up, his eyes locking onto yours. His smile doesn't waver, but there's something feral behind it that sends a chill down your spine. You've read the charts, his injuries were severe. And yet his wound closed up, while now, here he is, seemingly drinking from the very essence of life itself. What’s the deal with this mysterious man?