CHII

O blind cupidity, O wrath insane, That spurs us onward so in our short life, And in the eternal then so badly steeps us...

- Dante’s Inferno, Canto 12 lines 49-51

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It was quiet for a long while after the Ringmaster had given his child the key to those iron cages. He waited outside the large tent, anticipating the inevitable time when the stubbornness and naivety would finally reduce from an emotionally-driven blaze down to embers. Impulsive anger would turn into shame, and shame into regret. And regret was the first step towards repentance. 

It had happened countless times before when his child was young, and it would likely happen again. He was sure of it. Every child went through a rebellious phase, after all. His child–despite having since grown old enough to fledge the nest–was just a little late to do so. 

It would all play out, he thought to himself, just like any other performance. It was all under control. 

But time passed, and the Ringmaster heard and saw nothing. No screams of fear, no rushed footsteps, no calling for him to fend off the awful creatures of the night—not that those beasts could actually pose any threat to his child. Those wretched things were far too weak to stand properly, let alone cause any real harm. Their fangs were too rotted, their muscles too thin, their claws too brittle from malnutrition. 

Strange, then, that there were no signs of…anything. Had his young one perhaps not yet accepted the truth? That the foul creatures cared for nothing and nobody but themselves and their own insatiable appetites? 

Those freaks of nature would sooner feast upon the rats that scurried beside their cages than retain even a shred of dignity and die somewhat peacefully—he would know. He’s seen it before. Their kind chew off limbs if caught in traps like foxes in snares, go so far as to eat anything and everything available in their hunger-driven madness. And when those beasts did eat, they’d sooner feast until they were sick than feast until they were satisfied. 

Such unfortunate bastards, those things. How wretched an existence to be forever empty and hungry and wanting yet so profoundly unable to be slaked. It was no wonder they were called demons. Their kind could almost be pitiable if they weren’t so loathsome. 

This whole debacle would be over soon. One way or another, the Ringmaster would get something out of this. If the creatures were so insistent on being too dangerous and difficult to keep, then he would give them what they wished for. He would let them die. Not the Damsel, though. There could yet be another use for her. A different use. 

The Ringmaster would be the first to admit his own mistake and single miscalculation in all this, though. He had underestimated just how much his own child’s curiosity outweighed the fear he had taught and ingrained. Just like him, so hungry for answers and thirsty for adventure into the unknown. 

Such a stubborn thing. He should have nipped that curiosity in the bud long ago, should have snuffed it out in its entirety. But even the Ringmaster had his moments of weakness and indulgence, many of which consisted of being soft towards his only child. How couldn’t he be? His beloved wife was no longer in this world to do so. His child was all he had left of her, was all the tenderness she had left in the world and in his heart. 

Truly, he had been too soft, too lenient. His own father was harsh and unforgiving, as was his father before him. But his familial chain had a weak link, and it was nobody’s responsibility but his, despite it not being his fault. Not entirely. He had allowed his child far too much time in the sun. It was inevitable that the inexperienced and unknowing fledgling would get lost in the dark. 

The man sighed, pinching his fingertips between his eyes. His poor, stupid, utterly naive young one. So lost without guidance, even after growing up. His child knew nothing of the real world, nothing of its dangers and its sins. And to think he would have proposed that the circus would one day be passed down into those unsure and shaky hands. 

It was times like these when he wondered what his wife would have done, what she would have said. She likely would have known what to do. She was the glue that held his family together, after all. 

He then shook his head rapidly, not allowing the thoughts of his long-gone beloved to soften his heart. A point needed to be proven, even through pain and tears. 

But the longer he thought of things and people he didn’t want to, the more the Ringmaster realized that it was downright ridiculous how long it was taking for the lesson to be learned. Surely his child couldn’t be so stubborn as to refuse to admit that he was correct in his ways?

He sighed. If he wanted something done properly, he would have to do it himself. 

The rest of the circus members had long retired to their resting quarters or to their homes in the town just beyond the threshold. Luckily, nobody else would have to witness this complete and utter embarrassment. 

With a quick adjustment to his coat, he began to move towards the closed-off area like so many times before. Honestly, just how much had those things affected his child? He was sorely mistaken in their influence; that much was apparent. 

The curtains to the cages came into view, and the Ringmaster already began to speak before pulling them aside, scolding his young one for all of these unnecessary melodramatics. It was almost laughable, this situation. 

“It’s about time you let go of this fantasy, child. I’ve humored your nonsense long enough.”

The curtains were then parted, allowing light to finally be brought into the darkness that housed the metal cages. 

Which were…pried open.

The man simply stood there, unable to fully comprehend what he was seeing. What exactly he had expected, he wasn’t sure. But it most certainly wasn’t anything like this. 

It was only after a few seconds that the Ringmaster realized just how unnaturally thick the air was, and the unusually strong metallic stench that sat heavily in his lungs like cigar smoke. The air here was normally bitter with the smell of rust from the cages, but this smell…it was almost organic. What had these filthy things done this time? Surely his child couldn’t have been so foolish as to attempt any sort of…

Something rattled beneath his shoe, and the man looked down to see that it was something small and metal and-

The key to the cages? What was it doing on the ground? What had been done with it? Why was it cast aside and forgotten? 

A low rumbling growl came from further in the darkness. It was less heard and more so felt within the deepest hollows of the Ringmaster’s bones. Focusing his gaze into the dark, the man saw that just beyond where the light from the performance ring came from, there were five pairs of eyes staring straight back. 

Purple, green, yellow, red, and mismatched blue and white. But no pink. None at all. The sight made something coil tightly behind his ribs.

Something was wrong. Very, very wrong. 

Though he didn’t know why, the man didn’t move. Instead, he looked closer into that darkness, searching for signs of something he didn’t quite know. His heart stopped in his chest and sank down to his gut as he noticed one very crucial detail. 

The monsters were not as they once appeared. 

Their once long and bony limbs were shorter and fuller, making them not nearly as tall as they once were. Their teeth and claws and sharp edges were all dulled—still visibly pointed and dangerous, but subtler now. Some animalistic features were hidden beneath clothes that now fit them slightly too big; others were still visible. 

There were dark stains on all of their foul faces. Streaks that he initially believed to be blood or some other filth, but upon looking closer appeared to be…tears?

Impossible, he thought. These things cared for nothing but consumption, for their own survival. 

But what was far more unsettling was that the beasts looked…almost human. If not for their horns and faces, they could easily be initially mistaken for very tall humans if they were to cover themselves head to heel. 

But when the Ringleader looked closer at their faces, he saw red. It was a wine-dark red that stained their chins, their hands, the front of their tattered clothes. It soaked into the floor, filling the air with its stench. Blood. It was blood. And it was coming from something large and wet and organic-smelling. 

The man took a half-step back, unable to suppress his utter disgust and shock at what he thought he had seen. 

It was a corpse being eaten, a sight so profane and utterly unholy that it sent pinpricks across his entire body. Horrible chills accompanied waves of uncomfortable heat that made him both sweat and shiver. The damned things must have pried their cages open and killed one of their own. And what better meal than one that couldn’t fight back? 

The horrid things had brandished their fangs against one of their own. They had torn the Damsel asunder. And…

Where was his child? Where? Surely the young one must have run off somewhere, immeasurably frightened by the sight of the beasts cannibalizing one of their own. But then, where was his child? The Ringmaster heard and saw nothing, and he knew he had stayed by the only entrance. But then…

The man’s gaze landed on the wet and stringy flesh held within those black claws once again. He forced himself to look upon the torn corpse between them more closely, bile coating his throat. The body’s skin wasn’t that unnatural ashen grey, nor did there appear to be any horns atop its head or fur on any limbs…

Denial raced through the man’s mind. He was paralyzed with shock, entirely unable to move, yet also unable to take his eyes off the sight. And the longer he looked, the less he was able to believe it was untrue. 

There his child lay, body torn open, insides held within the grip of the monsters. It was a miracle the man was able to choke out words at all at the realization. 

“You…My…”

The fiends stared up at him while continuing to slowly rip and chew and swallow, teeth squeezing and effortlessly tearing through soft muscle. A couple of them even bent their forms over the carcass on the ground, likely becoming territorial over their food like the disgusting animals they were. It took every effort in the man’s body not to vomit right then and there, though his insides ached and roiled the longer he stood there. 

And then he felt the urge to move, to do something, anything, but what? It was clear just from a glance that it was far too late to save his child. He couldn’t hope to fight off five ravenous flesh-supped creatures. And if he were to run, where would he go? 

But being reasonable in times of fear isn’t what humans are known for. A trembling finger was pointed in accusation at the menagerie, a single, unsure step taken away from the creatures. 

“You godless savages-!”

But as soon as the man began to shout, one of the beasts leapt up unnaturally fast, gripping the Ringmaster by his throat. The man choked and sputtered, his hands instinctively moving to pry the dark and bony fingers off, but failing. The one choking him was revealed to be the purple-eyed beast with four horns, its eyes glinting a dangerous and unnatural hue steeped in pure fury. Its claws started pressing into the man’s neck harder and harder with every passing moment, almost certainly trying to draw blood yet also holding back just enough not to kill him. 

Dies iræ, dies illa, solvet sæclum in favilla

A low-pitched animalistic sound came from the depths of its chest, aggressive and nothing short of nightmare fuel. The other creatures quickly joined the cacophony, trilling and hissing and chittering deeply unnatural and awful sounds while slowly moving towards the man and away from the gutted body of his child. He attempted to fight, but it was useless. Every little movement granted him only a tighter grip on his neck. When actions failed, he resorted to strained words.

“You filthy animals…You killed my…!”

The claws sinking into his throat went even deeper, blood beginning to bubble at the back of his throat and making him choke even further. The fiend in front of him snarled a vicious noise, sharp teeth bared back. Its other hand rose, claws prepared to skin and bleed him like a pig. He gasped out a desperate sound.

“No, please! You…You need me! If you kill me, you’ll have no way to survive!”

The Ringmaster gagged and coughed between his pleas for mercy, for any scrap of hesitation the monsters may possess. Surely these creatures weren’t so unreasonable as to be rid of their only source of protection from the outside world? They were impossibly far from their empty valley, stranded from any others of their kind. Other humans would surely have their heads the moment they stepped outside the circus grounds. 

“I brought you here! I ensured your survival! Y-you made your point, we can make another deal! A fair one!”

These monsters already took his child from him, already made it clear that they were discontent with what had become of them. So much so that they ate one of their own just to survive. 

But the point of no return had long been crossed. The man and the beasts knew it without saying it aloud. Yet he attempted to reason for his life anyway as the other creatures drew nearer, teeth and claws brandished and dripping. 

“You’ll…have nothing, nobody! You’ll be torn apart out there!”

A single moment passed. A fleeting moment of consideration. Hope flickered and flared in the Ringleader’s chest. But it died just moments later when the monsters snarled and growled even louder than before. Their bright eyes became pointed and narrowed. 

So be it, they seemed to say without words. They had made their decision long ago. It was painfully apparent that the man was at their mercy, and they remembered everything that was ever done to them with startling clarity. Every blow, cut, and bruise inflicted. Every scrap of food withheld. Every empty laugh at their pain. Every consolation denied. Every rub of salt in their wounds. 

But no more.

Quid sum miser tunc dicturus? Quem patronum rogaturus? Cum vix iustus sit securus

The Ringmaster was then thrown to the ground, each limb held down by one of the other creatures. Though the harsh and unforgiving grip on his throat was now gone, it was still impossible to speak, blood and fear clogging whatever words he would attempt to plead with. Eyes of varying colors bore into him like daggers as he thrashed and struggled. There was no delaying it, no denying it now. The man would die just in the same way he lived. Cruelly. Emptily. 

In a way, one could consider dying to be his first and only good deed in this world.

The sickening man’s kind fledgling was the one who allowed the beasts to take on these new forms. He would be the first in a long line of humans who would allow them to sustain themselves. He would finally be of some use to them. 

All he ever did was take and take and take, even when the beasts had nothing left to give. Especially when they had nothing left to give. Yet even still, he wanted more. Always more. But now…

It was their turn to take. 

And so they took. 

Each of the monsters descended upon the man with sharpened claws and hungry eyes. 

Flesh was flayed and torn. Limbs were quartered and feasted upon. Wet squelches and heavy dripping filled the air alongside desperate gurgling screams as the man was torn open at the belly and disemboweled. Organs were splayed, tendons and ligaments ripped from their places and then swallowed. 

But the Ringmaster was not eaten hastily or desperately. He was eaten slowly. Painfully. Savored, even.

Bite after bite after bite, the screams quickly faded. All too soon, the monsters silently thought. It would have been quite satisfying to inflict every agony and pain that existed—and many more that did not—upon him, drag and parade his carcass around for rats and scavengers to pick clean…

But that didn't matter. What mattered was that the creatures would be able to sustain their forms for quite a while with this meal. This flesh would have to suffice. 

Bite after bite after bite, the Ringleader became unrecognizable. Eyes rolled back and glassy, elegant and coveted clothing reduced to nothing but bloodstained scraps. His blood tasted filthy, far more metallic than the others they had tasted; it was as though it were cheaply gilded, just like everything else in his life. It tasted of greed. Of an existence decayed with decadence. It was disgusting to them.

Yet the monsters continued to eat anyway, faces twisted and stomachs churning at the bitterness and pollution in the meat.

But after the creatures had their fill of the man’s flesh—which was quite soon, as they found revenge was a short-lived reason to eat something that tasted rather nasty—they turned back to the other corpse on the ground outside the cages. The Ringmaster’s kin. The one who showed foul devils kindness when the entire rest of the world wanted them to bleed. Though the naive human’s body and limbs were nearly scant of recognizable features, the face was untouched, eyes still half-lidded and lightless. 

Such an unfortunate creature, that one. Caught in a very bad place at a very bad moment. Rewarded only death for such curiosity about things that best remained in the dark. 

Could this human’s death have been prevented? Perhaps. Perhaps not. It didn’t matter now. What was done was done. 

Yet even though the monsters did not shed tears—they had all been spent mourning their beloved angel—their sorrow was still evident in the way they positioned themselves in a circle around the human’s corpse. One of them gently closed the human’s eyelids as though the creature were merely sleeping—even though there was a gaping cavity split open just beneath the ribcage.

The purple-eyed beast then picked up the still-warm body, holding it up and carrying it carefully and efficiently so as not to spill any entrails. Blood seeped into his clothes—or poor excuses for them—and stuck to his skin. The other creatures looked questioningly at him, each of them in varying states between lucidity and borderline catatonia. His voice was low and hushed when he beckoned them to stand. 

“...Come. Let us end this. This place can be a grave for him, for all of them. But not this one.”

Now that they had the strength, now that they had the time and means to do so, they could offer this one mercy. They could finally destroy this circus in its entirety, be rid of this godforsaken prison once and for all. 

They could free their beloved Dove and the human who aided them from their bonds to this place. 

The blue and white-eyed creature slowly took out one of the many small matchsticks that had been given to him merely a day prior and simply stared at it, then at the violet-haired fellow beast. They both nodded. Without another word, the match was struck and lit. And then it was tossed onto the tent walls, the thick fabric quickly feeding the sparks to turn into flames. 

The monsters turned back to the dead Ringmaster’s mangled body for what would be the last time. 

He who had grown complacent in his cruelty was no more. But unlike with their pink-eyed fellow beast and the human who had been good to them, the beasts did not intend to eat the man’s body in its entirety. No, they would leave his flesh and bones to be picked clean and scattered and defiled by rodents and maggots and carrion birds–assuming there would be anything but ash left after this fire ravaged and consumed everything.

Either way, his remains would be forever buried and entombed in the rubble of his greatest glory, which was now his greatest failure. A fitting end. 

The entire menagerie moved as one, slowly walking—shambling, more like—out of the darkness and away from those awful cages. Those cold and corroded bars were once believed to be their coffins. That all felt so impossibly distant now after what they had done. 

Their minds were still hazy and unable to fully process all that had happened. Their joints ached. Their eyes stung from the lights overhead. Their skin prickled with the unfamiliarity of freedom. True freedom. It felt strange to even think of it. Mere hours prior, they believed such a word to be a curse, a taboo to speak no differently than a foul profanity. 

The night was dark when they parted the tent opening with trembling claws. The circus grounds were empty. The guests were long gone, and the workers had retired to their private quarters. For the first time in a very long time, the beasts had looked up to the sky. It was different from the sky back in the valley. There were fewer stars visible in the pitch-black, the air choked with smog from the developing world. But it was the night sky nonetheless, and so it was beautiful.

The air was cold, nipping at dark skin and fresh scars. But it was clearer and cleaner than anything any of them had known in many moons. The beasts breathed unweighted shaky breaths as one, in and out, in and out, in and out. 

And though each of the monsters was sure that they could have stayed there for all eternity, simply basking in their unchained and uncaged existences, they knew that they were not yet completely safe. Not yet completely free. There was still work to be done. 

An orange glow behind them began to make their shadows emerge and lengthen from their feet. The air was starting to become warm, almost uncomfortably so. The smell of smoke was beginning to drown out all other senses. The violet-eyed beast showed no urgency, no concern, for he had already known what he and the others would do with this quiet night’s opportunity while the evening was still young.

Still holding the corpse of the dear human in his arms, he took a couple of steps forward to address his fellow former prisoners. His eyes shone with ambition that burned brighter than any flame as he turned to the blue and white-eyed eldest of them, then to each of the others one by one. 

“Disperse the matches. Go to each of the tents.”

The others looked slightly confused, but they did not question. Not yet. 

“Watch the exits. Let none escape.”

Their bright-colored eyes all widened slightly with recognition of what was being tasked to them. Then their pupils turned to even thinner slits than before. Tonight was the perfect night to destroy this place. Now was the perfect time to hunt, to exact revenge, to make all of these humans suffer as they had. 

This horrid place would reek of blood and smoke and cinders by sunrise. 

“Kill them all.”

Without a word, each beast had taken a palmful of matches—matches that were once given for light and warmth—and ran off in different directions. The iris-eyed creature did not join them, though. He was still holding something very important, and he didn’t want it to touch the filthy ground of this place any longer. He walked very slowly towards the very edge of the circus and simply watched as flames slowly began licking at the edges of every tent he passed, acrid smoke rising over the tallest of them. 

The air became bitter and thick, but he paid it no mind. It was nothing any of the beasts weren’t already used to. 

Screams and shouts of fear echoed throughout the entire troupe, but they didn’t last long. They were either silenced by a swift strike of claws or eventually gone hoarse from burning smoke and drowned out by the growing blaze. A few strays even aimlessly ran around like ants in a disturbed mound before being stilled by a harsh tearing bite to the throat or a quick slice to their belly to spill their innards. 

Time passed. Soon enough, the entire circus was engulfed in fire and smoke. How ironic, the beasts being the ones to destroy and consume this place, and not the other way around. One by one, each of the other creatures joined their new leader at the edge of the circus, claws slick with fresh blood and lungs heaving from chasing and hunting prey.

Such exertion would have been nigh impossible—dangerous, even—for beings afflicted with such profound starvation. But vengeance proved to be quite an ample motivator. 

Confutatis maledictis, flammis acribus addictis. Voca me cum benedictis

And when the monsters had gathered with silent affirmations that all of the circus workers were dead, they collectively moved into the forest just beyond the furthest of the tents. The sound of flames and the scent of smoke gradually got more and more distant as they walked and walked, not once stopping or looking back. They kept moving until they reached a small clearing in the woods, and the iris-eyed beast had laid the dear human’s body on the ground. 

Blood quickly dotted the grass and nettles like dewdrops at dawn. The monsters gathered around the corpse as they had before, not moving to touch it any further. It was quiet, save for the occasional breeze blowing through the tree canopy or the rhythmic insect chirps. They waited. What for, none of them could say. The body wouldn’t get any fresher. But still they waited for what felt like an eternity, when in reality it was likely merely moments. 

“…Foolish. Utterly foolish thing.”

The emerald-eyed beast broke the silence. He was right in his words; none of the others could deny it. This human was a fool, no doubt about it. But there was something else. Something unaddressed. 

The tallest of them, the avian creature, trilled a low sound, tilting his head at the corpse’s face. 

“Yes. Naive, callow. But…”

But kind. Eager to listen, to learn. Willing to help even without getting anything in return. Especially without the promise of anything in return. Why? Why only that human, who had every reason to believe them devils from Hell? Why that human, who had that pathetic and ignorant man as a father? Nothing was given in return for that kindness, and yet nothing was expected in the first place. 

“So much like her.”

The eldest of them with mismatched blue and white eyes muttered lowly, almost to himself. He wasn’t wrong. The human was dreadfully unwary, just like their roseate fellow beast. Perhaps that was why the two of them seemed to be able to get along so well. 

So why, then, did both of them have to become sacrifices?

It was hard to comprehend, yet it was simple. 

Not just one, but two pure lives had been lost in the span of a single night. No, not lost. Taken. But what difference does it make? What does it matter how they were gone?

The angels are still dead. And the monsters are sorrowful. 

But sorrow does not equate to regret. 

It was inevitable, wasn’t it? Precious flowers are always plucked from thorny brambles. Fruits are sweetest just before they rot. Pure and pale fabrics always end up stained sooner or later. There was only one way this all could have ended. There was only one way this should have ended. 

Even if that human or their little dove hadn’t died tonight, they would have been inevitably swallowed up by the rest of the world, bound to have their goodness tainted or abused or taken altogether. This cold, dark world…those two wouldn't have been able to survive in it. 

It was best this way. Wasn’t it?

Those thoughts were nothing but cold and sharp stings to the beasts’ wounds. Cruel and crude in their actions as they were, they weren’t heartless. What little comfort they could hope to gain was that they ate their little dove bones and all, leaving nothing behind but scraps of her dress. She would always remain with them. They made sure of it. 

And now…

The four-horned unofficial leader motioned towards the dear human’s unconsumed body. The flesh was already discolored; it would soon begin to stiffen and rot if they weren’t fast. 

“Eat.”

And so the creatures ate. They ate and ate and ate, not only because their newfound freedom spawned newfound hunger, but to do for the dear one what they had also done for their kin. They would keep this kind and unknowing outlier of a human close to them forever. 

It was the least they could do for the poor creature. 

Every scrap was eaten, every little edible piece of flesh and cartilage and whatever other meat that existed. The monsters remained undisturbed in their darkness and as such had scraped a majority of the bones clean. The largest of the bones were then split open, the marrow inside them licked and chewed. And then those bone fragments were carefully eaten as well. 

Not a single digestible speck had gone untouched. None save for the human’s heart, which had long stopped beating. 

Amid the pile of iron-stenched slurry and tattered red-soaked clothes lay the small organ. The other beasts had wordlessly agreed not to touch it. Not yet.

It was the violet-eyed leader who finally moved to grasp it in his palm and rip it from its place, the veins and arteries popping and gushing onto his black claws, but he paid it no mind. He pressed his thumb into one of the seams of the flesh as though he were splitting a citrus fruit, prying it open and tearing it into two, then four, then finally five pieces.

Five portions for five beasts. The four-horned creature pressed one piece of flesh into every one of his kin’s palms. 

He said nothing. They said nothing. They all ate those pieces of flesh, not daring to waste even a drop of blood or a speck of meat. Such a fragile thing, that heart. It never should have been aching for such creatures. But now it would become a part of them, carefully eaten, savored, swallowed in its entirety.

Cor contritum quasi cinis, gere curam mei finis

Once the monsters were finally replete with flesh for the first time in years immeasurable, they scraped their claws against the earth to bury what little was left behind. Wetted and tattered clothing, mostly. Sticky clumps of hair. Needle-sharp bone fragments. They likely wouldn't need to do such a thing to hide their traces, but they did it anyway. It was tradition, after all. 

How strange. Their pink-eyed kin was eaten in the same way monsters consumed their prey, and the human—or what very little was left of the creature—was buried in the same way they hid their kind’s bones from poachers. 

Perhaps the beasts wanted to cling to parts of their old life in any way they could. Perhaps they simply didn’t want to risk anyone seeing what they had done. 

But when the ground was disturbed no longer, and when the claws of the beasts were coated in dirt and blood and organic filth, each of them stilled, staring down at the grime trapped in every line of their skin. It would forever remain there, each of them knew. But even after their primitive attempt at a burial, their work was still not done. 

This was only the beginning. But at the very least, the hardest part was over and done with. Wasn’t it? They lost so much. Too much. There was no going back.

But luckily, they had a semblance of a plan. With the old circus burning to the ground, there would be an opportunity to take its place. An opportunity to hide in plain sight. It was simple. The monsters would play the roles the world had already cast for them–bringers of fear, vicious creatures of the night. The purple-gazed beast could see it all falling into place now. There was much to do, much to prepare for if they truly wished to succeed in this endeavor without any more sacrifices. 

But for now, they all must focus on the present, on what must be done to survive their first night of freedom. 

Later, the beasts would need to return to the ashes, only to ensure that nothing and nobody survived. Not a single worker, not a single trace of the circus. And they would salvage what they could from the remains. As much of a whited sepulchre the Ringmaster was, he was right about one thing. The beasts were on their own now. If they weren’t careful, one wrong move would have them killed. They must be cunning, prepared for any possibility. 

The four-horned beast looked upon his kin. Their eyes were exhausted, like their rest needed rest of its own. Their stomachs were full, nearly bursting–something they assumed they would never live to experience–and their lungs clear of squalid air. Their claws were caked with all sorts of grime, their fangs sore from chewing. The wounds on their minds and hearts were still fresh. They wouldn’t be able to scavenge like this. It was best to remain here, hidden, until the sun went down once more. 

“Rest. We will watch in shifts.”

It was quite clear that he would be taking the first shift. The others looked hesitant, eyes shifting uneasily. After all, the last time sleep beckoned them so profoundly, they likely wouldn’t have awoken. But the purple-eyed monster held a stained hand out in a gesture of reassurance. He would watch not only for danger from humans, but danger from death slowly stealing them away in sleep. 

With little else to do, the creatures hoarsely agreed and took refuge beneath a nearby tree. They leaned against one another, unfamiliar with such close contact after all this time, yet their eyes almost immediately closed anyway. A couple of them looked concerned before allowing themselves to rest, like they were afraid this would all be some awful nightmare and they would wake up inside their cold and rusted cages. 

All of them almost instantly lost their battle against their own eyelids. All except for the emerald-eyed serpentine beast. Instead, the youngest of them moved to sit next to his violet-haired fellow monster, who said nothing about how the former should be resting while he can. 

There was much to be said, yet also nothing at all. About what had been discussed in that rust-choked hellhole. About the desperation they faced. About their pink-eyed angel who was now dead. About the human they found themselves endeared to who was also now dead. About how both of those kind souls were torn apart by their own hands. 

Nothing would be the same after dawn would rise over the ashes of that hellish prison. Nothing. Both for better and for worse. 

It was only a matter of time before their golden-eyed kin awoke and realized all that had happened. It was a miracle he was barely lucid enough to make it this far, especially after losing so much blood hours prior. He would be difficult to keep under control after his mind recovered from the shock and daze. Assuming it would be able to recover in the first place. 

But that would be seen in the future. Tonight, in this calm and empty forest clearing, the green and violet-eyed beasts both simply sat next to each other, waiting for their first witnessed sunrise in too many moons to count. 

Lacrimosa dies illa, qua resurget ex favilla

A moment passed. Then another. They both stared ahead at nothing, quietly watching smoke rise over the treetops from the former prison. 

————

Years had passed since that fateful moonless night. 

None know for certain what truly happened to the Ringmaster of the old freak show circus or those who worked for him. It’s widely agreed upon among certain social circles that the old leader likely went mad and killed all of his workers, then committed suicide and burned his circus to the ground with his last breath. Why? Nobody knows. Nobody could begin to fathom such a tragedy. 

A result of accumulated depression from losing his wife years prior? A sudden bout of madness driven by his great faith? Or perhaps outside influence? 

The tall tales spun from the event seemed to know no bounds. 

But the true mystery is what happened to the man’s child. All of the other bodies—or skeletons, in some cases—had been found and identified. Some were mangled and found in pieces, corpses gutted and torn by what appeared to be wild animals. Others seemed to have been caught in the horrid fire and unable to escape. 

And yet, the Ringleader’s only child was left unaccounted for. No gashed body found, no charred skeleton left behind that would match the physical description. 

Where had the mysterious flyer distributor of the circus gone? There were minimal records of this person, and even fewer social connections to any living people. 

Some say the dutiful young one remained with the ailing father, unable and unwilling to leave him even in his apparent sickness of the mind. 

Some say that the father and heir to the circus both died, or that they both went insane and ran off into the night, never to be seen again. 

Others say that the Ringmaster never had a child at all. Nobody was ever able to recall that person’s name, after all. Such a mysterious figure who spent every waking moment quietly praying or studying or working diligently at the circus threshold. 

There was nobody alive who would know the truth of what happened. Nobody except for the five mysterious tall men who survived that night. They had covered themselves head to toe in bandages, masks, draping clothes, and heavy garbs that hid every inch of their bodies. To shield their burns from the fire in the circus, clearly. But they all claimed to have seen nothing, and then all five of them quickly disappeared from public view. 

So much time had passed afterwards that rumors of the old circus’s existence and subsequent untimely end had been reduced to mere local legend whispered among children and mutterings among the senile elderly. 

Was the event exaggerated or downplayed immensely with every new iteration of the story? Did the event even happen at all? One would get a different answer from each town resident. 

There existed rumors and secrets that if a person were to wander into those old circus grounds, they’d quickly find that they weren’t alone. Among the buried bones and dilapidated remains, there were presences. Undeniable signs of being watched, stalked, hunted. Some claimed it was the restless souls of the dead. Others said that the one responsible for the killings and the terrible fire was still out there, still waiting for their next victim. Sometimes, people would claim to see silhouettes in the treeline just beyond where the tragedy occurred.

Those whispers were supported by the irrefutable fact that people had started to go missing whenever they treaded the path near those haunted grounds. Spirited away by the restless spirits there? Possessed to wander into the woods and end up lost and never found? Made yet another victim of the possible killers of the circus fire? Nobody knew. Nobody wanted to know.

Needless to say, not even the greediest of estate planners or eager companies wanted to go anywhere near the scorched and singed outskirts of that town. 

The entire area was a shared tomb in all but appearance. It became something of a taboo to even speak of desecrating the place where such a tragic and horrible event occurred, not only because it was disrespectful to those who had perished, but also because it always seemed that someone–or something–was listening. Waiting. 

Time passed. Too much and too little at the same time. Those who knew better never dared to go near the informal cemetery or walk alone at night. The ones who did were never seen again. 

The tales of the old circus and its performances had quickly gathered dust. 

But what was faintly remembered of that old circus was quickly revitalized and gossiped about when a new troupe emerged out of nowhere and established itself right where the old one had been. The Freak Circus of Horrors, it was called. It was eerie and unsettling like the last one, but for completely different reasons this time. Its performers were off-putting, the atmosphere welcoming but hollow. The entire place was rumored to feel like a giant stage, one in which every last person was a performer with dozens of unseen eyes watching them, waiting for them to slip up just once. 

The worst part was that people started to go missing left and right. A runaway here, a local drunk there…Were the ghosts of the past exacting vengeance for the terrible offense of mocking what had happened not so very long ago? Was the new troupe somehow connected to the disappearances? 

The whole place was a bad omen, it seemed. It reeked of death, of something sinister lying in wait like a coiled viper or a tripwire pulled taut. 

It was a mysterious and secretive thing, but unlike the previous troupe, it was not stagnant. The circus of horrors had quickly moved on from that cursed town’s outskirts, never looking back even for a moment. And when that circus left the town, so too did the long string of disappearances. The events of the past and their wild rumors were quickly reduced to faded memory. 

The child of the old Ringmaster was never brought up again. Rendered unfortunately yet ultimately forgotten by time, or even denied having existed at all.

But of course, like many things, the child of the Ringmaster isn’t truly gone, and neither is the beloved Little Dove. Not if one knows where to look to find scant traces of the two. 

Just because something isn’t seen doesn’t mean that it isn’t there. Woven within the foundational fabric of the circus of horrors are tiny details that even now are echoes of certain unspoken yet vital influences. 

The Pink Tent, where humans go to die or be stilted to service, where Fools are born or killed. The Black Tent, where the most special of guests find refuge with tickets dark as deepest moonless nights, where hope is renewed for the beasts and their kin with community and flesh to feast on. Both tents serve as macabre and morbid memorials for those who were sacrificed to spur the creation of such a system. Commemorations, in some distorted sense. 

But with each performer of the troupe rests a relic of the past in some form.

In the golden-eyed Pierrot’s private quarters rest small creations of folded paper. Spare circus flyers idly creased to form different shapes, extra parchment sheets crafted into small models with practiced efforts. One of the most common of these creations is a simplistic flower. Petals pure and clean and unmarred, just like the meager earthen offerings plucked from the dead valley he once gifted to the one he loved. Just like the past human’s efforts to turn those wretched papers of the old circus into new things with new meanings. 

The crafted blooms are never entirely accurate in how he remembered them, though. Always missing one unknown detail or simply deemed off in some subtle way. Every flower is always discarded at one point or another, only to be replaced by a new one that is inaccurate in some other unknown way. 

In the Harlequin’s paper doll tale told only on very special nights, he shares a story of not one, but two angels offering themselves up for the monsters to be fed and granted the strength to live on. One of the angels was hidden among the monsters rotting in their cages, the other was hiding in plain sight as a human. One of them offered renewed strength and vigor, the other a way to take the forms of and live among humans. 

Both of them were deemed miracles. Both of them are said to have disappeared without a trace into the night. 

In the Ticket Taker’s hall of mirrors, there are countless lingering presences. Shapes and voices and reflections from beyond. But near the end of the hall—just next to his personal favorite pink-tinted one—is a cracked mirror that reflects not a twisted shadow but a fragile and flickering light, not too dissimilar to a small matchstick being lit. An old light from an age long past. 

Some say that they see a figure in the glass. Others claim that they hear sobs and pleas and the heavy pattering of something dripping. 

A rare few have even claimed to have seen that tiny flare become a ravenous blaze, one that consumed all it touched and swallowed the sounds of screams. 

In the Jester’s tent, far away from prying eyes and safely hidden from all who would wander, is a small and nearly ancient-looking journal tucked away. A salvaged diary filled with scrawled writings and sketches of beasts, shadows, and watchful gazes. The edges of the tattered and worn pages are singed, almost as if caught in a raging fire. The place where the author’s name was written was burned off, leaving the owner’s identity a mystery even after countless years.

On rare special occasions, that small journal is silently taken out and flipped through, violet eyes reading and rereading the words that had been jotted down by a very curious soul many years ago, black claws carefully brushing over the old faceless ink drawings. 

The names written in them, Leader, Knave, Sentinel, Oblique, Erudite, Lamb…He turns them around in his head and his maw, almost as if trying on a mask that doesn’t quite fit. Or perhaps it did fit at some point, however briefly. 

And in the dark recesses of the Doctor’s tent lies a precious and priceless treasure, a single rusted metal key caked in soot. The last true kindness ever given to the monsters. Such a shame that it was irrelevant in the end, but the gesture did not go unrecognized. That metal key is a symbol of what the beasts had been given, and what they had taken. It is one of the only scraps of the past that was scavenged and saved over many years, many places traveled, and many hardships endured. 

The Doctor once had more keepsakes of the one who aided them, but they were tragically lost. His favorite of the lost things was a small and smoothed fragment of a human sternum, specifically the bone that once rested over and protected that human’s fragile heart. 

(Such protection proved to be futile, however. The human’s heartstrings had been tugged and bled and ripped out anyway. And it was rather easy to pry the muscle from its place when it was time to split it among the others.)

These minuscule details are either irrelevant or otherwise unknown to all humans who have ever entered the Freak Circus of Horrors. They’re easily missed, and just as easily forgotten—assuming they’re ever seen in the first place.

But the members of the troupe know the truth. Or at least, they cling to parts of it. 

The other parts are twisted and refracted, warped by time and eventually lost to the foggy fringes of story-blurred memory and shielded trauma. A little detail changed or subconsciously misinterpreted here and there, another small part forgotten or ignored altogether.

Concrete agreed-upon facts and biased collective repression become interwoven and inextricably entwined. 

Were the events of the past preventable? Had a single thing gone differently, would they be where they are today? Was everything that happened inevitable? Was there something else that they missed?

One would get a different answer from each member if they were to be asked such questions. Not that they would ever be asked such things. After all, who was left to know about the events from so long ago other than each other? 

The circus is not a thing that stays in one place forever. Like an arrow, it never stands still nor deviates from its path. It simply keeps moving, one way or another, never giving a single backward glance. However, oddly enough, its members seem to be perpetually trapped in the past. They tell and retell the same story until it’s nearly unrecognizable, play the same songs until they become one massive elegy that permeates the heavy air of the place. 

How much longer? How much longer until that story is no more real than the masks the members wear?  How much longer until that tale is just as fantastical and detached from reality as the stories of God and His benevolence? How much longer until their song devolves and degrades into incessant noise?

Truly, not even the beasts themselves know. 

All they knew and all they will ever know for sure is that the circus will keep moving forevermore. So long as the Hunger exists, then the performances will exist. The show must go on. Their song must sustain. There hasn’t been a moment since that wasn’t in pursuit of this goal, not a single action that isn’t driven by those memories of teeth sinking into the flesh of the ones who were both most and least deserving of it. 

And in their twisted, distorted minds…They might even view themselves as necessary evils. They cleanse the world of ignorant fools like the old Ringmaster. Reveal the single truth hidden within every human that had become cruel and empty like that wicked man—that humans are just as—if not more—bestial and depraved as the monsters. The performances bring to light what humans would normally keep in darkness, covered in laughable veils of decency and shame. 

quidquid latet apparebit: nil inultum remanebit.

Humans hunger for fear. They crave it, no matter how much they try to hide it. Monsters hunger for flesh. They need it to survive, to maintain their human-like forms. And what are the circus members to do but provide for both? It’s almost too simple. The system practically runs itself. The performers simply…speed up the process on a smaller scale. 

It is the least they can do to honor the ones who allowed them to pave their path to freedom…In their own strange and skewed ways. 

That’s what they told themselves, anyway. And it’s what they continue to tell themselves. 

Humans are empty in soul. Monsters are empty in appetite. Humans bask in their light. Monsters are swallowed by the dark. The two should never cross, lest they wish for death. It’s simply how things are. That lesson was painfully learned time and time again. But instead of being the learners, the monsters would be the teachers of that lesson.

Never again. Never again would they lose anything else, anyone else. 

They swore it when they devoured their Little Dove entirely. They swore it when they buried the scraps of that dear human in those woods. They swore it when they burned that hellish prison to the ground.

The beasts will be in control of every last move they make. Never again will a mere human hold power over them. They come from a world where there was never enough to go around, where their best chances at survival rested in the cruel and greedy hands of another, where rats were considered delicacies to eat, where the killing and complete consumption of innocents was considered a mercy. “Want” was irrelevant. Need consumed and degraded their minds, occupied every thought, forced them to commit acts deemed unforgivable. 

But no longer. Each of the circus members controls their lives now. Every mercy. Every cruelty. Every laugh and tear and moment shared. 

Every bite. 

—————————

≫ The term “Damnatio ad Bestias” translates to “condemnation to beasts.” It describes a Roman practice of capital punishment/execution in which a person convicted of heinous crimes was sentenced to be killed by large and fearsome animals. The more you know!

≫ The Latin verses in this work come from the Dies Iræ! I was originally gonna quote more of the Divine Comedy but changed it almost last-minute.

≫ I know nobody’s prob gonna mention this but I have to bc I’m a nerd. While writing this I realized it’s highkey crazy that the monsters were able to eat a sudden huge influx of food after prolonged starvation (and survive!) as it’s incredibly dangerous for humans to do the same.

≫ But obvs this fic doesn’t exactly deal with humans so uhhhh let’s just assume monsters in the TFC verse have adaptations to prevent that bc their species likely regularly deals with starvation. Cool? Cool.

≫ I’m still not sure if I’ll ever make any sort of fully-fledged AU for this, but who knows? No promises, but the idea has been growing on me…

≫ If you wanna use this work as the baseline for any AU’s, OC’s, or fics of your own, go ahead! I only ask that you do not feed it to any form of generative/character-based AI, and that you credit me if you plan on posting it.

≫ (Also tag me because id love to see whatever it is you guys do with this work!!! The fact that I’ve already seen a bunch of people wanna do different things with this makes me so happy I get dizzy if I think about it too much!)

≫ It was a lot of fun to kinda dissect the troupe's motives and interpret them in my own way! I wanted them to be sympathetic but still fundamentally different from human actions.

≫ Sorry if some of the paragraphs are too big! I swear they looked smaller in my docs...

≫ Also what a surprise! There's scrapped scenes from this too. Maybe I'll find a use for them someday. I got a lot of notes and cut stuff in general for this work that I now have no idea what to do with. Dunno, I'll figure it out.

Nagito Komaeda has been tied up in an old, rotting banquet hall for, as of now, 60 hours.

Although, much to the disapproval of your fellow classmates, you find this act of keeping him in place particularly barbaric. On the other hand, you know, to an extent, his recently revealed hysteria could prove dangerous.

But the way his tone lowers so softly when he speaks to you makes it hard to convince yourself of any real danger he would plan to pose against you.

The old, creaky hinges of the dining hall door screech against the pressure of his movement, before groaning back shut with a loud thud.

The light through the boarded-up windows of the hall slips through the cracks of unevenly nailed wood against the glass, but it’s only enough to give you the faintest vision of the shapes of shadows in the room. At the bottom is the laid-out figure of Nagito’s body.

“Ah. I wasn’t expecting visitors.” His voice emerges from the dark.

You switch the light on and give yourself a moment to adjust to the yellow-tinged glow that flickers awake with a fluorescent buzz.

Nagito is huddled on the floor, knees tucked in with ankles bound tight with rope. His arms are wrapped behind him, with a hefty chain binding them back.

The precautions taken to contain a boy as frail as Nagito seem a bit excessive, but putting yourself against the others could risk their trust in you. And even worse, you risk being tied up and thrown into a dark room alongside Nagito.

But your trust in Nagito’s word seems to get the better of you. Now you find yourself sneaking in with food snatched from the restaurant, as the rest of the class has only really agreed to feed him once a day.

“I’m only trying to be fair,” you say quietly, placing the tray of food beside you as you take a seat in front of him.

His eyes follow your movements as you travel closer to him; the flick of your wrist, the sway of your uniform. A curious smile is painted across his pale face, with dull green eyes that bear no light.

“Fair?” he repeats. It’s a mixture of amusement and curiosity. The tone of his voice, though, is still exceptionally soft. “You risk ostracizing yourself from your fellow Ultimates in the name of fairness?”

Nagito is not offended by the way his words do nothing, nor the way your eyes bore back into him with a calculated gaze. If anything, he revels in it.

Your hand slowly raises to point a finger at him, to watch the way his eyes curiously follow.

There’s a moment of quiet before you speak, alongside a moment of deliberately veiled anticipation that vibrates from Nagito. The same anticipation you can see right through. Under your microscope, he is delighted to be your petri dish. To watch the cogs in your brain begin their mechanisms.

“I see through your hysteria, and I’ve decided you are not a threat,” you begin, lowering your finger and bringing your hand to a plastic-packaged curry bread on the tray. Your fingers carefully open the bag as you continue.

“The truth is, Komaeda…” You retrieve the bread from the bag, ripping it in half. Your voice is still calm, analytical. “I use my profession as a moral shield to treat my patients as if they are test subjects. After all, when you’re a criminal, the law grants you no kindness.”

You bring a piece of the bread to his lips. He hovers in place for a moment, his amused expression faltering into something closer to wonder. Slowly, he parts his lips.

“If they saw me here, they would question what reason I have to give you grace. If I told them the truth, I would become suspicious alongside you. But I’m not insane like you. More so hedonistic.”

From this angle, on your knees beside Nagito with your eyes focused on his lips, you can see him in sharper detail. The wispy flutter of his white eyelashes, ghostly pale skin, his eyes glazed over with that flickering hope he speaks of.

He takes a small nibble, eyes focused down at the bread between your fingers. It’s quiet for a moment as he chews, until he speaks again.

“So, you’d prefer the killing game to continue, don’t you? You come here to feed me because you choose to believe in the hope that I will continue to be an accomplice to murder, as I was with Byakuya?”

There’s a slight smirk on his face while he speaks, words falling out of his mouth like poison.

You choose to mull over his words for a long while, observing the rope that is messily, but tightly, tied around his legs. In this position he looks incredibly fragile, and this he knows. He knows anyone could wander into the dining hall with a determination to escape the island, but he is perfectly content with whatever fate decides to make of him. That is what you enjoy, and that is what he doesn’t see yet.

“You’re sharp, Komaeda. But you aren’t understanding yet.”

Nagito’s eyes glitter with intrigue. “Won’t you be so kind as to enlighten useless garbage such as myself?” he protracts.

“You could call me sadistic, but I retain my humanity. I choose not to become an accomplice to murder, or to hope for it to happen. After all, murder happens no matter how many laws you put in place to eradicate it.”

You enjoy hearing people break. To see the desperation flicker across their face when they know they have been caught. But alongside this, you choose to believe in order, justice, and protecting civilians. You follow systems and rules, with a genuine belief in your humanity when punishing a criminal, rightfully so.

Nagito takes in your words piece by piece, as if to breathe them in and compute them into analysis within his brain. And as he does, he enjoys every second of it. Who knew a killing game could be so exhilarating?

“You revel in a criminal’s despair, because you know absolute hope will be the result of prosecution?”

The truth behind his words is that they are not a question, but rather a statement. To let you know he’s dissected your words down to their truth, and mirrored your mindset back to you precisely.

“That would be a truthful way to put it.” You nod, a little proud smile tugging at the corners of your lips. In return, an accomplished smile tugs at his own.

Another piece of bread meets his lips, which he takes in little nibbles. “I’ve been starving here, all tied up. But I suppose I deserve it, hmm?”

You meet his soft, pressing stare. Your face is flat, but your eyes reflect tantalized intrigue.

“I suppose you do, but I wouldn’t personally treat my patients so poorly.”

Nagito smiles again, with a gaze so intense you could almost convince yourself it’s whirling in circles right within the socket.

“Talentless trash like me deserves it.” He drifts over his words as if they are nothing at all, despite the weight of them, before he continues. “Not you, though, [Name]. You are special. A special kind of hope I’ve never seen before.”

Hope, he says. It’s always hope. He finds a way to relate the life flashing before him back to hope and despair, as if they are the two principles of the world that keep the earth itself spinning.

“You possess the perfect combination of hope and despair. They bind themselves together in your philosophy so well that it becomes whole.”

As he lies helpless on the floor, with his head craned up to look at you from where he lays, his pupils expand through half-lidded eyes. His features are strangely delicate, even with the wonderstruck hypnosis that glitters in his dead eyes.

“The kind of person I should only exist as a stepping stone to. For ensuring your hope is fulfilled.”

You take his words, storing them away in your mind while you ruminate over them thoroughly. Sure, you’ve met a lot of deluded criminals. Criminals who would claim their actions were necessary, even before their execution. But Nagito seems special; the way his philosophy is so solid, so analytical. It doesn’t scare you, but instead exhilarates you.

You’re riding the unfiltered high of a reality that could only blossom from the horrors of a killing game. Watching everyone too weak to grasp for sanity crack under the pressure of a hysteria that’s been brewing beneath their skin for years.

You discard the lid of a small bottle of green tea onto the tray, bringing the bottle to his lips with a simple order. “Open.”

Nagito listens almost instantaneously. His lips part as he guides his head as best he can to catch the line of the bottle.

A bit sloppily, you tip the tea down his throat. The liquid comes in jagged flows, retracing back and forth from the careless movement. You watch silently as Nagito tries his best to catch the tea in his strained position, but misses anyway.

The tea dribbles off his wet, shining lips. It trickles down his chin, with some droplets falling to the floor, and others slipping down to his protruding collarbones. Nagito sees through your teasing, but chooses to indulge in it anyway.

“It seems I can’t do anything right,” Nagito drawls with a kittenish tone. “Now I’ve made a mess…”

You take a long moment to observe his face, and swallow the tension in the room whole. The hot, humid air of the broken-down dining hall is thick, pooling heavily in your lungs. Beneath them, the sensation of a large, gaping hole runs straight through your stomach. The easy draft of the room drifts through your abdomen, and even despite the emptiness, it finds a way to fill you wholly.

Nagito’s face is dulcet now, with easy eyes and a barely-there smile gracing his lips. He looks too happy to be tied up, looking up at you. Too happy to be in your control.

You waste no time pressing a rough thumb to his lips. His mouth pushes down beneath the pad of your finger, and you drag your thumb downward to catch the traces of tea. It’s a slow, deliberate movement. Almost teasingly so.

His smug expression is gone now, replaced with something more taken aback. Breathless and entirely mesmerized. A rare sight to see from him indeed.

Your thumb travels up to his lips once more, but this time pushes past the border of them closed. It feels slick against the wetness of his saliva, and Nagito does not refuse. Instead, his teeth nip so gently at the edge of your thumb before you pull it from his mouth. A long, thin string of saliva bridges the gap for a moment before breaking away.

He’s breathless now, looking up at you with expectant eyes. Waiting for more, so he can falter at the will of your dominance. He looks particularly pathetic, bound by his hands and ankles while he desperately waits for you to thrill him once more.

Instead, you rise from your knees beside him, collecting the empty tray with the garbage that sits on top.

“It may be time for me to leave. I can’t risk raising the suspicion of the others.” you say quietly.

It’s true, even as much as you’d like to stay. Indulging in such hedonistic things could only be something someone breaking beneath the pressure would do. You know better than to satiate your urges now.

Nagito smiles, watching you return to the door. The same way he watched you enter. How lucky he must be, to be able to watch a talent like you adapt so quickly to your nature. The way you so devotedly submit to hope; as if to fall to your knees in church pews, hands clasped together in prayer.

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, your hands coming to dig their fingers into your lower back. You’re sure your fingers are nearly white with the amount of pressure you’re trying to force into one spot – and yet, when your fingers manage to tentatively target the correct spot needing attention, it causes your body to shudder uncontrollably.

You let out an audible groan, piquing the interest of your shift buddy. 

“You good?” he asks, spinning around in the plastic swivel chair.

You wave him off. “It’s nothing, just sore for some reason.”

He tilts his head but doesn’t seem to question it, with a hum of disinterest he turns his chair back around, facing the small metal desk.

You’re not sure why but your body feels as though it’s been rotting from the inside out for the past few days. Every morning you wake up more sore than the last - even shifting in bed makes you wince. It’s starting to make you wonder if you’ve come down with some kind of infection.

You’ve already made the mistake of searching your symptoms online before. Every result inevitably spirals into cancer, chronic stress, malnutrition, dehydration, underlying conditions, or physical strain from work.

Physical strain is something you rule out indefinitely. Not only do you commit to little physical activity, but your job is the furthest thing from demanding. How could prying open a few rusted panels on outdated equipment explain the deep yet sharp aching wrapped around your sides?

What bothers you most is where the pain sits.

You noticed it the other night while showering, fingertips brushing over sore skin hard enough to make you flinch. Faint bruises had already begun surfacing there; small, circular marks scattered along your waistline. Some showing a faint purple noticeable through soap suds.

You’ve been reasoning with yourself to avoid overthinking it and scaring yourself any further. However, your mind does find itself wandering to the fact that the marks are round and evenly spaced.

You pull your phone from your pocket despite knowing it’ll only make the paranoia worse. Your eyes drag across the bright screen as you type another search, eyeing the walkie-talkie momentarily.

Bruises around hips and waist causes.

The first result says vitamin deficiencies, the second says blood disorders, with the third result implying internal bleeding. You immediately lock your phone before you can spiral any harder.

If the affliction was merely physical you believe you wouldn’t find too much concern, but it’s the fact that every morning you feel uncomfortably sensitive and sluggish - as if your body was not your own.

You don’t know what’s happening and you’re terrified. 

A small sigh leaves you as you lean back in your chair, rubbing at your temples as your body slides further down the chair. The ache along your waist pulses again to remind you of its presence, making you grimace.

Suddenly, the walkie-talkie fills the room with static, making you and your coworker flinch to the abrupt noise. 

“Having issues with the cotton candy machine near the green tent,” muffled music and voices can be heard in the background, “can we get someone out here to fix it?”

Recognizing the voice immediately, a groan nearly slips past your lips before the chair behind you creaks as a hand reaches out for the walkie-talkie.

Your coworker gives you a look you can’t decipher before he responds. 

“Yeah, be there in a minute.”

He clips the walkie-talkie to his front pocket and slips the work lanyard over his head. He shuffles around the cramped room almost frantically, movements aimless and eyes shifting between equipment and his desk, almost as if everything was foreign to him.

“Finally, some actual work,” he says, “I haven’t done a single thing since my first shift, so I’ll take this request.”

The words were almost appalling. 

The first three shifts you had, you could agree with him on. However, after those three shifts you’d constantly been pulled out into the circus tents or booths to fix something. One day it was the popcorn machine that had stopped popping due to faulty wiring - you almost missed the thin slits cut deep into the copper wiring of the main chord. Other days it was speakers that were missing wires completely, nearly ripped or sliced from their sockets. Just yesterday you’d been called out to fix one of the tents after an entire side had collapsed inward.

Fortunately, nobody had been underneath it during the collapse. The assigned performer hasn’t been scheduled for any events during that block of time.

In fact, he’d been standing right beside you when you arrived.

An image of the performer flashes through your mind immediately. You could practically hear the bells on his hat jingling softly, gold orbs fixed on you through the mask as he would look down at you in silence. It didn’t help that whoever designed the mask thought carving a permanent toothy grin into the mask was a good stylistic choice.

“There is no way,” you state. “I’ve been called out at least every shift now, everything over there is ancient - breaks left and right.”

You knew the kid you were partnered with was still in university, so you chalked it up to him simply not working enough shifts to experience the sheer volume of issues.

“Maybe you’re just too good at your job,” he jokes while throwing the bag of tools over his shoulder, “that’s why you’re sore everywhere. I’ll take this one so you can rest - don’t thank me too much.”

You roll your eyes with a quiet chuckle, escaping your lips.

“All yours,” you say, but he’s halfway out the tent by the time you speak. “Try not to break more while you’re out there.”

Your head tilts back against the chair, hanging there for a moment as exhaustion settles deeper into your bones. You were somewhat grateful he wanted to take the request - if anything, it did give you a break. Not from the actual work itself, but from the one performer who somehow always seemed to be the person calling you down there.

Some days it was complete silence, his gaze digging into your skin while you worked through each repair either beneath dim carnival lights. Other days were filled with interrogations. At first, the questions made you deeply uncomfortable, leaving you convinced the strange performer had developed some odd fixation on you.

But eventually you realized the questions were endless - nearly mindless - information that no one would really need. The performer has not once asked for your number or where you lived despite the listless amount of information he already had. 

He’d ask about your favorite foods to only ask you an unrelated question immediately after. He’d ask about what music you listened to, where your favorite restaurant was, why you played with your earrings while trying to assess the issues, why you flinched whenever the lights flickered too hard overhead. The questions stacked on top of each other without pause, spoken with an almost childlike curiosity that never quite matched the unsettling grin painted onto his mask.

Soon, the discomfort had faded into irritation more than anything else. You could only assume the performer either had no friends or had simply lost all sense of social awareness after spending too long in the carnival.

You hear the faint jingle of bells outside your tent, immediately your head snaps up.

A familiar porcelain-white face peers through the opening of the tent, the painted grin stretching unnaturally wide beneath the dim overhead lighting. Your stomach sinks almost instantly - either out of dread or annoyance, you’re not sure anymore.

You weren’t sure the performers were allowed near the maintenance tent - not that they’d have any reason to come here in the first place.

“Pierrot,” you say sharply.

Almost sheepishly, the costumed performer slips into the tent as if he’d been caught. You can’t help but notice how badly he towers over your seated form, his frame nearly forcing the cramped space to feel even smaller. 

What you believe to be the mask’s electric eye sockets glows a striking gold as they lock onto your face, brighter than you’d ever seen them before. The intensity almost makes you believe his real eyes must be burning beneath the porcelain. 

Oddly enough, you notice a faint reddish hue dusting the exposed skin along the sides of his neck.

“Do you not have a performance right now?” you ask, glancing past him toward the tent opening in case your coworker comes back. You glance back, meeting the gold pair that were following you the whole time.

Pierrot tilts his head at the question, bells giving you a soft jingle with the movement.

“Not currently,” he answers after a lengthy pause. Despite the mask, his voice lacks the muffle you would expect - always clear and soft spoken with a slight unevenness behind his words.

Your eyes narrow slightly. “Then why are you here? Is there something else that needs to be looked at?”

Another pause fills the room and you decide to cross your arms. However, it backfires as your bruised sides ache to the sudden movement, making your body slightly flinch to the pain.

The glowing gold of his gaze drifts downward briefly before returning to your face. 

“You didn’t come,” he answers softly.

The statement catches you off guard, making your eyebrows furrow deeper. 

“To fix the machine… the cotton-candy.” The words come out awkward and rushed, long gloved fingers flexing at his sides. “I thought you would arrive.”

You suppress the urge to groan. 

“My coworker took the request, we both don’t need to go,” you explain flatly. “Were you able to meet with him?”

The performer goes strangely still, silence once again fills the cramped space. You swear you could hear him breathing at one point. Regardless, you keep glancing behind him in hopes to see your coworker’s figure appear through the flaps of the tent, or his chirpy voice sounding outside. 

Instead, you were met with a small nod from Pierrot.

“Do you feel okay?” he asks softly.

The question immediately makes your expression twist.

“You appear unwell.”

His gaze lowers again, this time lingering somewhere near your waist for just a second too long before returning to your face. Instinctively, your arm shifts across your middle, feeling your face slightly bloom with heat. 

“I’m fine,” you answer quickly.

An obvious lie. Your body was so sensitive to even the slightest of movement, the soreness curled around your sides. Even sitting in the chair had become too uncomfortable at times.

Pierrot remains motionless. The bells hanging from his costume barely make a sound as he leans forward slightly, his shadow covers your smaller form and briefly you remember the warm air around your cheeks.

“You flinched earlier,” he states. “Something is wrong.”

You resist the urge to lean back further into the chair, trying to ignore the hair along your body rising beneath his stare. You feel as though you’re being picked apart in his eyes - searching under your clothes.

“You’re super observant, y’know that?” you mutter with an awkward laugh, trying to steer the conversation away from yourself before it becomes even more embarrassing. “Maybe you should work security instead or something.” Your voice trails off, trying to notice a reaction from him that you could go off of.

For a moment, Pierrot simply stares at you. Then, faintly, the bells along his costume jingle as his head tilts.

“...Security.”

The word sounds almost thoughtful coming from him and the awkward echo of your words tugs at the corners of your mouth, genuinely confused with the tone he repeats. A small smile settles onto your face, capturing his attention completely as the glowing gold flickers then brightens subtly.

“You notice everything,” you continue, rubbing absentmindedly at your side again. “Honestly, maybe you’d be good. There’s been an insane amount of issues lately.”

Pierrot remains silent, he’s listening, you can already tell he is processing each word you are saying. However, the weight of his eyes add to your tingling nerves.

“Like, way more than there should be,” you mumble. “Faulty wiring, missing cords, collapsing tents…its actually ridiculous.”

Your eyes flick toward him again, yet, he shows no intent to respond. 

“You guys should probably update your equipment too…once you’re able to leave,” you say quietly.

The moment the words leave your mouth, something shifts. Pierrot goes unnaturally still.Even the bells hanging from his costume fall silent when he tilts his head.

“Leave?”

The single word sounds oddly strained coming from him.

Your head tilts as your brows furrow slightly, “Yeah? I mean, your carnival travels around, right?” 

You decide to stand up from your chair, once again ignoring the obvious height difference, as you move toward a metal side desk littered with scattered papers. Some detailed the older equipment still being used around the ground, others held shift schedules for the previous and upcoming weeks. The one you were specifically searching for, however, was the carnival’s event schedule for its entire stay.

“It’s been so long already…” you trail off, pulling a thin pamphlet out from a small stack. “You guys only have next week left actually.”

The fact surprises you actually, your eyes skimming across next week’s events and noticing an event titled “grand closing” on its last operating day.

“What town is next after mine?”

Silence cuts into the air once more. However, this time the air around you feels warmer than before. You barely notice it at first, too focused on unfolding the creased pamphlet, before a faint jingle is heard - closer than before.

Your fingers pause against the paper.

“Why do you ask?”

His voice sounds different now - it’s quieter somehow, but with a heavy tone to it. The words press into the cramped tent hard enough to make your shoulder tense, the silence allows you to hear the carnival’s muffled music becoming softer and softer.

You glance up instinctively.

Pierrot is much closer than before.

You hadn’t even heard him move.

The glowing gold behind the mask burns intensely as he stares down at you, his towering frame nearly blocking the dim overhead light entirely.

“I was just curious,” you answer carefully, letting out a short breath, trying not to react to the sudden closeness.

The pamphlet crinkles faintly in your grip as you can see him taking another step closer to you. Your lower back lightly bumps against the edge of the desk, glancing between his nearing masked face and the opening of your tent. Your body burns with an uncomfortable feeling of despair and fear mixing together.

“Pierrot,” you answer with a wavering tone, your hands are twitching to come up and put a barrier between you and his nearing figure. “You’re getting pretty close.”

“My lady,” he starts. The golden orbs deepen into nearly an orange-red hue, his face is so close you can see the eye sockets setting a glow around the eye sockets.

The term makes your heart start to pound slightly more than it was before, you can hear the thumping against your ears. You’ve told him before that being referred to like that makes you uncomfortable, and fortunately, he listened until now. 

His gaze drops briefly toward the pamphlet in your hands before returning to your face again. 

“Would you miss it?” he asks immediately. 

“What? You mean the carnival - ”

He barely gives you time to speak before interrupting you. “Me,” he corrects sharply, you can hear his breath hitch, “would you miss me?”

An awkward smile pulls at your lips instantly, you’re unsure of what to say but you have a terrible feeling you know exactly what response he’s hoping for from the way his glowing gaze remains fixed so intensely on you. The implication behind his words adds another shade of red to your face and neck, your body tense and far too warm as you try to unscramble your thoughts to say something polite without encouraging him further.

A fleeting thought tells you to leave. Just slip past him, laugh the conversation off, tell him that your coworker needs help finding the tent because it has been far too long for a simple cotton-candy machine. Yet, your feet stay planted.

Because he was harmless at the end of the day. Weird, sure - painfully awkward, definitely - but harmless. You knew better than to panic over Pierrot at this point. Every interaction you’d had with him ended the same way: uncomfortable, strange, occasionally irritating, but never threatening.

Just socially inept and lonely. An introvert, you would conclude.

Just a very tall introvert. Right?

The thought weakens slightly as Pierrot takes another slow step forward. 

You can feel the edge of the desk press harder into your lower back.

“No?” His voice inquires softly. You swear the painted grin on his mouth had gotten smaller, dipping slightly at the corners.

“I mean,” you start with a shaky voice, a wave of hot air rushes over you, “listen Pierrot, I like you, but only - ”

You’re interrupted once more. This time not by his words, but by his mouth. 

The movement is so sudden your brain barely processes it. 

One second he’s staring down at you in silence, and the next his gloved hand is bracing you against the desk beside your hip as he ducks forward, lips crashing clumsily yet heavy against yours.

Your breath catches immediately, your eyes widening as you take in how the “mask” you’ve looked at so many times before - something that should be plastic or porcelain - is forming around your mouth like a normal mouth. It’s moving and opening like a mouth. 

It’s warm and slick with something that you could only assume was a tongue licking desperately along your lips, trying to pry them open almost. The kiss itself is awkward - almost desperate as it lacks any real rhythm. His overwhelming size caging you against the desk and immediate intensity makes your pulse spike violently against your ribcage. 

The pamphlet slips from your hands entirely; one hand finds itself on the edge of the desk to stop his weight that is pushing your upper body down. The other hand places itself on his chest, you feel the silk from his costume, but you also note the stiffness behind it. 

“Pierrot - ”

Your words dissolve against his mouth, finding your words an opportunity for him as something slick and long slips into your mouth, the thickness of the muscle is uncanny. His body pushes further into you, bells trembling with every uneven movement. You can feel the heat radiating from him - and the noticeable raised thickness pushing against your lower stomach.

Your planted hand on his chest is shaky but trying to push his body away, yet all it does is make him deepen the kiss, you can feel the metal desk wobble against the both of you. 

His tongue doesn’t just probe along your mouth; it fills. It coils around your own tongue, licking along the roof of your mouth, tasting every inch of you. He moans into your mouth, a high keening sound of pure relief. 

Your head abruptly turns the moment his body laxes with the moan, the warmth and wetness that previously surrounded your mouth finally leaves you while your body is heaving under his glowing stare. You try to catch your breath - and you can feel his chest rise against you in the same frantic manner. 

“Pierrot,” you start, your eyes darting to the rustling of the tent flaps, “you can’t do that - I’m not - not like that - ”

Your hand presses harder against his chest, but it’s futile. Beneath your palm you can feel it clearly - the raw strength packed beneath layers of fabric and costume, unmoving no matter how much force you try to put against him. The realization sends another wave of heat and nerves through you.

Slowly, your gaze lifts, searching his face for some sign of remorse. Instead, the glowing gold behind the mask watches you with unnerving intensity. The reddish hue that had once only dusted the exposed sides of his neck had spread higher now, creeping across his face - or rather, the mask itself. You can finally see it clearly up close.

The painted grin is no longer flat. In fact, the mouth appears stretched upward, warped into something far too wide to be natural, the smile curling nearly to the sides of his face in a way that makes your stomach tighten. 

Then the mask splits.

Your breath catches in your throat to stop yourself from screaming as you watch the mouth of his mask part; a dark forked tongue slips past sharpened teeth, dragging slowly across his lips with shameless ease. 

You know your hands are shaking uncontrollably by now, your head is spinning with things to say - things you should do, and yet your body is unmoving as fear overcomes your senses. All you can feel is your heart violently pounding against your chest.

Before you can speak, he’s on you again. This time he is unrelenting and ravenous, holding your face this time with force to solidify the kiss. This time, he deepens the kiss with a ferocity that borders on painful. His tongue pushes past your teeth, sliding down your throat, making you gag slightly. 

He doesn’t pull back despite your obvious gasps of air. Instead, he groans low in his chest, his hips grinding harder against you, the hard ridge of his cock pressing insistently through the thin cotton. His gloved hands find your hips - exactly where your bruises had been blooming, purple and tender. He presses into them, not cruelly, but with a possessive firmness that makes you wince. His thumbs stroke the sore spots, before his palms slide down to grip your ass, yanking you flush against him.

He breaks the kiss. A string of thick saliva stretches from his tongue to your lips, then snaps. His breath is ragged.

You can feel one of his hands sliding up your body, feeling every curve before hooking onto the collar of your shirt, roughly dragging the fabric aside.

“You said you liked me,” he whispers, the words soft and cracked.

Your stomach drops when you notice the way he’s eyeing your exposed skin. 

“Pierrot, that’s not what I meant,” you respond quickly with a shaky voice.

You can feel him flex against you. The cool air hits your bare shoulder a second before his mouth descends without hesitation or warning. 

Immediately you notice his teeth feel more inhuman than they look: too many, too sharp, like needles hinged in his gums. When he bites down, it’s not a nip or a tease. It’s a sink, a puncture that shatters any possible thought of escaping for you. Tears begin to well up in your eyes with flashes of white clouding your vision, trying to hold back the scream that’s beginning to bubble in your throat.

He pulls away finally, licking the blood around his mouth, you notice him eyeing the bite mark with something similar to pride. His hands slide back down to the sides of your hips, you’re unsure how, but he seems to tower you more than before.

“Then explain it to me.”

The request comes out soft, as he always speaks, yet with an edge to it. 

You swallow hard as your mouth runs dry, the taste of him still coating your tongue. Your pulse hammers in your ears as your shoulder stings.

Then you hear it.

Fabric rustling outside the tent. The soft scrape of footsteps on concrete, the sound of tools rattling against each other - a sound you’re all too familiar with. 

Pierrot’s head snaps up and narrows his eyes towards the source of the sounds, finally leaving your trembling form. Irritation flickers through his posture, a sharp tension that rolls through his shoulders, you can visibly see him clench his jaw. The pair of gold orbs that shone so brightly before was reduced to a small dot of yellow in a sea of black, his mouth is thin with a frown.

“Hey, I managed to get that stupid machine to finally work,” your coworker's voice is heard from the outside, slowly getting closer with each step. 

Pierrot looks down at you one final time before letting go of you slowly. The sudden absence of pressure nearly makes your knees buckle. Heat blooms across the spots where he held you, the skin already beginning to ache in a way you know will darken into bruises later.

You cautiously cautiously glance toward the tent flaps just as your coworker pushes through them without a care in the world, looking more bored than anything else

Your mind starts racing with things to say - to warn him.

“You were not joking about how ancient their stuff was,” he mutters, dropping the tool bag onto the floor before stretching with a yawn. “I swear that machine was one bad day away from exploding.”

Finally he looks over at you.

“Holy shit,” he exclaims, his eyes widening. 

For one horrifying second, you think he’s reacting to Pierrot. Your head whips around instinctively, but the towering performer is gone - completely. No rustle of tent flaps or the jingle of the bells on his costume. Nothing. 

Your pulse pounds violently as you stare at the empty spot he’d occupied only a second ago.

“...Dude,” your coworker says again, sounding somewhere between concerned and disturbed now. “What happened to your shoulder?”

He immediately runs over to one of the metal cabinets, rambling on about how a first aid kit should be there.

You can only stare absentmindedly, the adrenaline that kept you frozen before was finally slowing through your blood. You can feel your body begin to sag against the desk for support, the bleeding from the bite seeping through the fabric of your shirt and sticking to your skin. All you can hear is ringing and the faint jingle of bells.

It doesn’t take long before you’ve reached your apartment door, trembling hands scrambling through your bag for your keys.

Your breathing comes out ragged, uneven from the fact you’d practically ran the entire way home from the carnival without stopping once. Your legs had carried you forward on instinct alone, refusing to slow no matter how badly your lungs singed with every breath. 

You barely gave an explanation to your coworker the moment he said you should go home. Thankfully, he helped clean and bandage the wound on your shoulder, but his questions were unanswered throughout the process.

Every thought in your head kept circling back to him - to Pierrot. Each memory of his face seemed to warp the longer you replayed it in your mind. The widening grin, the glowing gold behind the mask, the impossible way his mouth had moved like the mask is his face alone, moving as if it was alive. The image twists through your thoughts so vividly it makes your heart pound harder against your ribs.

Your knees feel weak from exhaustion, threatening to give out beneath you at any second, but you know you can’t stop. Not when you can still feel his stare - the monstrous pair of glowing eyes tracing every movement as you ran through the dark streets, ignoring any concerned looks that came your way.

Even now, standing outside your apartment, you can feel the sensation of eyes digging into your skin - lingering far too long across every inch of your body like unseen hands.

Finally, the door swung open to your apartment. The stillness of the room coupled with its raw silence that flooded your senses felt like a wave of relief had washed over you - the lights were all off, everything was in the same place as you left it - a sign that no one was here.

The second the door shuts behind you, you immediately check every lock and latch twice over, fingers fumbling slightly from lingering adrenaline as you run over the metal and copper parts. Afterward, you lean toward the peephole for one final check, only to find the apartment complex’s brightly lit hallway staring quietly back at you.

A shaky sigh escapes your lips before finally pulling your phone from your pocket with trembling hands. Your thumb moves quickly across the screen as you begin searching for the cheapest flights available within the next three hours. Overnight trains. Bus routes. Anything that would put distance between you and the carnival by morning - you’re not even sure where to go and whether it could follow you.

At one point, you even consider calling a friend and begging to stay over for a few nights. 

Anything was better at this point - than staying alone with the image of Pierrot still burned into your mind. You don’t even know what he is. There had always been a question sitting at the back of your mind whenever you saw him at the carnival - a detail you tried not to linger on for too long considering you always worked when he was working - or that everything else about him was strange enough to rule it out.

He never took his mask off. Never once, not in passing, not between shifts.

“Fuck this,” you mutter. 

With soft, yet nimble steps, you make your way toward your closet and drag out the largest suitcase you own. The zipper rasps loudly in the quiet apartment, the noise in complete silence unsettles you, but without a word you start packing.

Clothes grabbed in uneven handfuls and shoved inside. Then shoes, still in their slightly scuffed pairs. Documents next, anything important you can find in drawers half-opened with shaking hands. Your movements are fast, messy, and unorganized, items are strewn across the room making it hard for your brain to really focus. Regardless of the mess or the tears beginning to prick your eyes, you force yourself to keep moving, shoving more into the suitcase even when you know it’ll be impossible to close.

It didn’t matter, you tell yourself as you’re forcing the top of the suitcase down with your full weight, fingers straining as you drag the zipper across with whatever strength you have left. 

It didn’t matter - as long as you got to an airport in time, as long as you were in a public place surrounded by people, security, and officers, you would be -

“What are you doing?” the voice purrs right behind you, and it shouldn’t, because seconds ago there was nothing behind you. Your entire body locks up instantly.

Cold shock rips through you, dragging every thought you had straight to a halt. Goosebumps break across your skin in a wave so sharp it almost hurts, your fingers still curled around the suitcase handle without realizing you’ve stopped breathing altogether.

His voice is still soft as always and it pains you to think that it is. However, there’s something settling underneath his tone. His breath is ragged with an edge to his words, as if his patience was thinning. 

You don’t turn around. You can’t. Because you already know what you’ll see behind you - and somehow, that feels worse than not knowing at all.

“Nothing,” you manage to force out, but it comes out broken with your breaths.

The silence that follows your obvious lie - the bulging suitcase sitting in front of you as if a joke - is suffocating. You can feel him there, a looming presence that swallows the light in the room. Slowly, the sensation of a gloved finger traces the line of your spine, sending a violent shiver racking through your frame.

“Nothing?” Pierrot questions, his voice vibrating against the shell of your ear. You can feel him twirl the ends of your hair, coiling it around your finger and letting it drop, almost as if he was admiring it.

Should I run? Can I outrun him?

Your eyes glance over to the door, still latched and locked - untouched. 

His arms, long and heavy, wrap around your waist with bruising force, jerking you backward. Your back slams into his chest, and the bulky suitcase is knocked aside with a careless crash, spilling your belongings across the floor. You let out a small, pathetic whisper, your hands instinctively clutching at the fabric of his costume.

“You’re packing,” he murmurs, his lips are warm when it grazes the sensitive skin of your neck, but he doesn’t offer a kiss. Instead he nips. 

His teeth grazes your skin, reminding you of your prior wound. You feel like prey sitting in the lap of a predator, and all you could do is hold back the sobs constricting at your throat.

“I - I wasn’t… I just wanted to organize,” you stammer, your voice trembling as you try to play into the delusion, trying to appease the monster holding you captive.

You hold your breath as you lean back into him, feeling his weight shift more onto you with a low purr from him, his body feels firm even through the layers of fabric. Your desperate attempt to seem compliant, hoping that he would leave you - at least for tonight.

The grip on your waist tightens, his fingers digging into your hips. You let out a small whimper in response. 

“Right?” he says, but it doesn’t sound like it’s meant for you. Like he’s testing the idea aloud. “You wouldn’t leave me -” His voice faltered.

Instead of pulling you tighter, his hold shifts - less like restraint and more like something unsteady. His head lowers, the weight of him suddenly collapsing forward until it rests against your shoulder. The strands of his silver-like hair fall over your trembling shoulder, capturing your attention immediately.

“You can’t,” he adds, almost softly, the words muffled against your skin. The goosebumps along your skin vibrate with each word.

“No,” you mutter with a dry swallow following after. “I wouldn’t, Pierrot. I - In fact, I was packing to see you.”

The words thick as another lie escapes through your teeth. And yet, for a moment, there is no sound, no movement - even your breathing stops. Your clumsy lie fills the air and you’re certain that he’s already caught onto you.

“Really?” He responds with a bright tone, almost childlike in its sincerity. You can feel his body perk up, his towering weight before becoming lighter with the pressure around your waist loosen fractionally. Like the tension in him has suddenly been rerouted somewhere else entirely.

“Yes,” you say, forcing your voice into something flat, controlled.

Silence follows again. Pierrot remains close for a moment longer, as if testing the shape of your words against you, like he’s trying to decide whether they’re real. 

Then slowly, carefully, his grip softens another degree.

He spins you around with a sudden, clumsy strength, pinning you against the edge of the dresser. The impact knocks the wind out of you, and you look up at him with wide, fearful eyes.

“Wait,” you breath out, “I don’t - ”

The pair of glowing gold, almost blinding, looks at you with a gaze of pure, unadulterated adoration. You know for a fact he doesn’t see your terror; he only sees you.

There’s a bloom of red along the middle of his face as well as the sides of his neck. The grin on his face is wide, stretching from side to side, almost trembling in your eyes.

“I love you so much,” he whimpers, his voice cracking.

He lunges forward, not with calculated precision, but with the overwhelming, clumsy hunger of a puppy that doesn’t know its own strength. He crashes his lips against yours, the kiss messy and desperate. The sheer size and length of his forked tongue slides along your lips and teeth, before forcing its way into your mouth to claim you, swallowing your small, muffled protests as if they were sighs of pleasure.

You try to go along with it. Your hands lift shakily to grip his shoulders, hoping that feeding his fantasy might let you steer what comes next. A forced, breathy moan escapes you - and the sound works well to ignite him.

“I want you too - I need you,” he gasps, tearing his mouth away only to shove his face into the curve of your neck, his tongue lapping mindlessly at the bite mark he left on you earlier. 

His gloved hands start fumbling with your clothes, clumsy and desperate. He doesn’t bother with buttons or zippers - just yanks and pulls with ease. Your shirt rips open with a harsh sound, cold air biting your exposed chest. Your pants meet the same fate moments later.

Your fragile plan of surviving through submission shatters the second you see the shredded remains of your clothes hit the floor.

“Wait - Pierrot,” you protest,your voice cracking as you press your palms against his chest, trying to push him away with every ounce of strength you have left. But it’s like trying to move a wall. He doesn’t even budge; he simply absorbs the effort, his body shuddering under your own willing touch as if it was a blessing.

You quickly realized you played your hand too well by trying to appease him, practically feeding the monster a feast of delusions. 

His golden eyes lock onto your trembling form, glowing with a terrifying mixture of need and hunger. You are a deer caught in headlights, paralyzed by the sheer scale of him as he looms over you, blotting out the moonlight of the room.

He lets out a shaky, ragged breath, his gaze roaming over your skin with a hunger that borders on religious worship. 

“You’re so perfect - so beautiful, my lady,” he whimpers, the tenderness in his voice contrasting sharply with the bruising grip he maintains on you.

Despite your frantic attempts to hold your weight down, to anchor yourself to the floor in a desperate bid for freedom, he lifts you effortlessly. You feel weightless in his arms, a doll to be played with. Small, broken sniffles bubble up in your throat as he carries you the two short steps to the bed, dropping you onto the mattress with a heavy thud that knocks the wind from your lungs.

He doesn’t give you a second to recover. He is on top of you instantly, his heavy frame pinning you deep into the mattress.

“I can’t believe it,” he mutters, his voice a low, vibrating hum against your skin. He sounds like he’s in a trance, talking to himself as much as to you. “Every night… every single night, I would come to you while you slept. I would hold you… kiss you… lick every inch of you… everything.”

The realization hits you like a physical blow, more violent than the impact with the bed. The unexplained bruises, the lingering soreness, the hypersensitivity - it wasn’t just stress. It was him.

A jagged, broken sob escapes your lips, your chest heaving with a new wave of terror.

Pierrot doesn’t notice the horror settling onto your expression; he only sees the way your body reacts to his proximity. His hand slides down, his gloved fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thigh. With a sudden, blunt force, he shoves your leg wide, forcing your knees apart to make room for his bulk.

You shiver violently, your breath hitching in a sharp gasp as you feel the confined hard, thick length of his cock pressing urgently against the thin fabric of your underwear. He is pulsing, hot and rigid.

“I want you - need you… so bad it hurts,” he groans, his forehead resting against yours, his golden eyes wide and pleading, yet possessive. “I waited… I wanted to just knock you up. To fill you so full of me that you could never even think about leaving. To tie you to me forever with a child.”

The sheer obsession in his words makes your skin crawl.

“A child… do you think we can?” he asks, he sounds almost impatient looking down at your stomach.

“Pierrot,” you cry out weakly, you try to push him again, but he only goes to hold your wrists with ease despite your pleads, pinning them above your head.

He reaches down with his free hand, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties. With one violent, careless jerk, he rips the fabric, the sound of tearing lace echoing in the silent room. Your pussy is exposed, trembling in the cool air.

He lets out a strangled sound at the sight of you.

“You’re already waiting for me,” he whispers, his voice thick with lust that borders on impatient. 

He doesn't use a slow build-up. He doesn't offer a gentle touch. Driven by the delusion that this is a mutual union of love, he lets go of your wrists momentarily and fumbles with his own clothes, freeing his massive, throbbing cock that bobs against him, the outline of the veins cause a whimper to escape you.

He lines the broad head of his cock against your entrance, pausing for only a heartbeat to look into your eyes. Your wide eyes, filled with nothing but tears, is interpreted as passion to his blind love. 

“I love you,” he whimpers, his cock is already pressed against your entrance, slick with his own pre-cum.

Slowly, inch by agonizing inch, he pushes into you. His eyes roll back, fluttering shut as if he’s testing heaven itself. A low guttural moan escapes his throat, followed by ragged panting that fans hot against your neck. His fingers dig into your hips, gripping so hard you know there will be new bruises forming over the old.

Then he pulls out, just as slowly and torturously, until only the tip remains. And before you can brace yourself or push yourself away, he slams back in with full force. The impact jolts your entire body, a choked cry ripped from your throat as he buries himself deep inside you in one singular, overpowering thrust. 

Your walls stretch to the breaking point, the sheer girth of him filling every void, hitting your cervix with a blunt force that makes your vision swim.

He begins to fuck you with a raw, clumsy desperation. 

There is no rhythm, only the frantic and brutal need to be as deep as possible. Each thrust is a heavy, wet thud, driving you further into the bed, his balls slapping wetly against your skin with each thrust. He is drowning in you, his breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps against your neck.

“Mine - you’re mine - my precious, beautiful lady,” he chants, his hips slamming against yours, a slapping sound fills your apartment room.

He kisses you deeply, his tongue invading your mouth, tasting of salt and desperation, swallowing your whimpers as he drives himself into you over and over again, marking you from the inside out.

“My logic is that you can’t brood over things if you’re too busy fighting for your life everyday, y’know.” His voice echoed at the back of her head.

Y/n sat in the Jeep beside the window while recollecting her interaction with the captain on the night of Rudo’s welcome party. After she had finished writing down her journal entry, Enjin had found her stalking the hallways instead of going to her room. She could remember the concerned frown on his face yet chose to sat beside her anyway rather than returning to the party. 

“I don’t really know what battles you’re dealing with right now but I know that isolating yourself all the time is probably not gonna help with anything. These type of convos are the worst ‘cause most of the time I don’t even know what to tell ya, but they’re just as important so I’ll say this stuff only ‘cause I think you need it. I’m your captain for a reason, aren’t I?” Enjin’s voice lowered as he slung an arm over her shoulders to bring her closer, noticing how she tried to shuffle away discreetly.

But what would Enjin know? He’s just an outsider after all. Y/n remained silent that night, leaving the conversation to unravel on its own. Her thoughts were louder than the lack of words she could give him, and he was reading through her as if she were an open book; a book that was hidden purposely behind other much cleaner and prettier books because of her damaged covers and torn pages. Hidden only because no matter how horrible Y/n’s story was, she didn’t have the heart to end it so quickly. 

She was selfish, and that’s what made her so disgustingly human.

Y/n hated it—being perceived by anyone, really. Calling out for help was the equivalent to bleeding in front of a blood-lustful vampire in the stories she’s read. To be seen means to be vulnerable; like lying down on a busy road with the expectation of cars avoiding to turn you into roadkill. And no matter how many times she tried to hide herself, Enjin was just as stubborn as her and always found a way. Even if it takes months or possibly years. The red string of fate had her throat already collared to him; the wielder. Another reason she had returned. If he wanted to, he could pull hard enough to strangle her. Enjin had all the power in the world to put Y/n’s life into shambles if he truly understood what storms raged on in Y/n’s mind.

Now these are the thoughts of what a guilty person twisted and sickening enough would most definitely think of. 

Because in another universe, if Y/n had exchanged her fear for a confidence so charming, she could have the potential to bring Enjin’s life into ruins had she learnt anything about his past. But it would be futile knowing that her self-hatred would remain even if she decided to do something bad. Not that he deserved it anyway. 

“From now on, you’re banned from being alone for at least a month just until I can trust you enough so you’ll stop disappearing. Man, do you know how hard it is to find you? You’re like some kinda ghost—hovering around us but never making an appearance. Makes me worry ‘cause one day I might not be able to find you anymore. That’s when I’ll know I’ve failed as your mentor.” Enjin murmured, the last sentence a soft rumble from his chest as he turned his face away. Was he feeling vulnerable at the time? People do that a lot to hide their thoughts that could be seen from their expressions.

Maybe Enjin was a good man?

“Ahem, but anyway! From now on, you’re only allowed to go out if someone’s with you. Kinda like babysitting but I absolutely refuse to let a diamond like you move to Bro’s team. You’re way too old for that. Captain’s orders, ‘kay?”

That was satire. Enjin was still a turd face after all.

The stars shone brightly that night. They weren’t stars, but Y/n liked to think otherwise even with the knowledge that those lights came from the street lamps and neon signs in the distance. Like a small ounce of hope that told her there were plenty of cities she could run off to if required. 

“Don’t glare at me like that, yeesh! If you think about it, I’m saying this for your own benefit and also giving you the chance to get more money in your bank account. Be prepared for more missions ‘cause I’m gonna work you to the bone. And if you don’t have any motivation, then…” 

Y/n closed her eyes, remembering the warmth of his tobacco breath brushing against her ear as he leaned in. She could still remember how his hand moved down to her hip that night, too. Most likely accidental.

“Use your first paycheck to pay me back instead of going on that date with Semiu, got it?”

He was an absolute jerk! Completely aware that the reason why she even bothered to come back was entirely for the purpose of getting some cash back in her wallet. It was exhausting seeing flies buzzing from her pockets. Saying that you want to work with a large company to achieve life long goals and achieve any transferable skills for the future sounded too superficial. The only “goal” she had so far was to pay back the debt and go with the flow from there until the mere thought of leaving her room would exhaust her.

Right—she still had to fix up her room. 

But perhaps after that conversation, something within her had shifted the negativity to become more profitable. More productive. Perhaps it was high time that Y/n began to do things for the plot once again. Being a little reckless sparks creativity in dramatic explosions rather than small flickers of light. And what Y/n needed right now was a fucking missile.

The sound of the radio turning off grabs Y/n’s attention as she stares at the rearview mirror, locking glances at the pair of pale honey eyes staring back at her. Tamsy, the driver for today, sat beside Delmon who had his arms crossed and shoulders tensed up. The car filled with silence for a long second or two as Y/n analysed the expression Tamsy wore on his face—or rather, Tamsy was the one analysing her in that short respiratory moment of peace.

Until finally, the silence was interrupted by Tamsy who lifted the corners of his mouth to form a smile: “You’ve been inactive for a while. I assume you had a reason for that.”

Y/n nodded her head quietly in admission, thumbing the clip attached to her pen lid. Those warm eyes of Tamsy’s were always on her, come to think of it. Whether she’d be drinking a glass of water or reflecting on her day, those honey irises were never not on her unless she wasn’t in action. Honey was a sweet delicacy she could get addicted to if it were a drug. But the chances of having her hands on nature's candy was akin to watching the Sphere suddenly explode on her birthday; an impossible dream that she could only ever write about. Except this wasn’t just any type of honey. Say that you were a bear in a research facility, the honey was a trap to lure you in. Tamsy wasn’t looking at her in amusement. He was watching her in curiosity. 

Y/n sighed inwardly, There’s that weird look on his face again. I should’ve pretended to sleep.

“DON’T YOU WORRY, YOUNG Y/N! WE’LL TAKE GOOD CARE OF YOU SO DON’T BE SCARED TO SHOUT AT US FOR HELP!!” Delmon’s voice boomed, making both Tamsy and Y/n flinch in surprise.

“Pipe it down, will you?!” Tamsy glared at Delmon. He then let out a long exhale to calm himself, looking back at Y/n with a look of observation, “Anyway, Y/n, Enjin insisted that you come along, but I’m a little… worried. Six months is a lot, and if anything happens to us because somebody forgot how to function, no one’s gonna come back alive.”

To the ordinary eye, Tamsy’s words were honest and realistic. There were no concerns in what he said besides the truth. Yet to an observer like Y/n, the ominous tone that was barely hidden inside his smooth voice was not unnoticed. She understood what Tamsy really meant even if the true veracity was hidden in a path that only experienced eyes could tell: Don’t hold us back. No, that doesn’t seem like something Tamsy would say to her specifically. 

Don’t fuck up.

At last, the three arrived at the deserted battlefield once the winds began to pick up. In routine, Y/n clasps her oxygen mask first before fumbling with her full face mask. No matter how often she had to wear it, the mask was always the most difficult part to wear (apart from wearing her uniform properly, of course). As it tilts, Tamsy doesn’t hesitate to reach out to adjust her lopsided mask. An black and white steel mask with downturned crescents for her to look through. On the right side where the ivory had been refurnished and polished after discolourising, an obsidian tear was painted beneath the hole. Beneath her gas mask, a wide upturned smile was painted almost ear to ear.

A pierrot’s masquerade of eccentric melancholy. Much befitting for a naivety like her who tries to flirt with death.

Slender fingers extended to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear with much calm nonchalance which was part of the routine he was used to whenever going on a mission with the girl. Until she decided she was independent enough to swat his hand away just the slightest; not enough to hurt but enough to make that flicker of warmth in Tamsy’s eyes falter like a lamp of illusion.

“It’s fine. I can do it.” Y/n assured quietly, her head turning away as she adjusted the straps of her mask properly for once.

For an unsettling second, Tamsy didn’t smile at her autonomy. It was uncalled for but the smile soon returned with a hint of fascination in his eyes.

“Right, then.” Tamsy trailed off, “Delmon, me and Y/n are gonna finish this off quickly so you can stay here in case anything happens to our ride back home. Got it?”

“Leave it to me!!”

And so, the pair left the vehicle and paced off towards their destination.

That was a lie, by the way. There was no destination in mind and Tamsy hadn’t mentioned any specifications about where they would be fighting. Besides the only detail Y/n could remember, trash beasts liked to move; so this entire field was a battlefield with the habitations of little to few. 

It didn’t help that Tamsy was quiet the entire time either. Y/n did her best to match his pace because for some odd reason, he was walking awfully a lot slower than she had expected. Nevertheless, her anxiety was having a fucking fieldtrip right now because these monsters could kill her if she was the slightest bit clumsy. Enjin was really cruel for sending her here already when she wasn’t the least mentally prepared. Well, that’s what she thought. But you can’t always be prepared for a life that doesn’t follow a determined path, so going with the flow is the only way to survive down here. That was the mindset for a typical experienced Cleaner.

Y/n’s mind drifted everywhere but the mission. What if she fell right in front of Tamsy and embarrassed herself and the future generations? Or what if she throws up her food because of all this anxiety? It was a contradiction that the more she tried to think about it, the more she felt like dying was the best course of action. But the less she thought about it, the more her stomach continued to churn which gave her no choice but to think. It was a goddamn paradox!

The soft thuds behind her had halted, Y/n turning her head back immediately after being distracted from her inner turmoil. Or rather, they had ceased to stop for a while now. Tamsy was a good few meters away from her, his figure looking small with his hands concealed by his long sleeves.

“Tamsy? What’re you—”

Before Y/n could finish, a small stampede of trash beasts came running at her from behind. While trivial in quantity, these monsters weren’t like anything she had fought before. Quite literally duplicates of the exact same beasts she had remembered, yet thrice the size.

“I guess this is where we part ways.” A smile bled into his voice, watching how Y/n snapped her head between himself and the beasts zeroing in almost comedically. “I’ll leave it to you, angel.”

“You can’t be kidding me!” Y/n exclaimed, triggering her Shiki to metamorphose into her signature claymore.

Tamsy was way too far now, leaving Y/n with nobody to fend but herself. The monsters came bulldozing at her and while it would’ve been appropriate to focus on the beasts, Y/n could only hypothesize why the hell her partner would leave her alone. Was he trying to kill her? 

Did he want her to die? 

Gripping her sword tightly in both hands, Y/n leapt into the air with her blade tilting horizontally. Using the force of her shoulders, she swung the blade at the throats of the monsters swiftly, using the sharp tip to gouge their glowing rustic eyes out. Y/n ran across the desert, her skirt fluttering in the air and revealing her heavy boots as she sliced through their legs with all her might.

A sharp pain barged into her side as a bull-like beast threw her high into the air, wooden mouth opening as wide as possible that you could almost hear its jaw creaking as it tried to chomp the girl. At that period, time had slowed down and everything was moving in slow motion. Y/n would die either way in every scenario she could possibly think of. Whether by falling to her death or by falling quite literally to her death, these unruly beasts weren’t the typical beasts that she had fought before. 

Everything looked so small from the beasts to Tamsy. Tamsy. She had nearly forgotten about him. From the silky hair he had always kept tied up to the gentle look in his eyes, Y/n felt a burning hatred for him that blazed so brightly that it was incapable of being anything but an illusive passion. Their eyes locked and Y/n began to think, Where had she seen those eyes before? There was nothing gentle about Tamsy at all apart from the web of lies that he carefully threads with his beloved Tokushin; a spider who trapped its prey with sweet nothings and empty promises. 

But Y/n refused to die so pathetically, eyes glowing a radiant e/c.

The full face mask she had worn herself slipped into the mouth of the beast below, crushed to smithereens as an example of what could’ve been her. Wrinkles formed in the corner of her crescent-turned eyes as she grinned at him, seeing through his illusions and schemes. This was no betrayal. This was a test—a test to see whether Y/n was really worthy of being here at the scene. How utterly obnoxious yet amusing Tamsy was for returning the smile which finally reached his eyes. A cold yet calculating gaze as he waved at her with faux innocence. 

By now, however, Y/n was way too close to the monster's mouth and felt her legs heating up from the proximity towards the metal teeth. She could feel the hot stench of its aura almost baking her revealed skin. Yet no matter how hard she fought, Y/n was weak. No, it wasn’t a matter of weakness or not. She was clearly outnumbered and momentarily betrayed, leaving her one step closer to Death’s door. And worst of all, Shiki had transformed back into a measly pen leaving her completely armless.

The Reaper's door had opened as the monster had shut its mouth with a loud bang.

The amusement in Tamsy’s eyes faded away in an instant as he watched the death unfold, none of the beasts noticing him at all as if he were the perpetrator of it all. Which to say was quite a stretch for now. 

Was that it? No encore? No nothing?!

What the actual hell was all that suspense for?!

A sharp exhale left Tamsy’s nose as he turned around with a disappointment that left him irritated. Imagine, downloading a game for hours and as it reaches 99%, it freezes up on you. And to top it all off, before you can even reach 99.9%, the blue screen of death pops up because of a network error. It was one of those unsatisfactory moments in which Tamsy felt like he'd been edged for hours with no climax. Totally bad!

Until a piece of aged paper lands at his feet with barely legible handwriting.

---------------------------------

‘FIVE SENSES: Lots of Shiki’s in the sky (sight), loud metal and collapsing trashbeasts (sound), taste invalid, trash and rotting garbage burnt to the floor (scent), heavy and sharp swords with pointy tips (touch)...’

[SYSTEM: UNWRITTEN]

Total outcome: ⅘ senses have been utilised. 

80% power will be used. 

Keiten activated.

---------------------------------

“A prophecy?” He questioned, brows furrowing as he struggled to discern the little to no description on the sheet. “The fuck is this…?” An unamused chuckle escaped him.

Soon after, multiple shadows all alike formed onto the ground in the shape of swords. Tamsy’s head snapped up towards the sky, honey eyes filled with a burning light that soon began to shake his soul. Hundreds of blades all across the sky formed into a halo around him, trembling above the clouds as they slowly pointed towards the centre where the trash beasts had gathered. The claymores looked exactly like Y/n’s vital instrument, yet there were numerous of them all up high. Shaking and palpitating as if they were being held by a strong force.

Tamsy had to run.

His legs sprinted as fast as he could away from the halo yet his desire to witness this miracle made him stumble over his own feet. He looked back as plenty of sharp whistles bled through the air as the swords came crashing down in an instant. In five seconds, each beast had been skewered simultaneously to each of its own death. In three seconds, vital instruments of numerous items plummeted to the ground beneath the clouds of dirt. And in one second, a short woman covered in dirt and torn pieces of plastic in her h/c hair came falling to the ground with an apathetic look of confidence on her face; a f/c journal opened in one hand and a burgundy pen in the other.

Y/n doesn’t write about softening her fall. Her eyes locked onto Tamsy’s who had a look of bewilderment on his own. Her hands move as she scribbles something down in her book quickly and Tamsy flinches, looking down quickly to see ropes around his ankles preventing him from running any further away.

An amused but bitter chuckle left Tamsy’s lips as he struggled to move, noticing that these threads were identical to his own vital instrument, Tokushin. The only difference was that there was a locket on his ankle.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

With a sigh, Tamsy clenched his muscles and opened his arms wide with surrender. Irritation brewed beneath his mask, watching Y/n shove her journal inside her pocket and lift her oxygen mask off for a split second. The glint of something silver pops into her mouth before she slapped the mask back on. And before he could register what had eaten, the girl dived head first into his chest, both grunting loudly at the forceful impact as they skidded across the ground. A sharp crack echoed amidst their fall and Tamsy had hoped that it wasn’t from either of their bones, coughing harshly as Y/n landed on top of his chest.

After the dust had settled, Tamsy winced in pain and grabbed her hips firmly, pushing her off his chest and onto his stomach instead. The two groaned in pain and Y/n sat up dizzily, swaying as the land spun around her. But suddenly, the ground vibrated as a stubborn trash beast came running towards them, refusing to die just like Y/n.

“Get off me already. You’re heavy.” Tamsy coughed, sitting up immediately with his hand guiding to the small of her back.

Y/n looked back at the beast then returned her gaze onto Tamsy, a plotting look of similar mischief appearing in the faux innocence in her eyes. A splitting image of Tamsy prior to this incident.

“I guess this is where we part ways, Tams.” She smirks, hands on his chest as she pushes herself up.

This little bi—

“Oh, you’re not going anywhere!”

Before Y/n could get up, Tamsy had tightened his grip around her waist and pulled her impossibly closer. Her hand whacked him in the face in surprise, his full mask slipping off and revealing an annoyed smirk he mirrored off hers.

“Where’s the damn key, angel?” He asked gruffly.

“I ate it.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Tamsy rolled his eyes with a harsh sigh. Suddenly, his hand grabbed her jaw as he tore off her mask without warning, thumb pressed firmly onto her tongue as he searched her mouth. Drool gathered around her lips and leaked as he finally found what he was looking for: the key which was hidden beneath her tongue. 

Grabbing the key quickly, Tamsy shoved Y/n to the ground unapologetically, ignoring how she gagged and spat out dirt and dust before putting her mask back on. With a faint click, the lock opens and he stands up with a hand pulling the scruff of her collar alongside. The beast was inches away and swung its paw at Tamsy, but he was a second too slow as Y/n slices it cleanly with her sword.

“Nice save, angel.”

Y/n side eyed him, then scoffed quietly: “No worries, princess.”

A childish nickname befitting for somebody who stands around looking pretty all day. Y/n was certain he hated her.

The ride back home was no better than the fight with Delmon asking multiple questions about the lost cause of Y/n’s missing mask. For a man so gentle with a pure love for gardening, Delmon had a voice that thundered louder than the trash beasts. Furthermore, the longer she kept her eyelids open, the stronger the pounding in her head grew. Y/n never realised when her constant migraines became so strong but it must’ve been the consequence from using a special skill on the beasts before.

By using Keiten, her journal grants her the power of writing dreams into reality—an enabler for a world of illusions of some sort. There are hundreds of senses within the human body including internal and external feelings, yet her vital instrument centralises on the five: eyes, ears, mouth, nose—and touch (intentionally written that way). The more senses she can use and remember closely, the more realistic the illusion becomes. And the more realistic her illusion becomes, the closest it gets to becoming reality. 

An example would be the candy she had eaten the night before.

A lime marble as small as half an inch; its exterior a chrysalis of sweet hardened aventurine. Inside, a thick dark syrup of dark blue oozed out from the centre. More sour than a lemon, and almost as acidic as toxic waste, you would think that it was made of battery acid which isn't entirely wrong. But instead, it was a mystery ingredient Y/n had only tried once and became addicted to its flavour. Candy wasn't a delicacy anyone could acquire so easily here on the Ground.

Now, that alone was a description that speaks of all of her senses, thus how she was able to recreate those sweets so accurately. The more senses, the more perfect her creation was. 

But in other cases where she cannot recollect all five senses, the illusion remains as an illusion and cannot reach its full potential. It takes up a lot of brain power as her memories are tested again and again. Sometimes it would put her into a coma or even make her nose bleed. Worst case scenario, Y/n’s potential to bend the laws of reality could possibly even kill those around her including herself. It was a relief that she was hired to be a Cleaner in the first place.

However, the brain is a mysterious tool which can create fake scenarios and movies on its own. If Y/n chooses to, she could convince herself with lies and genuinely believe them by gaslighting herself continuously until it becomes only natural. Not all senses are accurate; some are overwhelmed by another that it dominates the entire memory. 

Like the candy, you would mostly remember that it was unbearably sour. Y/n managed to convince herself that the candy was green. In reality, it could've been purple or blue. It could've been not candy at all and just a sickening taffy she had her hands on! But that was a truth that Y/n didn't need to focus on, for the honest truth was that the candy was now green; so in conclusion, it will remain green. Until she decides to change its colour on a whim.

With her eyes constantly fluttering, Y/n’s head felt heavy and fell onto a relaxed shoulder. A hand moved to the other side of her head to fix her position, only for her to recoil and pull away, eyes looking up with alertness. She had forgotten that Tamsy decided to sit beside her on the way back with all that thinking just now. It was no surprise she forgot that he existed for a good five minutes.

“You seem quite exhausted. Not enough sleep?” Tamsy glanced at her, crescent eyes staring down at her.

It felt like not long ago he didn’t just try to indirectly kill her. Had Tamsy grown an ego so large that it gave him the confidence to pretend that nothing bad just happened thirty minutes ago? A soft scoff left Y/n’s lips at his level of audacity: it seemed that he was only on his best behaviour now that she had pleased him with her skills to continue to survive. Once you carve something into your brain, your heart remembers just the same. Or perhaps it was because she wasn’t that special and Tamsy didn’t really care much about her ability to save herself, and that it was Delmon that he was more concerned about. People behave more around an audience, it seems.

Y/n rubbed her temples and nodded slowly, “It's fine… I just need another coffee.”

“IF YOU'RE FEELING TIRED, YOU'RE WELCOME TO SLEEP NOW, YOUNG Y/N!! I'LL TURN OFF THE RADIO FOR YOU!”

“Delmon, you're not helping.” Tamsy deadpanned.

Y/n sighed, the exhaustion creeping up the back of her neck. While born as stubborn as a mule, she knew the limits to her human body. The dark shadows dancing in the corner of her eyes which she tried so desperately to ignore was an obvious sign that it was time to give in. Tamsy looked at her with a slight raise of his brows, noticing the burdened sigh she let out. His hand reached out again but this time more gently, pulling her to his shoulder once again with that same nonchalance he always bore. 

“It's pointless to ignore your own body begging you for a break.” He said, scrutinising the hesitance from how Y/n tensed up. “Resting isn't a bad thing so use this chance while you can.”

“I know… I'm just…” She sighed, the words fading before she could find them. 

“You know you want to. Come.”

There’s nothing wrong with sleeping and Y/n was aware of that. She was also aware of the fact that her intrusive thoughts are built on the slim chances of dying in her sleep which is quite rare but not always impossible. Being self-aware but incapable of stopping yourself from thinking in such a way; it was like having full control of a ship but choosing to go nowhere besides the large iceberg of doom. 

But sleeping on Tamsy’s shoulder is what made her hesitate. He must’ve gotten used to the stench of the trash beasts or was holding his breath the way she was as well. It was like her body refused to breathe to its full potential hence why she couldn’t really smell her own scent. Maybe she was just lucky that the stink had gotten away quickly through moving so much. However it works, Y/n was too tired to think anymore.

Knowing that she could either become a walking dead with her growing sluggish movements slowing her down or finally breaking the cycle and letting her body choose whether it wants to wake up. Otherwise, she could stay asleep permanently which was a predicament she had no choice but to think about. Yet she would have to find out by succumbing to sleep and gambling with the chances of life or death. It isn’t exactly gambling—just a tactical response based on human patterns of survival.

Plus, his shoulder looks really comfortable as well…

Reluctantly, Y/n rubbed her cheek against his shoulder before her eyes grew heavier. His hand was caressing her lashes, dragging them down gently until they fully closed. And finally, her breathing evened out which allowed Tamsy to rest his arm carefully around her shoulder.

“She's finally asleep…” Tamsy whispered, taking in the way her chest rose and fell. The peaceful look on her face and the dark crescents below her lashes that begged to go away…

With Tamsy sitting in a seat where Delmon couldn't see him fully, the blond man grinned ear to ear, his tongue tracing around the pearl of his piercing in a quiet cheer of success. Eyes squinting as he took in the slight drool leaking from the corner of her lips. 

“What a dumb bunny…” He chuckled softly, careful to not awaken her.

“Huh? Did you say something, Tamsy?!”

Tamsy glared at the back of Delmon’s seat, “Shut up. Angel’s sleeping.”

Delmon peeked over his shoulder quietly, a hint of guilt for nearly waking the poor girl up. Yet his eyes caught something. His partner was smiling so cheerfully it was almost uncanny. But what Delmon really focused on was the younger man swiping up the bit of drool on Y/n’s soft lips before bringing it up to his own, tongue darting out to taste her. Surely his eyes were mistaken. 

He looked back at the road, muttering nonsense to himself about how he was getting old or how he's reached an age where his eyes weren't as great as they were when he was in his youth. The poor man didn't seem to understand that his eyes were working just fine unfortunately. 

Twelve months before Y/n’s disappearance~

It wasn't often that Tamsy would receive any visits from his co-workers. Despite living closely to the other Cleaners, everyone was always too busy prioritising themselves to really come see him. But in all honesty, that was because people here especially understand the need for privacy and alone time having been forced to live in conditions where your coworker is your neighbour. It was expected to not intrude on other people's lives unless they opened the door for you especially. 

Tamsy knows that he got along with everyone. He would even get visits from his other coworkers whenever they needed an extra hand or were just checking up on him. No one of course made it past the border of his door. Beyond those walls lived a Tamsy that would be hated or even feared by his current so-called friends. A man who lives his life as an observer and a puppeteer of emotions. Tamsy never truly connected with any of the Cleaners, because in reality? 

Everyone was boring. 

That smile on his face truly hid the sinister feelings in his chest. He hated people who acted on an impulse because they were idiots who lacked the ability to think, but he also disliked those who were too predictable because he was able to detect every single pattern of their life based on a single conversation. If he were to choose between the two, who would he love more? The one who barks, or the one who bites? 

Neither. Tamsy wasn’t interested in anyone who could divide themselves into a specific audience. Additionally, he was too self-centered to truly care how others think unless it amused him; the more stupid, the funnier. Tamsy lived for entertainment, and these brainless coworkers of his were the jesters serving in his royal court. Yes, he knows some were clever, but are they truly intelligent if he can read them? For him, an intelligent person would be someone like him who was self-aware of his own flaws and strengths and capabilities. Someone like…

Tamsy snapped out of his thoughts when he heard a faint knock to his door, sighing from the disruption as he put on his mask once again. His cheek bones were starting to ache from all the smiling he’s been doing today. Could this idiot behind the door not understand that he was on his break? What a pain in the ass.

The door swung open a little too aggressively—his mistake—yet the sweet and angelic smile on his face remained. Honey eyes widened with surprise as he stared down at what could’ve been a walking dead but was really just a younger woman on the verge of passing out. E/c eyes glued to his chest, too exhausted to look up at him, and dark shadows beneath that made her face pale in complexion. 

“Can I help you with something, Y/n?” He raised a brow.

Y/n nodded and sighed heavily, finally raising her head to look at him. A jolt sent down Tamsy’s spine as he scanned the contemptuous scowl on her face—something he wasn’t used to because everyone quite literally liked him. He stood up straight and crossed his arms, a tilt of his head as he prepared to listen. He wondered what was going on in her mind right now, but the irritation he felt was bubbling quickly inside of him. 

Tamsy never liked Y/n. She was her own category of people he’d rather avoid, and not because she wasn’t impulsive nor intrusive. No, it was because every time he looked into those e/c eyes, Tamsy could see a reflection of himself inside there. Thinking, wondering, conspiring. Where had he seen those eyes before besides the mirror he uses every morning he washes his face? He felt seen and that’s what made Y/n an anomaly of her own genre of quiet destruction.

“I need your help, Tamsy. You’re the only person I can rely on right now.” Y/n’s eyes softened, her brows furrowed in hopelessness.

A look of surprise appeared onto Tamsy’s face before fading into one of curiosity and slight amusement.

“Only something I can do? What do you mean by that?”

Y/n sighed heavily, her voice hardening with determination: “Your Tokushin—it can tie people up, right? Th-that’s what your vital instrument can do, right? Right?”

“Slow down, first. And yes, it can. But why do you need it so badly?”

The girl looked around in frustration, paranoia lurking within her pupils as she scanned the halls for any potential eavesdroppers. Her hand dragged down the side of her face and she took a deep breath to calm herself.

“I need you to use Tokushin on me. I know it might sound weird but I genuinely cannot sleep right now. I’m on the verge of passing out and I’m scared of accidentally overdosing on the sleeping pills Eisha gave me. Please help me fall asleep. I’m begging you!”

Begging? He smirked.

“You know, I don’t really like to use my vital instrument on my dear friends.” Tamsy sighed with his brows furrowing with faux concern, “But because you’re so desperate, I would be a terrible man to leave you alone to suffer. Anyway, watch your step.”

Tamsy stepped aside and opened the door enough just for the girl to walk inside, eyes scanning her head to toe while discerning how he could make the most of this opportunity. The door clicked shut as he locked the door behind them, watching Y/n look back with her delayed reaction of confusion.

“Just to avoid getting interruptions. You can sit on the bed while I get my jinki. Tell me more about what it is that you want me to do.” 

Y/n nodded hesitantly before sitting on the edge of his bed, eyes scanning around his room with a tired curiosity. Clean and very well-kept. Nothing out of place and items that defined her perception of what type of man she believed he would be. He was quite simple on the outside in her thoughts. After explaining her intense situation with her insomnia, Y/n lied down on his bed without much thought until she realised that the man was letting her do so much in his own room. 

The few times Y/n had ever really spoken to him, she would always struggle with reading his face. Usually the eyes were the window to his soul, but it was as if she was staring at a one-way mirror of her own. Her curiosity grew the longer she wondered what he could possibly want because the most she could comprehend was that Tamsy was always wanting something. Whatever it could be, she wanted to understand him a little more so she could avoid getting on his nerves because causing trouble with her co-workers would be a pain for her. 

It was a surprise that Tamsy was willing to help her to this extent. There was a seed planted in her mind which believed that he didn’t like her but that didn’t stop her from wanting to know more about him. As much as she isolated herself from others, Y/n could contradict her own weaknesses with a curiosity like hers. Learning more about people was always good for her own side-gig.

Little did she know that Tamsy was watching her just the same, eyes analysing her breathing and the flutter of her eyelids as she tried to stay awake. The pillow smelled like him—fresh linen and a dark earthy musk that belonged only to Tamsy. Ever so slowly with Tokushin in Tamsy’s hand, the ropes began to dance onto Y/n’s limbs, creeping up on her until they wrapped around her. Her wrists were beside her head and her legs stretched out, the threads tightening from a small flinch.

“The more you move, the tighter they get. So it’s best if you just give up and let it happen.” Tamsy loomed over her, watching the ropes tie her to the bed.

Y/n felt herself struggle only more, the ropes itching against her skin through her clothes. That’s when she realised how close Tamsy’s face was to hers. Were his eyes always so dark? There was an unsettling gleam in his glance which only made the smile on his face appear rather disconcerting. Then, a cold chuckle.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m doing so much for you, right?” Tamsy pointed out, his hand moving to caress the side of her face so gently. He snickered quietly while watching her eyelids flutter weakly. “Well that’s because you don’t seem to realise how I could do anything I want to you right now.”

Y/n’s heart dropped. Did she make the wrong choice of reaching out for help for once?

Tamsy sighed and removed his hand, the unsettling face he wore faded quickly with one of indifference and boredom. “I’m kidding. Don’t look at me like I’m about to commit a crime. I’m not that typa person…”

“What are you implying, then?” Y/n murmured, feeling her body obliging to the laws of Tokushin’s bounds. 

By relaxing, she only felt her heart race more from confusion but the thoughts in her head blurring and fuzzing up from exhaustion. Before she could realise it, her eyelids were drooping and her head felt heavy against the soft pillows. Once she couldn’t open her eyes anymore, Y/n finally gave in to the sleep that her body had long-awaited for. Peace enveloping her entirety, beyond drained from surviving that she couldn’t even dream.

Tamsy turned his head back to the sleeping figure, cautious to not make any sudden movements that could wake her. A slight tug on the side of his lips stretched, a huff of air leaving his nostrils with soft mirth. She looked so quiet—and not in a way that meant she was quite literally unconscious right now. Y/n was always so quiet and Tamsy knew that. But what he really meant was that Y/n no longer appeared as if she were fighting with any thoughts in her head. What a pleasant face she made like this.

The floorboards creaked quietly beneath him the closer he reached her, his head moving closer to examine the faint flutter of her lashes. The arrogant smile was placid across his face as he watched barely inches away. There was that putrid feeling in his chest which bubbled the longer he stared at her. It was a rancid emotion that filled his veins with a burning passion and almost made his face go sick with green. 

With her guard down like this, he truly did have the power to do anything as he pleased. What was an unconscious girl supposed to do? He chuckled silently, his fingers twitched around the strand of h/c hair he tugged on. Haha, she didn’t even wake up from that. It was hard to control himself around Y/n when she was so… so…

“You’re so fucking cute, Y/n.” He whispered, not even processing what he said.

The smile faded away quickly into a disgusted frown. But shortly after, Tamsy’s gaze softened in realisation. 

That horrible feeling in his chest wasn’t hatred. His heart wouldn’t be thumping so violently against his ribcage like this, making his blood boil with passion. It was so overwhelmingly sweet that it made him feel absolutely sick. With the way Y/n looked at him so much with those questioning doe eyes of hers, Tamsy bit his lip with an excitement which unsettled him that he visibly recoiled from touching her skin again. He wanted to ruin her so badly that she would have no choice but to rely entirely on him. To absolutely fucking destroy her until she was as useless as a puppet. A performer who only danced entirely just for him. Him! 

But alas, Tamsy couldn’t ruin her now of all times. Ruining someone while they’re asleep was sick. He was too good for that. Wasn’t he the angel of the Cleaners? Hah, fucking bullshit. He wouldn’t dare to satisfy this hunger for her until he could properly corrupt her. That’s right; he needed a plan. A plan to keep Y/n all to himself. Perhaps even transferring her to Team Eager, or perhaps even convincing her to work full-time just like him so she’ll never leave his sight. He couldn’t afford to let her run away so much. He’ll make it his personal goal to help her through whatever depressive slump—he truly didn’t care about—and ruin her only more. Tamsy needed to know how Y/n would act in a moment of utter helplessness, needed to know if she would still look at him the same way, and needed to know if she truly is as stupid as he believes. 

Because this putrid feeling wasn’t hatred. No, it was too sweet for something so horrible. It was love. A love that burned so brightly that it bordered on hatred, hence why he misunderstood his feelings towards Y/n as detestation. A love like a drug that slowly kills a person the more they surrender to addiction. A love as innocent as a wolf staking its claim on a bleeding lamb torn to shred. This was Tamsy’s declaration of devotion towards worshipping Y/n where he would make her his goddess; and gods can’t exist without any prayers in church…

For Tamsy was in love.

a/n: no chapters until i beat 97k on block blast (serious). i don't like tamsy tbh. but manipulative and conniving characters like him are very fun to read about. chapter is inspired by 'Sweet Trap' by HOYO-MIX and 'We Both Reached For The Gun' from Chicago The Musical and 'Hellfire' by FEVER333! Needed a chaotic vibe to show Y/n's super duper cool moves. this took lots of energy out of me.

taglist: OPEN. let me know through whatever is convenient for you, my loves.

˚˖° ୭🎐˚｡ ꒷ to my dearest, @faiwihteto @riyousjin

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(proceed to chapter six.) →

Cover Created By Lantern (22)

❝𝐅𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞.❞

~~~

Contents

Prologue — The Death Of A Dying Star

Chapter One — Peek-A-Boo, Welcome Back!

Chapter Two — Lights, Camera, Action!

Chapter Three — Dreaming of a Bittersweet Reunion

Chapter Four — Counting Empty Glasses Till I Can Say "I Loved You"

Night I — Chapter Unavailable!

Chapter Five — Waiting For Something To Happen?