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When Namtan woke up in her 67th life, it was dark and moist. She didn’t even get the chance to take in her surroundings when a swarm of her fellow mosquitoes left the sewer, their eyes focused on the group of college students on their way home.
Namtan left not long after—it was mealtime, after all.
The warm night greeted her small body, making her buzz in delight. She let the humid air flow through her wings, carrying herself toward her potential meal.
She followed the others at a distance because, with all the lives she had lived, she knew the importance of being cautious—experience had taught her that rushing only led to death.
Humans were unpredictable like that, their hands even more so.
Namtan’s eyes focused on Film, who was walking a little ahead of her friends. Her hand was holding her bag, the other scrolling through her phone. Honestly, she looked unremarkable to mosquitoes—light-colored clothing, impossibly clean, and seemingly fully alert and capable of killing an insect without a second thought.
Still, Namtan aimed for her, as always, even in her past lives.
The little mosquito adjusted her flight path, ignoring the exposed arms of the other students, the easy targets—they had always meant nothing to Namtan.
It was just that something about Film drew her in.
Maybe it was that sweet scent that left Namtan fantasizing what her blood would taste like, or the simple, unbearable truth that no matter how many lives she lived, Film was the only human she ever remembered.
In her 9th life, she had gone for Film’s neck and died instantly (fuck insect repellent lotions). In her 10th, she couldn’t even get close before being electrocuted by an electric swatter. In her 21st, she was getting the hang of it, her proboscis grazing the honey skin before Film swatted her out of the air without looking.
Since then, Namtan had learned patience.
This was her 67th attempt. She couldn’t let this life go to waste.
Film slowed near the corner of the street, her friends stopping beside her. This was good.
Namtan, ever so thirsty, circled Film a few times, looking for the safest spot to land on. The exposed skin on Film’s ankle gleamed under the streetlight, completely unguarded. She let the familiar pull guide her descent.
Namtan steadied herself, all of her thin legs sinking into the skin she had memorized across dozens of lives.
For a brief moment, she hesitated, her proboscis hovering on flesh.
Was this it? Was she finally going to be free of the endless cycle? Was Film's blood—this human she could never forget no matter how many times she was reincarnated—the answer to escape such hell?
Without wasting another second, Namtan fed.
Film’s blood was warm and a lot richer than she had imagined. It filled Namtan so full she could almost cry, and for the first time since her first life, the gnawing hunger went quiet.
Namtan thought, distantly, that this must be what she had been chasing all along.
She was so lost in her thoughts, savoring such delicacy, that she didn’t realize Film had moved. Pain came and went as fast as a blink of an eye, her small body crushed with no mercy.
This is fine, Namtan thought as her consciousness unraveled.
Of all the ways she had died, this was the best one.
In Film’s hands, full of her blood, at last.