Consistent low gasps every few minutes and labored breaths, muffled and forced along with a choked, unassuming murmurs blended with the wet, obscene sound of chewing, the loud smacking of lips and swallowing faintly heard through the basement, all punctuated by low, constant muttering that never quite formed into words.
"…hun…gry…" There was a pause, followed by uneven breathing. "…hurts…"
One glance was enough to understand the place, It was an old basement. Not simply because of the cold that clung to the skin, but because of the feeling, a suffocating, forgotten corner of existence. Nobles prided themselves on etiquette, on refinement, on the illusion of purity, yet their foundations were always buried in filth, hypocrisy, and rot.
So why, here of all places, was someone chewing so loudly
If it were that simple, it would not be so disturbing. The room itself was a contradiction; it lacked true luxury, yet it was not meant to be permanent, nor to receive or cater to a guest, but rather felt like a temporary chamber, a place to store something… or someone. But time had corrupted it, with mold creeping along the walls in spreading veins, and dark stains, old, layered filth, marking the stone in erratic patterns of not-so-fresh blood, sticky and suffocating, until the air itself felt thick with it, as though it were begging for purified oxygen. Within it stood a human sized large cage, and even with it unlocked, the chain allowed him to barely move a meter away from it.
The scent overpowered everything, a metallic sharpness laced with something sweet and rotten, as though decay itself had learned to breathe. It did not matter how one described it; the result was the same.
Unbearable.
And yet, the blood was not the true horror here. That honor belonged to him. A young boy, disheveled beyond recognition, crouched amidst the ruin. His appearance was deceptive, dangerously so. Even drenched in filth, even with his grotesque actions laid bare, he retained a doll-like naivety that felt wrong, like a carefully crafted illusion. His head was lowered, his shoulders thin with huge chains that hung loose around his wrists.
He looked small, dirty and wretched, drenched in filth and blood. His silvery hair, which was supposed to shimmer and reflect the embrace of the moon, was now long, unkempt, and matted, stubbornly clinging to his face, and his eyes, deep red, richer than ruby, darker than garnet, were unfocused as they lifted slowly.
A faint sound broke through the suffocating stillness, deliberate footsteps approaching in low echoes, slow and careful against the cold stone.
"…cold…?"
There was a faint shift as he noticed her.
"…hmmm…?"
His voice was barely heard; it did not feel dangerous, but almost pitiful, and that feeling came easily. He's hurt. He doesn't understand. He needs help.
Because if someone, anyone, had seen him then, not as he was now but as he appeared, they might have felt it ; that dangerous, irrational pull, the quiet stir of something deeply human, a need to comfort, to protect, to correct what had gone wrong.
A maternal instinct might have whispered that he was just a child, that he didn't understand, that he could still be fixed.It would have urged them closer, softened their caution, rewritten their fear into concern and their doubt into responsibility.
It would have made them reach out, and that… was the fatal mistake. Her hand moved before her thoughts could catch it.
"Hey… it's okay… I won't hurt you…"
The chain gave a quiet clink as she stepped closer.
His head tilted as he watched her, leaning.
"…no… hurt…?" It was a repeated, practiced whispered word. Her fingers brushed his wrist, and it was cold, as expected in a basement without even the most basic necessities; her train of thought was cut short, and in the blink of an eye, he moved.
The chain snapped tight in an instant, metal biting into her throat before the scream could fully form, as he lunged like a wild animal catching its prey, his teeth sinking hard into her jugular; the sound of her scream was cut short while his other hand clamped over her mouth, forcing it inward and breaking it into a muffled, choking gasp. Her body jerked, then stopped, not dead, just pinned in place like something caught mid-motion. Her eyes widened as terror flooded through them, her body refusing to respond; her limbs locked, her breath shallow, her mind awake.
Watching, feeling, understanding. He tilted his head again, studying her face as the panic settled in.
"…stay…" It was a soft murmur, a persuasive, gentle tone. Then his teeth sank in. It was a sharp, fast bite, frantic. The chain remained tight, keeping her upright and close, and his hand never left her mouth, smothering every broken sound into dull, trembling vibrations.
Her body trembled.
Still alive, still aware, and still feeling, he slowed his pace after that first bite, continuing more slowly and methodically, as if this were normal, as if this were expected.
Before him lay what remained of the maid, and still he ate without hesitation, without disgust, without urgency, consuming flesh, blood, and bone as though this were simply another meal provided in the natural order of things.
Blood ran warm over his hands and his face, dripping down onto the stone below.And just as if he had his fill, he paused once more, his breath uneven and his eyes unfocused, as if searching through something distant, something half-remembered.
His lips moved slowly.
"…thank… you…"
There was a faint tilt of his head.
"…for… the food…"
The words came out softer the second time, more certain, like a child repeating something once taught.
His grip did not loosen, not even as he resumed.
Because if another living being were to step into the room now…
He would not hesitate.
After all—
When would the next meal come?