I walked toward his cabin.
He called for me. And I would answer.
One step at a time, I climbed the stairs. Slow. Intentional. Each creak beneath my boot was a sentence being written in blood and tension.
He watched me.
That damn laugh again. A breathy, broken sound—a giggle carved from rot. It slipped past his lips like a leaking secret, escaping at odd intervals. No pattern. No rhythm. Just enough to crawl under my skin and nest there.
He was waiting. Leaning in the doorframe like a lover too confident in how the night would end.
Then, without a word, he turned and walked into the cabin.
And I followed.
The floor inside was already ruined. Glass bottles crunched under his weight, shattering to dust and jagged slivers. Every step he took ground them further down, into powder and glittering death.
I walked the same trail. Each step sliced my legs, my feet. Thin cuts at first, then deeper. Blood began to drip, dotting the wooden floor in a new shade of red. The blood didn't recoil this time. It welcomed the glass. It welcomed the pain.
He inhaled. Long. Slow. Like he was savoring it. The scent of blood. Of sweat. Of coming violence.
Bastard liked it.
He didn't say a word. Didn't need to.
Instead, he kicked the bed.
A massive, deliberate sweep of his leg. The thing flew across the room like it was made of feathers, not wood. It hit the far wall with a crash that shook the boards. And there it was—beneath where he slept.
A door.
Hidden. Heavy. Latched.
He reached down and opened it with ease. Not like it was heavy. Like it was familiar.
And then, as if to make a point, he glanced at me. Not a threat. Not a dare. A challenge.
He wanted to know if I'd follow. If I'd blink.
If I'd flinch.
I didn't.
Then he climbed down.
Only when his head dipped below the floorboards did he finally glance back up—just once. A single look.
Not with threat.
Not with warning.
With… invitation.
He was daring me.
Testing me.
Fucker thought I'd hesitate.
He still didn't get it.
I followed.
One hand on the frame, one foot at a time, I descended.
The stairs creaked beneath me—narrow, uneven, slick with rot. The air got colder, thicker. The light above dimmed behind me until it vanished completely.
My eyes took a moment.
They always do.
The dark has a way of holding onto you—wrapping around your skull like a second skin.
But slowly, shapes began to emerge.
Shadows gave way to outlines.
Outlines gave way to truth.
The room was long. Narrow. Damp. It smelled of iron and old wood and waste.
The floor was stained with black puddles that didn't glisten anymore—dried blood, long since shed.
Chains clinked from the rafters.
Rusted tools hung on the walls—some broken, some sharpened far too recently.
And there—at the far end—slumped in the corner beneath a low-hanging lantern, was a prisoner.
I couldn't make out the details yet—just the shape.
But something about it twisted my gut.
Not fear. Not pity.
Recognition.
He hadn't brought me here to show off his trophies.
He brought me here to show me this.
To see what I'd do.
To test if the blood in my veins still meant something—or if I was just a another nobody trying to make a name.
He laughed again, somewhere behind me.
But this time?
It didn't echo.
It stayed close.
Like breath on the back of my neck.
But he made one mistake.
He brought me into his heart.
And I wasn't here to admire it.
I was here to tear it out.
He moved toward the prisoner like he was approaching a podium—swagger in every step, dragging that heavy presence behind him like a rotted cape. The chains rattled under his fingers as he reached the end of the room. The metal links scraped and clanged like bones in a sack.
Then he started shouting.
I couldn't make out the words, not all of them. But I didn't need to. The tone said enough.
It was laced with filth. Obscenities. Bile. The kind of language not meant to communicate—but to degrade. He was speaking like the prisoner wasn't a person, but some animal that had dared disobey its master.
He yanked on the chains hard—twice, three times.
The metal groaned as it stretched tight, and the prisoner jerked forward with it. I heard the thud of knees hitting stone. Heard the quiet grunt that followed. Not of pain. Of resistance.
Because this one?
This one wasn't docile.
The demon barked again, words spitting from his mouth like broken glass. His tone turned bragging. Sickening. Like a butcher praising the color of the meat before slicing it open. He gestured at the prisoner with one hand—grabbing a handful of hair and yanking the head up.
Bragging about the "luscious strands." The "obedient eyes."
A showdog.
That's what this was to him. A prize to parade in front of me.
Like I'd be impressed.
Like I'd care.
But the prisoner fought back—just a little. A twitch in the shoulder, a stiffening of the spine. They pulled against the chain—not enough to break free, just enough to say _no_.
The demon didn't care.
He pulled harder, dragging them across the stone like dead weight.
Like he was trying to make a point.
But what point?
What was this supposed to do?
Show me he was in control? Show me cruelty?
Was this a warning?
A threat?
Or something worse—something smaller.
Was he trying to provoke pity?
Fear?
Was this some twisted little game to test whether I'd break at the sight of another being brought low?
I didn't blink.
I didn't breathe heavy.
I just watched.
Unmoved.
Unimpressed.
I didn't know the prisoner. Didn't recognize the face. Didn't feel some buried memory stir in my gut. No past. No bond. No connection.
And if killing the demon meant this prisoner had to die?
Then they would die.
No hesitation.
I'd cut them down with the same hand I'd use to take the demon's head. This much would not—could not—deter me.
But still…
My eyes wandered.
The demon was still monologuing, still pulling at the chains like a child yanking a broken toy, but I'd stopped listening.
I looked around.
The cell had that smell. That wet smell. Like old wood soaked in sweat and rot. Mold curling at the corners of the stone. The single slit of a window on the far wall barely let in any light—just enough to silhouette the bars and make the dark corners darker.
I scanned it all slowly.
And then I saw it.
In the far corner, just past the broken bucket and the overturned stool.
A pile.
I stepped closer—half a pace.
Then froze.
Body parts.
Stacked. Neatly.
Like firewood.
They weren't trophies.
They weren't warnings.
They were leftovers.
This wasn't a prison.
This was a kitchen.
This was where he fed.
And suddenly I wasn't thinking about the prisoner anymore.
I wasn't thinking about pity, or mercy, or death.
I was thinking about how much this _thing_ had taken. How many voices it had silenced down here in the dark.
And how it had all become so… normal for him.
So mundane.
He'd brought me here like it was a performance.
I turned back to him.
His hand still clutched the prisoner's hair.
His lips still curled in a smile.
He thought he had something over me.
And maybe he did.
Maybe once—before the blood, before the raft, before the girls—this would've stopped me.
Not now.