aple

first was my skull, then was my nerves, then was my mouth, then was my eyes, then were my clothes, then was my skin, then was my voice, then was my mind and mind you i forgot what it meant to be sound but the sound of your voice when you said you were mine i held on to our promise and wonderful times

i hope where you've gone that you're happy and free

but i don't feel myself, a vessel empty

my who torn from what, and what does that mean?

a voice in the void-

I hope you guys enjoyed Chapter 1 of A Date with Death ZERO!

We'll be bringing out episodes monthly throughout most of 2025 ✨

Here's a tiiiiny little preview of Chapter 2 <3

Haven't read chapter 1 yet?

Webtoon

Words:7000

Genre: Dark Horror, Psychological Thriller, Gore, Obsession & Obsessive Love, Psychological Abuse, Crime & Thriller

(Reader is G.N) (A cannibal Reader, I don't support these! Just writing them!)

Summary :

Follows a twisted, sadistic you who presents themselves as a sweet baker but harbors a gruesome obsession with murder and cannibalism. Your appearance is grotesque, with stitches all over their body, and their bakery serves as a cover for a far darker purpose—using human flesh in your pastries. You met Angel who became your dear person. You get invited to the server,

The story is filled with graphic violence, disturbing themes of control, obsession.

Trigger Warnings and Content Warnings:

Violence and Gore: The content features explicit descriptions of violent actions, including graphic depictions of murder, dismemberment, and physical injury. The themes of torture and the pleasure derived from violence are present throughout.

Mental Health and Obsessive Behavior: There are elements of unhealthy obsession, possessiveness, and manipulation, particularly in the relationships between the characters. Themes of emotional trauma, self-doubt, and psychological instability are explored.

Cannibalism: References to cannibalism are present, with detailed discussions of cutting, eating, and dissection of bodies.

Sexual Themes: There are implied themes of dark and twisted romantic relationships, including non-consensual dynamics, manipulation, and obsession. This includes sexualized violence and threats.

Self-Harm: References to physical injury, mutilation, and self-inflicted harm, including the imagery of stitches coming undone and body parts falling off, are depicted.

Dark Romanticization: The portrayal of relationships is toxic, with power imbalances, manipulation, and destructive behavior.

Death and Murder: Graphic depictions of death, including the murder of both fictional and real people, are central to the narrative. The thrill and pleasure derived from killing are explored.

Emotional Abuse: Themes of manipulation, psychological control, and emotional manipulation are present in the interactions between the characters.

Disturbing Imagery and Themes: Content involving body horror, the macabre, and disturbing imagery related to the human form is featured.

Please proceed with caution if these triggers could cause distress. If you experience any discomfort during our exchange, feel free to pause or end the roleplay at your discretion.

EXTRA: Made a playlist!

Time moved fast, and now it was a new year—2025. February 14. Valentine’s Day.

Your hands worked diligently, filling orders at the shop, the sweet and savory scents of baked goods filling the air. But even while working, your laptop stayed open, screen glowing with the server’s chat. You couldn’t help but check in—it was your little slice of chaos.

You liked the server.

You liked Angel.

You wanted to eat Ronin.

Cute. Very cute.

<Zombie>: Quit hogging her, you freak. Omg.

The irritation bubbled up. That bastard Ronin always had a way of making Angel feel... foolish. You didn’t like it.

<goreboy>: My love runs deeper than wells and goes halfway into Hell. What can I say? I’m irresistible.

<Angelic>: @goreboy You’re so...

<Zombie>: I wanna eat him. Angel, can I? Though, honestly, I have no idea how you managed to bag Angel, Ronin.

<goreboy>: Ah Well there's this thing called Loneliness and also Hey Ronin's Right There.

You couldn't shake the way Ronin's words stuck with you, lingering like the sour aftertaste of bad wine. Without much thought, your fingers danced across the keyboard, pulling up his DMs.

<Zombie (DMs): Are you okay?

It didn’t take long for him to respond.

<goreboy (DMs): Why, darling? Missing me already? Or are you checking in because I said something about being lonely?

You frowned at the screen, typing back quickly.

<Zombie (DMs): Why did you say that? Are you okay or not?

His reply came almost immediately, as if he was waiting for your reaction.

<goreboy (DMs): It’s called a joke, sweetheart. Ever heard of one? Why so serious?

You leaned back in your chair, exhaling through your nose before typing your next message.

<Zombie (DMs): Because ingredients shouldn’t feel bad.

There was a pause on his end. You could almost picture him smirking at the screen, intrigued and a little off-kilter.

<goreboy (DMs): Ingredients?

<Zombie (DMs): Yeah. If ingredients feel bad, they might lose their charm.

<goreboy (DMs): Oh, do tell me how that works, Chef Zombie.

<Zombie (DMs): It’s simple. Ingredients are more valuable when they’re warm, vibrant, full of life—or whatever you have that passes for it. If something rots too early, it’s a waste. That’s why I’m asking if you’re okay. Keeping you from spoiling.

You hit send, waiting for his reaction. When it came, it was both exactly what you expected and somehow surprising.

<goreboy (DMs): Keeping me warm, huh? What a tender little butcher you are. Almost makes me think you care.

You smirked to yourself, fingers poised to respond.

<Zombie (DMs): I don’t. I just hate waste.

His typing indicator flickered on and off for a moment before his reply came through.

<goreboy (DMs): Sure, sure, Zombie. Whatever helps you sleep at night.

You shifted in your seat, typing away as the tension of the conversation lingered in the back of your mind. Your fingers hovered for a moment before sending your next message to Ronin.

<Zombie (DMs): I still wanna eat you, by the way. Don’t get it twisted. I’m only helping you with the Angel stuff because it’s interesting. That’s all.

The response came quicker than expected, his tone practically dripping through the screen.

<goreboy (DMs): Oh, darling, you’ve made that abundantly clear. But go on, I’m curious. What’s got you so curious about Angel and me?

You huffed, staring at his reply before leaning forward.

<Zombie (DMs): I just… feel weird about it. How do you even care about her this much? It’s all so… I have so many thoughts about this, but it doesn’t make sense.

<goreboy (DMs): What’s there to make sense of? We’re friends, sweetheart. I look out for her. Simple as that.

You narrowed your eyes, feeling the urge to pick at his words.

<Zombie (DMs): No. It’s not that simple. It’s way more than that. You don’t get this kind of attachment for no reason. Spill. Why do you care about her this much? Why did you two even get together in the first place?

The typing indicator blinked on and off for a long moment, like he was deliberating how much he wanted to say.

<goreboy (DMs): You really wanna know? Alright, fine. But don’t say I never gave you anything.

There was a pause, and then the explanation began, his words surprisingly thoughtful, measured in a way you didn’t expect from someone like him.

<goreboy (DMs): Angel and I got together out of… proximity. We were the only ones who really understood each other back then. The server was empty—just us for weeks. When it’s just you and another person, sparks happen, you know? It wasn’t love. It was convenience, loneliness. And she felt safe with me.

You raised an eyebrow at the admission, watching his next messages roll in.

<goreboy (DMs): Angel’s been through it. Men who don’t respect her, don’t listen. I’m not like them. Boundaries matter to me. I didn’t push her where she didn’t want to go. And yeah, me being trans helped her feel like she could trust me. Not like those other guys who see her as some prize. With me? She didn’t feel like that.

Another pause, and you could sense the weight in his words.

<goreboy (DMs): And for me? She reminded me of someone. Ther. My first love. Someone I… lost a long time ago. Angel isn’t them. She’ll never be them. But for a while, she felt close enough that I could pretend. We clicked because we were using each other, really. She was processing her feelings about men, and I was… processing Ther.

<Zombie (DMs): So what happened?

<goreboy (DMs): We figured it out. Realized we were leaning on each other for all the wrong reasons. It wasn’t love—it was coping. And when that realization hit, we broke it off. But we stayed close. She’s my friend now. My girl, but not in that way. Not anymore.

You stared at the screen, chewing over his words.

<Zombie (DMs): That’s… a lot. Still doesn’t explain why you’re all over her business.

<goreboy (DMs): Because I care, darling. She’s been through enough. She deserves someone in her corner. If I can be that person, then why not?

You leaned back, rereading the messages, feeling your lips twitch into a small, knowing smile.

<Zombie (DMs): You’re not completely rotten, are you?

<goreboy (DMs): What’s that supposed to mean?

<Zombie (DMs): Just that I’m noticing things. You care about her. Like, actually care. It’s not all for show.

There was a long pause before he finally replied.

<goreboy (DMs): Don’t get used to it, sweetheart.

You leaned forward, staring at the screen, his words replaying in your head. Something was bothering you, and curiosity burned hotter than caution.

<Zombie (DMs): So… you’re trans? Is that why?

A few moments passed before the typing indicator appeared.

<goreboy (DMs): Why what?

<Zombie (DMs): Why Angel felt safe with you.

The typing indicator flickered again, and then a response came.

<goreboy (DMs): Yeah. That’s why. She didn’t have to worry about the same things with me as she did with other men. Simple as that.

You mulled over his words, hesitating before diving into your next question.

<Zombie (DMs): And… who’s Ther?

There was a long silence before his reply.

<goreboy (DMs): ...

<Zombie (DMs): Someone close to you?

Another pause, and then:

<goreboy (DMs): You could say that.

You tilted your head, curious but careful, when suddenly he dropped something unexpected.

<goreboy (DMs): Ther and I used to eat apple crumble ice cream together. That was their favorite.

Your brows raised at the sudden shift, a personal detail woven into an otherwise guarded conversation.

<Zombie (DMs): I see.

<goreboy (DMs): Yeah. They said it was like eating a little piece of comfort. I thought it was too sweet, but I’d still share it with them.

You stared at the screen, your chest tightening at the quiet vulnerability in his words.

<Zombie (DMs): You cared about them a lot, didn’t you?

<goreboy (DMs): Didn’t I say it’s none of your business?

The sharpness in his tone was back, but it didn’t scare you off.

<Zombie (DMs): You’re more interesting when you let things slip, you know.

His reply came quickly this time.

<goreboy (DMs): Careful, sweetheart. You’re starting to sound too interested.

You smirked, but before you could tease him further, he typed again.

<goreboy (DMs): Yes, I’m the devil, like you say. The big bad Devil’s Butcher. You’ve said it yourself.

You hesitated, reading between the lines of his sudden bravado.

<Zombie (DMs): You mean you see yourself as the devil… because of where you grew up, don’t you?

He didn’t reply immediately, and you decided not to push. There was something raw in his sudden quiet, something that felt like an unspoken confirmation.

<Zombie (DMs): I get it. You don’t have to say it.

The typing indicator returned one last time.

<goreboy (DMs): Good. Don’t pry too much, darling. You’re already pushing your luck.

<Zombie (DMs): Ugh, I had such a day today. This guy was so sufferable.

<goreboy (DMs): Sufferable? Don’t you mean insufferable?

<Zombie (DMs): Nope. Sufferable. As in, he suffered. A lot. He wouldn’t stop whining—‘please, don’t do this, I’ll do anything, blah blah blah.’

<goreboy (DMs): Ah, one of those types. No appreciation for artistry.

<Zombie (DMs): Exactly! And, oh my god, he stank. Like stinky-stank levels. The guy smelled like he’d been dead before I even got to him.

<goreboy (DMs): Rotten ones are the worst. Did you at least finish the job, or are you venting halfway through?

<Zombie (DMs): Finished it. Trust me, I was doing the world a favor. The stench is just lingering in my head. Gross.

<goreboy (DMs): You’re complaining to me about stench? Sweetheart, I’ve gutted guys whose insides looked like a meat stew left out in the sun. Rotting doesn’t even begin to cover it.

<Zombie (DMs): Okay, but that’s your thing. You’re like... “Rotten Meat Aesthetic.” I don’t want it lingering in my place. He even got blood on my favorite knife—like, so much.

<goreboy (DMs): The favorite knife? Damn. That’s personal. What’d he do to deserve such VIP treatment?

You smirked, thinking about the events of the day.

<Zombie (DMs): He is a ex fan of Angel. He was one of the idiots hating on her. Big mistake.

There was a pause before his reply.

<goreboy (DMs): ...You didn’t tell her, did you?

<Zombie (DMs): Of course not. It’d ruin the fun. Besides, she doesn’t need to know how far I’ll go to keep her safe.

<goreboy (DMs): Hah. Protective and possessive. I almost wanna say “cute,” but you might take it as a compliment.

<Zombie (DMs): It is a compliment. You can say it.

<goreboy (DMs): Dream on.

You laughed softly to yourself, satisfied with how the day had turned out, even if the guy’s smell was still a distant memory. You leaned back in your chair, staring at the chat.

<Zombie (DMs): Anyway, today’s work is done. I’m taking a shower and purging the stink out of my life.

<goreboy (DMs): Enjoy your little ritual, darling. And don’t forget—next time, keep the rotten ones to a minimum.

<Zombie (DMs): Noted. But you know I won’t.

Angel dmed you next, the sweet sinner!

<Angelic (DMs): Hey, did you catch my interview today?

<Zombie (DMs): Of course I did. I always do.

<Angelic (DMs): Haha, you never miss anything, huh? It’s like you’re always watching... a lot.

Your fingers paused over the keyboard before you responded.

<Zombie (DMs): It’s not like that. I just... want to make sure you’re safe. That’s all.

There was a moment of hesitation in her next reply.

<Angelic (DMs): ...Safe? From what?

<Zombie (DMs): From everything. The world is ugly, Angel. Cruel and dangerous. But you... you’re not like that. You’re not ugly. You’re pure, like something out of a dream. Perfect, even.

Her reply took longer than usual this time.

<Angelic (DMs): ...Okay, that’s a lot. You sound... really intense.

<Zombie (DMs): You don’t get it. You’re a miracle in this broken world. Something to be protected, cherished. A god walking among us.

<Angelic (DMs): Stop it, Zombie. Seriously. I’m just... a person. A human. With flaws. 💔

Your expression softened at her response, but your obsession wouldn’t let go.

<Zombie (DMs): You might think that, but you’re wrong. I see what others don’t. You’re not just a human to me, Angel. You’re the light in the dark. The reason the rest of us keep going.

<Angelic (DMs): I don’t even know what to say to that. You’re too much sometimes.

You stared at her message, debating how to respond. For now, you decided to leave it, letting your words linger like a prayer on her screen.

[Angelicc] Also, also, another thing—THE INTERVIEW asked me about my manager??? She totally hated Finian for some reason. It was surreal, because I didn’t even know THEY knew Finian personally. Didn’t make it into the final writeup, but wow.

[Zombie] He sounds like a bad manager, Angel.

[Angelicc] Ahh, he really isn’t! Honestly. Finian’s a bit... demanding, but everyone in the industry is. You know how it is. ... I don’t know what to think about him, though, to be honest. Like, he’s not a good guy, I guess? She was probably right about that. But he’s not the worst, you know? Compared to the bottom-of-the-barrel men I’ve dealt with before... Whatever. I don’t want to dwell on it.

Anyway!!! Do YOU have anything to tell me?

<Zombie> [08:44] I hate your manager.

<Angelic> [08:44] What? Why?

<Zombie> [08:45] I want to take care of it if he’s scaring you.

<Angelic> [08:45] No! Don’t even think about it. Finian is fine. Don’t do anything... please.

<Zombie> [08:46] ...

<Zombie> [08:47] Why are you so selfless?

<Angelic> [08:47] ...

<Angelic> [08:48] ...What are you doing right now?

Her sudden question, her obvious attempt to change the topic, made your blood simmer, but you forced the anger down.

<Zombie> [08:49] I’m... making something.

Your words felt sharp, clipped, but she didn’t seem to notice—or maybe she chose not

<Zombie> [08:50] He’s so fucking shit. He sounds like an ass. Why are you like this, Angel? Why do you put up with him?

<Angelic> [08:50] Excuse me?

<Zombie> [08:51] You deserve better than some demanding jerk who doesn’t even treat you right. Why do you always let people like him stick around?

<Angelic> [08:52] You don’t know anything about him! Or me! Finian isn’t perfect, but he’s not the worst person in the world either. I’ve had to deal with way worse. HAVE YOU SEEN THE MEN I KILLED?

<Zombie> [08:53] That’s the problem, Angel. You settle. You just accept that people treat you like garbage because you’ve dealt with worse before. Don’t you see how messed up that is?

<Angelic> [08:54] You don’t get to tell me how to live my life! You’re not me. You don’t understand the industry, the pressure, or anything I’ve been through. You’re just... acting like you know everything when you don’t.

<Zombie> [08:55] I don’t have to understand everything to see you deserve more than this. You’re not some charity case for assholes who don’t appreciate you.

<Angelic> [08:56] Stop it! Just stop! Why are you acting like this?

<Zombie> [08:57] Because I care about you.

The words hung in the air—or rather, the digital void between you. You stared at your screen, waiting for her to reply, your hands twitching with the urge to type more, to explain yourself, to argue more if needed.

<Angelic> [08:59] ...I don’t want to fight with you.

The fight drained out of you in an instant. Her words were soft but firm, enough to make you bite back your next sentence.

<Zombie> [09:00] I don’t want to fight either...

There was a long pause. The silence on her end was deafening.

<Angelic> [09:02] I just want things to stay the way they are. Please.

You clenched your jaw. Of course, she did. She always wanted peace, even at her own expense.

<Zombie> [09:03] ...Fine.

You stared at the blank screen, the tension in your body winding tighter and tighter until something in you snapped. Literally.

Your right eye popped out of its socket, dangling grotesquely against your cheek. You groaned in frustration, not pain—it wasn’t new. You grabbed the slippery orb with trembling hands, shoved it back in place, and blinked a few times to get it to stay.

But as you reached for the keyboard, your left index finger decided it had had enough, cracking off at the knuckle and clattering onto the desk with a wet thud.

“God damn it,” you muttered through clenched teeth, your voice shaking.

You picked up the detached digit, the sinew dangling like some grotesque string of tinsel, and shoved it back into place. Blood, dark and congealed, seeped through the seams as you gritted your teeth and pressed it back into position. It stuck, for now.

And then the tears came.

Hot, furious, and stinging, they rolled down your cheeks as you slammed a fist against the table, your body trembling with emotion. "Why do I care so much about her?" you whispered hoarsely, the words barely audible over your own ragged breathing. "Why does she have to be so... her?"

You thought of Angel, her ethereal presence, her voice, her light that seemed so untouchable yet so tempting. You wanted to keep her safe, to protect her, to worship her like the god she could never see herself as. But she didn't want it. She wanted normalcy.

And then there was Ronin.

Your mind reeled at the thought of him—chaotic, alluring, dangerous. A perfect mess of a man who didn’t hide his rot but flaunted it, wore it like a crown. You hated how much you needed to see him split open, to peer inside and find out if his heart was truly rotten... or if there was something beautiful hidden in the decay.

You leaned back, staring at your hands, now bloodied and trembling.

"Maybe..." you murmured to the empty room, your voice hollow. "If I just choose one, I could feel something real again. Maybe my heart could... work."

The room was silent except for your uneven breathing. The urge clawed at you, relentless, gnawing at the edges of your mind. You wanted to feel.

Your trembling hands moved almost on their own, reaching for the scalpel you'd been toying with earlier. Slowly, deliberately, you pressed the blade against your chest. The first cut was shallow, testing the resistance of your skin, but the next was deeper—sharp enough to split the flesh. Blood oozed out, warm and dark, staining your clothes and pooling in your lap.

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

The pain didn’t matter; it was almost soothing, grounding you as your trembling fingers dug into the split. You peeled back the layers of skin, the grotesque sound of tearing flesh filling the room as you exposed the cage of your ribs.

With a manic determination, you pried them apart, your blood-slicked hands reaching inside, feeling the erratic thrum of your heart.

And then, there it was—pulsing, trembling, weak. A pathetic thing, wrapped in sinew and veins, yet still stubbornly beating.

You stared at it, blood smeared across your face, tears mixing with the mess. "You’re broken," you whispered, voice trembling. "You don’t work right. You don’t feel right."

Your lips curled into a crazed smile as your fingers tightened around the organ. "Maybe one of them could fix you. Stitch you up. Make you whole."

You giggled, your chest open and raw, your blood-smeared face glowing with unhinged delight.

"I’ll give you to someone," you cooed to your heart as if it could hear you. "Ronin, with his twisted grin, could carve you into something new. Or Angel... she’d be gentle, wouldn’t she? She’d hold you like you mattered."

You brought the organ closer to your face, smiling down at it with a strange sort of adoration.

"Maybe soon..." you whispered, licking your blood-stained lips. "Maybe soon, I’ll get fixed. Maybe I’ll feel love."

You stared at the screen, the words glowing in the dim light of your room.

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> "Yo, Zombie, time to pick a valentine! Let’s goooo!"

"Yes! You totally deserve one, just for today. You’ve worked so hard, you’ve made the server so much better... and honestly, it’s because of you that Luca and I are together. 🩷"

You blinked, rereading their messages. Your hands hovered over the keyboard, uncertain.

"It’s fine. I don’t really..."

Your fingers froze as the chat continued to flood.

"Awww, c’mon! Don’t be shy!"

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> "Yeah, like, for real! You’re cool as hell, Zombie, and you’ve been here for all of us. You deserve some love too."

It was strange, reading their words. You were used to the chaos, the teasing, the blood-soaked banter. But this? This felt different. Warmer. Softer.

For a moment, your chest ached—not from the self-inflicted wound, but from... something else.

You typed slowly, hesitantly.

<Zombie> "...You guys are good friends. I like you two. Thanks."

The chat erupted in affectionate chaos.

<Felicite> "🥺 Stop, you’re gonna make me cry! Zombieeee, you’re too sweet!"

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> "FR! You’re the MVP of this whole server. But, like, seriously. Pick someone for today. A Valentine’s Day partner! Even if it’s just for fun."

You sat back, staring at the screen. Valentine’s Day... the idea of choosing someone felt odd. But at the same time, you didn’t hate it.

Your eyes darted between the screen and the chaotic server chat, heart pounding as your fingers hesitated over the keyboard. Everyone had been throwing suggestions your way, their teasing messages blurring into a cacophony of emojis and pings.

But just as you were about to make a decision, a notification popped up.

<goreboy> has sent you a direct message.

You clicked it, curiosity piqued. Ronin’s profile picture, a grimy pixelated skull face, seemed to leer at you from the corner of the screen.

<goreboy> "Zombie. Darling. The honor of today is yours if you’d have me."

You blinked, rereading the message as your breath hitched.

<goreboy> "I know you wanna eat me, rip me apart, stitch me back together, all that poetic gore stuff. But for today? Let me give you a break. You deserve it."

Your pulse quickened. Ronin? Volunteering himself like this? Sure, he was bold, loud, and soaked in his own theatrical flair, but this was... different. There was a softness in his words, however masked it was by his usual devilish charm.

Your thoughts were interrupted by another ping.

<angelicc> has sent you a direct message.

You clicked the notification, your stomach twisting in anticipation. Angel’s profile picture—soft pastel pink greeted you, along with a message that made your chest tighten.

<angelicc> "Hey, um... this is so embarrassing to say, but... I like you. A lot."

You stared at the words, reading them over and over as if they might disappear if you blinked too hard.

<angelicc> "Maybe for today... you could pick me? Just for today, I mean! No pressure! But I really do like you, Zombie. I think you’re amazing. And... yeah, okay, I’ll stop typing now before I make it worse 🫣💞"

Your hands trembled. Angel liked you? Angel, the radiant center of the server, the one you admired, obsessed over, worshiped in your own strange way?

The room seemed to close in as you stared at the two messages. Two choices. Two people.

Ronin’s playful offer replayed in your mind—his self-aware humor masking something deeper. And then Angel’s shy confession, so unlike her usual confident self, made your heart ache.

You looked back at the server chat, where Felicite and Luca were still hyping you up, oblivious to the quiet storm brewing in your DMs.

<Felicite> "ZOMBIE YOU HAVE TO PICK SOMEONE, OMG, THE SUSPENSE IS KILLING ME!!!"

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> "WHO’S IT GONNA BE??? C’MON, ZOMBIE, DROP THE BOMB!!"

But the bomb wasn’t theirs to detonate. It was yours.

You typed slowly, first opening Ronin’s chat.

<ZOMBIE> "You’re offering yourself to me? I don’t know if you’re brave or just stupid. But I’ll think about it."

His response came almost immediately.

<goreboy> "Oh, darling, I’m both. And you love it."

You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile before switching to Angel’s chat.

<ZOMBIE> "You like me? That’s... surprising. You’re everything good in this ugly world. I didn’t think you’d notice someone like me."

A few seconds passed before she replied.

<angelicc> "Of course I noticed you. You’re always there for me. I just... never had the courage to say anything until now. 🩷"

Your chest ached. How could you choose? Ronin, with his chaotic allure and promises of mayhem, or Angel, with her genuine warmth and the way she made the world seem less dark?

You stared at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The server was waiting. They were waiting.

It was up to you.

Your laughter bubbled out uncontrollably, raw and wild, as you caught sight of your reflection in the darkened screen. The stitches holding your mouth together had torn apart, crimson glistening against your pale skin as the metallic tang filled your mouth.

"Oh, sweet baking Christ," you hissed, reaching for your sewing kit with trembling, blood-streaked fingers. "Just... hold on."

Your message to both and was hurriedly typed with your free hand, the other already prepping the needle and thread.

"Wait. Mouth came apart. Gimme a sec."

As you carefully slid the needle through your torn lips, each pull of the thread made you wince and hiss through your teeth. But the pain was grounding—it forced your swirling thoughts into sharper focus. And oh, there were so many thoughts, a chaotic tangle of wants and plans and desperation.

Your fingers paused mid-stitch as your mind wandered.

Ronin. Being with him would be like walking the edge of a razor blade, teetering between obsession and chaos. You didn’t care about the love he offered, no. Love wasn’t why you were drawn to him. Ronin could give you something else—tools. He was a necessary ingredient in your recipe, the one who could help you deal with the poison festering in Angel’s life.

Her manager.

Your lips twitched in a half-smile, blood pooling at the corners as you resumed sewing. That thing—Finian—deserved to be gutted, flayed, ground into the dirt. You’d be doing Angel a favor, even if she didn’t see it that way.

But then there was Angel herself.

Her name alone was enough to make your hands tremble. She was a gift from some divine being you didn’t believe in, a beacon in your rotting, stitched-together world. You wanted her. Not in the way you wanted Ronin, with his chaos and danger, but with a reverence so pure it disgusted you. She was perfect, everything you weren’t—kind, radiant, clean.

And you?

You were stitched filth, a patchwork doll of sins and scars, barely held together by threads soaked in your own blood. Compared to her, you were nothing. Rotten shit, stitched into the mockery of a human.

Your hands stilled, the thread in your mouth taut and glistening with red. You looked down at the needle in your hand and laughed, quietly this time. What were you even doing? Choosing between Ronin and Angel? The thought was laughable. Someone like you didn’t deserve either of them.

But then you remembered how Angel’s shy confession had made your chest ache, how Ronin’s offer had sent a thrill through you. Both of them had made you feel. Something rare, something foreign. Something... alive.

Your stitched lips curled into a smile, glossy with fresh blood.

Maybe you didn’t deserve them. Maybe you were filth and sin stitched together.

But you were their filth.

And today, you’d choose. Not because you believed in love, but because one of them made you feel like, maybe—just maybe—you could stitch yourself into something whole.

Scenario: Choosing Ronin

You stared at the screen for what felt like hours, though it had only been seconds. Blood from your freshly stitched lips dried in sticky trails down your chin as you hovered over the chat window.

<ZOMBIE> "Alright, goreboy. You're my Valentine for today."

The server exploded in messages almost instantly.

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> "THE CHAOS IS IMMACULATE!"

<FELICITE> "Finally, the freaks unite. 🖤"

<angelicc> "...oh."

<goreboy> "HA! I knew it. You wanna eat me so bad, it’s pathetic. Prepare to be amazed, doll. Valentine’s with the Devil’s gonna blow your mind."

The response was instant.

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> "OMG ZOMBIE x GOREBOY 4EVER LMAO"

<angelicc> "... oh. Have fun, you two!!"

You paused, your eyes lingering on her single message. That tiny "oh" said so much, yet not enough. You told yourself it didn’t matter—Angel would understand, wouldn’t she? You needed this day, just one day to figure out how to work Ronin, how to get closer to your goal.

Your DM to Ronin lit up with a reply almost immediately.

<goreboy> "Knew you'd make the right choice. Let’s wreak havoc, darling."

Your heart raced, not from excitement, but from the sheer weight of the decision.

But something about Angel’s quiet reply stayed with you, even as you tried to focus on your decision.

<angelicc> "I’m happy for you, Z."

Happy. Sure. That’s what her words said, but her earlier hesitation... it clawed at your mind.

You opened her DM.

<ZOMBIE> "I don’t deserve you."

The reply came quickly, but it wasn’t what you expected.

<angelicc> "Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. You’re wonderful in ways you don’t even see."

Your stitched lips curled into a smile, despite the lingering ache in your chest.

But for now, you’d play your part in this twisted Valentine’s Day.

You hesitated, your fingers hovering over the keyboard before finally typing:

<ZOMBIE> "I don’t deserve you. Ronin’s gonna be perfect for what I need."

<angelicc> "... Perfect for what?"

You laughed softly, the sound dry and bitter even to your ears.

<ZOMBIE> "You wouldn’t get it. Don’t worry your pretty little head, Angel. You’re safe."

<ZOMBIE> "Special ingredient, huh? You wanna know what that is, Angel?"

You typed, fingers trembling as you stared at the screen, a sick grin curling across your face. There was something twisted about this, something that made you crave more.

You paused, the air thick with the anticipation of your words, before continuing.

<ZOMBIE> "Haha, you know, Ronin... He's so unique. I want to cut him, rip him open, see what makes him tick. It's fascinating. The way he’s always so cold, so deadly... I want to take it all, feel it in my hands. What makes him tick, what makes him care. I want him. I need him."

You felt the rush of blood to your head, your body shaking with a strange kind of hunger. You wanted him so badly, more than anything.

<Angelic> "Don’t hurt him... Please. I don’t want you to hurt him."

Her message popped up. You felt a slight twinge, but the thrill surged higher.

<ZOMBIE> "I won’t hurt him. Not yet..."

You let the words linger in the air, letting her anxiety curl around you like a pleasant warmth. You could practically hear her voice shaking. But it didn’t matter. None of it did.

<Angelic> "NO! If you hurt him, I swear, I will kill you."

Her words hit hard, sharp, like a dagger of emotion, but you couldn’t help but laugh. It was like a sick joke. You loved it.

<ZOMBIE> "You really care that much, huh?"

You leaned back, your heart racing, your eyes glinting in the glow of the screen. The laughter bubbled up in your throat, spilling out like venom.

<ZOMBIE> "You know what, Angel? I want that care. I want to feel it, like Ronin feels it. I want that bond, that connection..

<ZOMBIE> "You care about him a lot, huh? It's almost cute, the way you defend him..."

You laughed, a hollow sound that didn’t quite reach your heart. It felt like the words were slipping out of you, like they didn’t belong, but you couldn’t stop yourself. There was something about the way Angel always defended Ronin that made you sick with envy. It wasn’t the love—it was the care. The genuine, unrelenting care she had for him.

<Angelic> "Don’t even joke like that! If you hurt him, I swear to god—"

<ZOMBIE> "I won’t hurt him yet… but you know… he’s so unique, Angel."

You could feel the tension building up in your chest. The more you thought about Ronin, the more you wanted to sink your teeth into him, tear into him, like he was the only thing that mattered in the world.

<Angelic> "I said don’t hurt him!"

Her message was filled with desperation, her words frantic. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Not right now. You wanted Ronin, wanted him like you wanted air to breathe. The intensity of your feelings made everything else fade into the background.

<ZOMBIE> "I want to feel that care you have, Angel. I want that for myself."

You could almost hear her breathing faster as your message went through. She didn’t understand. None of them did. They didn’t understand the way you needed to feel. How you needed Ronin. It wasn’t about the love they had for each other. No. You wanted to break that bond, tear it apart, because you wanted something for yourself.

<Angelic> "You’re… sick. What do you even want from him?"

<ZOMBIE> "Everything. I want him, Angel. And you know I can take him."

You watched as the message pinged through, feeling that same twisted satisfaction, like you had just told the truth no one dared to speak. Ronin was yours, and Angel would be the one to push you closer to getting him. You wanted to be the one who took him, made him feel something real, something that wasn’t about her.

The more you thought about it, the more you needed him. He was the missing piece, the special ingredient to fill the gaping hole inside you. You didn’t care about anything else. Ronin would be yours.

You open Ronin's dms...

Your fingers slam against the keyboard, your eyes wide as your heart beats wildly in your chest. It’s too much, too overwhelming—this rush of desire, this need that claws at your insides. You feel everything—anger, frustration, lust, hunger. It’s all mixed together in a sick, twisted cocktail, and you can't stop now. You can't hold back.

<ZOMBIE> "She opened my eyes... She opened my eyes, and I realized what I wanted... What I needed... YOU."

You laugh—a maniacal, uncontrollable cackle that echoes through the room. There’s no escaping it, no hiding from it anymore. The truth is out, raw and unfiltered.

<ZOMBIE> "HAHAHAH! I fucking want you, Ronin! I don’t care about anything else, just you... all of you. Everything that makes you what you are. I want it. I want to take it."

The laughter comes again, twisting into something darker, more desperate. There’s a fire in your chest, an inferno of obsession that won’t burn out.

<ZOMBIE> "You thought you could control this, huh? You thought you could keep me away from what I wanted... Well, guess what? It’s too late now. You opened the door, Ronin. You let me in."

You don’t care if you’ve crossed a line. There is no line anymore. There’s just you, and Ronin, and the way you want him. You feel yourself slipping, teetering on the edge of sanity.

<ZOMBIE> "HAHAHAH! I need you. You’re mine now. This is the only thing that’s real. The rest of this? It’s just chaos. Just noise. But you... you’re the answer. The only one who matters."

<GOREBOY> WTF... we didn't even do the Devil's tango yet, and you're already talking about marriage?

You feel a sharp jolt as you read his message, the words landing in your mind like a cold, twisted joke. The absurdity of it all, the strange feeling that’s been growing in your chest. You laugh—it's a dark, breathless laugh, the kind that only makes sense to you. You can practically feel Ronin's smirk through the screen, his words dripping with amusement.

<ZOMBIE> "What do you mean by that? What are you talking about?"

You type the question without thinking, your fingers trembling slightly. There’s a pit in your stomach, a strange mixture of anticipation and unease. What’s he implying? What game is he playing now?

<GOREBOY> You said you wanted me inside you, in such a unique way to confess your love, darling.

The words hit you like a punch, and you blink at the screen, confused for a split second.

<ZOMBIE> Correction, it’s a unique way of love in cannibalism, not whatever you’re thinking, Ronin.

You hit send, your fingers trembling a bit less now. There's something about the way this conversation flows—dangerous, raw, and thrilling. It’s a game, but you’ve already known that. The blood in your veins quickens.

<GOREBOY> Woah... so you do like me.

His response is as sharp as ever, laced with his usual dark humor. You smile to yourself, wondering if he even knows how much he’s drawn you in.

<ZOMBIE> Aren’t you scared? You seem so confident, like you’ve already decided what happens next.

You know his type too well. His arrogance, his darkness. But the moment you type it, the words feel almost too easy. Like he’s said them to you before, in some twisted dance neither of you is ready to stop.

<GOREBOY> I’ll kill you first.

A simple statement, but the weight of it lingers in the air like smoke. And yet, you can’t help but feel that pull. You know better. You’ve seen the edge he walks. But this? This is the kind of risk you crave.

<ZOMBIE> No... you’ll accept death when it comes to you. You’ve always played with life and death in every damn turn.

You type the words with a slow, sickening smile. You don’t need to say it aloud for him to understand. You get him. You understand the game he’s playing, and somehow... you’re willing to play along.

<ZOMBIE> What a unique man you are.

The words leave your lips like a prayer to something broken.

<GOREBOY> Incoming Video Call...

The notification flashes on your screen before you can even respond, and in an instant, you accept. His face appears, his familiar devilish grin still sharp, even through the digital divide. The call feels surreal—like a moment where everything shifts.

You smirk, leaning back as you keep your gaze fixed on him.

<ZOMBIE> I get it now. You wanted to spend this day with me, didn’t you? All so I wouldn’t get obsessed with Angel.

His laugh comes quickly, low and dark.

<GOREBOY> Oh? You’re catching on, darling. How sweet of you.

<ZOMBIE> I find her... a gift, that's all. You're the real deal, Ronin. Your plan worked. You manipulated me into you instead of her.

You lean forward, eyes glinting with dark amusement.

<ZOMBIE> Well, congratulations. Now according to you, I won’t hurt Angel... but I never planned to. You just signed your death certificate.

There’s a pause before Ronin's smirk falters ever so slightly. His eyes narrow, like he’s assessing whether you're bluffing or not. But in the depths of your stare, he sees something deeper—a truth that both unsettles and excites him. He knows this isn't over.

<GOREBOY> Heh, you really think that’s how it works, huh? Well, let’s see if you can follow through, darling.

Ronin leans closer to the camera, his sharp grin softening into something almost curious, though still laced with his usual mischief.

<GOREBOY> Wait, wait. You did promise to be my Valentine, didn’t you? So what’s the rush? Let’s hang out or something.

You blink, caught off guard by his sudden suggestion.

<ZOMBIE> Hang out? What does that even mean? You actually want to spend time with me?

He leans back in his chair, pretending to look bored, though the smirk doesn’t leave his face.

<GOREBOY> Call it whatever you want, darling. Just talk to me. Let’s talk about you.

The words hang in the air, and you narrow your eyes suspiciously, feeling the weight of his curiosity.

<ZOMBIE> My... tragic past?

He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused by your phrasing.

<GOREBOY> Sure, let’s start there. Spill it.

You shake your head, looking away from the camera, your lips pressing into a firm line.

<ZOMBIE> Not a chance. Not unless you tell me about yours first.

His playful smirk wavers, replaced with a slight glare as he looks away from his screen.

<GOREBOY> Nope. Not happening.

The stalemate lingers, and you sigh dramatically, leaning back in your chair and waving your hand dismissively.

<ZOMBIE> Fine, then. Let’s not talk about it.

You reach for the mouse to end the call, but his voice stops you mid-click.

<GOREBOY> Wait! Damn it. Why are you so obsessed with this?

You tilt your head, your lips curling into a sly grin.

<ZOMBIE> Because I want to learn what you are. That’s why.

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his messy hair, clearly annoyed yet intrigued.

<GOREBOY> You’re such a pain, you know that? Fine. What are you doing, anyway?

You glance down at your workspace, something halfway done in front of you.

<ZOMBIE> I’m... making something.

His brow furrows as he leans closer to the camera, trying to peer past you.

<GOREBOY> Making what? And don’t give me some cryptic crap.

You sigh, deciding to humor him for once.

<ZOMBIE> I’m trying something new. I’m not using... you know, human stuff. Just regular ingredients.

His laughter bursts out, sharp and sudden, making your screen shake slightly from his movement.

<GOREBOY> Wow. No human bits? I’m honored, darling. This for me?

<ZOMBIE> Guess you’ll have to keep talking to me to find out.

He groans but leans back, clearly entertained.

Ronin leans against the dimly lit backdrop of his room, the faint flicker of a cigarette glowing briefly in the frame. His sharp grin is lazy, his eyes narrowing in that way of his, always teetering between mockery and something deeper.

<ZOMBIE> So. What’s your tragedy?

Ronin leaned back in his chair, the screen lighting his face, his smirk still intact despite the weight of the conversation. His voice came through with a sarcastic lilt, the kind that dared you to press further.

"Shit, you want me to do the full villain monologue, huh? Fine, darlin'. We’ve got all day."

You crossed your arms, staring into the screen as if you could pierce through it and drag the truth out of him. "So, what’s the devil got to say?"

He scoffed, running a hand through his unkempt hair. "Dunno, whatever the fuck you want. I’m hell outta Angelwood. Stuck the pastor through his cross, murdered a dozen more. Gone through cities and danced devilry in ’em too."

"And nothing more than that?"

His eyes narrowed, his usual cocky demeanor faltering for a split second. "That’s all there is to me."

You leaned closer to the camera, your voice dropping into something almost taunting. "That’s a story, not a tragedy. Hoped you wouldn’t notice."

He rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue against his teeth. "You honest-to-God wanna hear it?"

"I asked for the truth for a reason."

For a moment, silence hung between you, his fingers drumming against his desk as he seemed to weigh his words.

"I had... someone... once," he started, his voice quieter now. "They were my past. My childhood everything. They hated to love me. Dying in it, their fuckin’ tragic femininity, perfect girlhood bullshit. An' that was my dream come true. I made myself the devil to... save them."

You felt a pang in your chest but pushed forward. "What happened?"

Ronin's laugh was hollow, bitter. "It’s a shitty repressed Christ-loving town. What d’you think happened? Ther’s gone. And I’m the devil becoming. Nothin’ less, nothin’ more."

"I’m sorry," you said softly.

His laugh turned sharp, cutting through your words. "Oh, sure. Cause it’s all your fault, right? Say it again and again, and we’ll save her together. Curse my name three times and rewind time. Clap your hands, call me a devil, let’s Faustian bargain this shit out. That’s how it fuckin’ works."

You flinched at his sarcasm but stayed silent, letting him continue.

"Dunno. I’m—fucked, hell and back anyway. A little pity’s gonna save me?" He shook his head, his voice lowering to a near growl. "Doesn’t matter, anyhow. I am the devil."

"You’re not... really," you said after a beat.

"Oh, my Satanic symbols mean nothin’ to ya?" he shot back, his smirk creeping back into place.

You tilted your head, your voice calm but firm. "Says you’re possibly the Antichrist."

That made him laugh, a genuine sound this time, though it was still tinged with his usual edge. "That, I like. I chose it."

"You don’t have to do this," you said, your voice softer now.

He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto yours through the screen, the devilish grin returning full force. "Pretend I’m larger-than-life, like I’m... the devil I am. That’s all I need."

Ronin’s smirk lingered, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of something else—a shadow of discomfort or perhaps surprise. He tilted his head at you, his voice low and dripping with mockery. "You’re a smart-aleck, hah! I’m the devil, didn’t you get the memo?"

You shook your head, steady and firm despite the faint quiver in your voice. "No. Someone destroyed your heart."

He barked out a laugh, leaning back in his chair like you’d just told him the funniest joke of the year. "My aorta’s right here, can’tcha see? Here, I’ll open up my ribcage for ya. Have a peek."

For a moment, your breath caught in your throat as you imagined him doing exactly that—his hands digging into his chest, pulling apart skin and bone to reveal whatever tattered remains of a heart lay beneath. Your eyes watered, but you swallowed it down, keeping your gaze steady. "You buried your heart somewhere-not-here."

He stilled for a moment, the laughter dying on his lips, and he stared at you with an unreadable expression. "Buried it in Ridge Grave where the dead girls dance."

"You act like it’s easier to be the devil..." you began, leaning closer to the camera, your voice soft but pointed.

Ronin raised an eyebrow, his smirk flickering back to life, but there was something guarded in his eyes now. "Then be who you truly are. Isn’t that right, Ronin?"

His gaze darkened, and for once, he didn’t have a quick retort.

"You don’t have to deal with your hurt if you relish in it," you continued, your words cutting through the silence like a blade. "Your pain doesn’t hurt if it’s a tragedy."

The tension in the air was palpable as you stared at each other, the weight of unspoken truths hanging between you. You’d peeled back a layer of him he wasn’t ready to show, and yet, there it was, raw and undeniable.

He broke the silence first, his voice quieter this time, almost begrudging. "You think you understand me now, huh?"

You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. "I understand you better than I thought I would."

Ronin’s jaw tightened, and his eyes flicked away for a brief moment before locking back onto yours. "You want me to rip my chest open, darlin’? Show you every little broken piece?"

Your chest tightened, and for a moment, your resolve wavered. But then you shook your head, steadying yourself. "No. Not like that."

He chuckled dryly, leaning forward again, his smirk returning, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Good. Don’t need you gettin’ all weepy on me. That ain’t your style, is it?"

Your laughter bubbled up, cracked and uneven, tears streaming down your face as you clasped your hands together like a worshiper before an altar. The screen in front of you blurred from your crying, but you didn’t care. You wept like a god mourning their fallen creation, like an angel lamenting the sins of LUCIFER. And that Lucifer was staring back at you, silent, his smirk gone, his expression unreadable.

Tears streaked your face, catching the dim light in glistening trails, but your smile was wide, deranged, and trembling with something unholy—a perverse mixture of sorrow and glee.

"Oh, Ronin..." you whispered, your voice thick with a tremor that was neither pity nor joy but some intoxicating blend of the two. "Your past... it’s so sad—so utterly, devastatingly beautiful."

He didn’t respond. His sharp, unreadable eyes fixed on you, the faint flicker of discomfort returning. It was a rare moment of silence for him, and you reveled in it, filling the void with your own unraveling thoughts.

"You," you murmured, your voice trembling as you leaned closer to the camera, your fingers clasping tighter as if in worship. "You’re Lucifer... the fallen one, cast out not for sin but for love. For the ones who couldn’t be saved. Oh, you poor, tragic devil. You bet it all, didn’t you? Kill or be killed. Live or lose. That’s how you survive, isn’t it?"

Ronin’s mouth twitched, but no words came. The flicker of discomfort was replaced by something heavier—an oppressive weight that pressed down on the both of you, but you laughed through it, tears streaming freely.

"That’s your tragedy!" you wailed, almost euphoric in your revelation. "That’s what makes you so perfect! You’re the devil because it’s easier than being the broken boy who loved too much. You gamble with life and death because you don’t care about either anymore, do you? Oh, Ronin..."

You tilted your head, your smile splitting wider, your tears soaking the edges of your stitched lips. The strain caused some of the seams to pull loose, threads snapping audibly as a trickle of blood seeped out from the corner of your mouth. You didn’t wipe it away. It only added to the grotesque poetry of the moment.

"I feel so sorry for you," you cooed, your voice taking on a soft, almost maternal lilt that dripped with mock sincerity. "So sorry for the little devil who gave everything and got nothing back. You’re so... tragic."

Your voice dropped lower, almost a purr now, as you leaned closer still, your eyes glinting with something Ronin couldn’t—or wouldn’t—name. "That’s why, when I kill you, I’ll do it with love. I’ll take my knife, and I’ll slit your throat so gently, so reverently. And as your blood spills out, I’ll kiss the wounds, Ronin. I’ll kiss every little crack and break in you, like sewing a quilt of pain and poetry together. Won’t that be beautiful?"

Ronin’s jaw tightened, his lips parting slightly as if to speak, but no sound came. His eyes bore into yours, searching for... something. A reason? A weakness? He’d find none.

You leaned back, laughing again, the sound hollow and ringing like a bell in an empty chapel. "You’ll be my masterpiece. My magnum opus. The devil who wanted to be a god but ended up being neither. Oh, Ronin..."

Your voice softened, trembling with the weight of your twisted devotion. "You’ll die beautifully, you know? I’ll make sure of it. A thousand words wouldn’t be enough to describe the poetry of it. But until then..."

You reached up, brushing away the blood that had pooled at the corner of your lips, smearing it across your cheek like a painter with their palette. "Until then, I’ll savor every moment with you. Because someone like you, Ronin—someone so unique, so broken—deserves nothing less than to be adored before they’re destroyed."

Ronin finally spoke, his voice low and rough, tinged with something that might have been fear or anger—or perhaps, deep down, understanding.

"You’re insane," he muttered,

Ronin stared at you, eyes narrowed beneath the shadows of his mask. The dim light flickered in the distance, casting eerie glows on your twisted, bloodstained face. His fingers wrapped around his mask, as if he were holding onto something tethering him to this moment. The laughter in your voice was a thing of horror—wild, manic, and utterly unhinged.

“You kept your promise, darlin’,” he said, his voice low, dangerous, but there was a hint of something else. Something almost unreadable in the way he watched you—something that bordered on fascination.

You tilted your head at him, a glint of madness dancing in your eyes. You grinned, feeling the pull of your own twisted history churn within you, as if it had never been buried, never been forgotten.

"Now tell me yours..." Ronin’s tone was almost a challenge, but beneath the smirk, there was an edge of curiosity.

You met his gaze, almost too steady, too intense. The smile never left your lips, but something darker lingered behind it. You took a breath, the room falling silent as you shifted in your seat, every fiber of your being alight with the story you were about to share.

It wasn’t easy to tell—how could it be? But it wasn’t like you could stop now. The words were crawling out of your chest, clawing to be heard.

You began, your voice trembling, then steadying into something chilling, almost like a lullaby. "Two people... in love., who loved each other so much they decided to make a friend. They got a box. At first, it was harmless—just a way to hold their desires, their greed, their petty wants. But that changed... It became more."

You stopped for a moment, the weight of the story settling in. The air felt suffocating. "They started adding real things to it. Real body parts. Flesh. Bones. The idea was simple: 'Make a friend from scratch.'" You let the words linger, darkening the room with their implications.

"But it wasn’t enough, Ronin. Not enough at all. They kept putting pieces in, building a friend they could control, shape however they wanted. And then, they called it... 'The Secret Goldfish' But the thing is," you paused, your voice quivering as you spoke, "the friend... it wasn’t perfect. Not like they wanted."

A flicker of something crossed Ronin's face—something close to understanding, but you didn’t pause to check. You continued, your voice raw and unrelenting.

"They gave it to the next pair, hoping they'd be able to fix it, to make it better. They had a child together. But every time they tried, the child... melted away. The body was never stable, and the face, the name, the personality—it changed." You swallowed, your mind dizzy with the horrors of your own tale. "It was a curse. And instead of helping, they just kept... remaking it. They kept recycling the child. Trying to fix it, trying to perfect it in their eyes, until... until there was nothing left of it but fragments. Pieces of a broken soul."

You stared at the screen, your fingers trembling as you began to stitch again, the needle threading through your own skin, the movements almost absentminded. But you couldn’t stop now. You wouldn’t.

"They forced me, Ronin. They forced me to be perfect—to be their creation, their masterpiece. And they tore me apart, over and over again. I didn’t feel the pain anymore. It was just... nothing. The only thing I could remember was the smell of blood, and I loved it. I loved it."

Your voice grew almost feverish as you continued, your giggle coming out unnervingly soft. "And they wanted me to be this... pastel lover. Soft and sweet, like the others. But I couldn’t—no, I couldn’t! I wanted more, so much more. They made me bake, make things that I didn’t want to make... And it was always so empty. I couldn’t feel it, I couldn’t taste it, not like I wanted. It wasn’t right."

The laughter in your voice died down to something more chilling. "So, I... I killed them. I killed the ones who made me. The ones who tortured me. I killed them, and I threw their bodies away. I ate them, Ronin. I swallowed them whole, but... I hated it. It was disgusting. There was no worth for me in their flesh. No worth in them at all."

You leaned closer to the screen, your grin now a twisted, sadistic thing as you watched Ronin. The tears, the blood—everything blended into something chaotic, something horrifying.

"You think I’m broken, don’t you?" you whispered. "But it’s not that simple. I’m not broken. I’m remade. Remade by my own hand, made into something new. A thing of blood and flesh and twisted desire."

You giggled again, your voice a soft, eerie melody. "And now... now I’m the one who gets to remake. I’m the one who gets to choose."

You tilted your head, your eyes wild with the madness that had taken root deep in your soul. "So, Ronin, tell me. Tell me, what do you want? What will you be for me?"

You leaned closer to the screen, your voice soft but terrifying as it curled around the words. “I destroyed them, Ronin. All of them. The faces, the identities, everything. I tore them apart, shredded them into pieces until they were nothing but fragments of what they once were. I did it for this—for the power to choose. To become something new, something better.”

Your fingers dug into the flesh of your palm, drawing blood as you clenched your fist, trembling with a mixture of madness and pride. You could feel the stitch marks, the seams, the remnants of the countless faces that had once been yours. The others—the broken versions of yourself—were gone. Their faces were gone, their personalities were gone, ripped from you by your own hands. You were a creature of pure need now, and the hunger was endless.

“Do you understand, Ronin?” Your voice dropped lower, almost a whisper now, dark and heavy. “I gave up everything. I gave up the faces that would’ve made me normal. I destroyed them for this. For this moment where I can finally choose who I want to be. And all for the chance to be remade into someone… someone worthy of this.”

You laughed again, but this time there was something hollow, something desperate behind it. You could see it—the look on his face, the way his eyes studied you through the screen. You could feel the darkness between you both, the understanding, the shared yearning for something beyond the brokenness of the world.

“I need this, Ronin. Don’t you get it?” Your voice wavered, but the smile on your lips was steady, cruel. “I need to be this—this thing. I need to be this devil… and you,” you leaned in closer to the screen, your eyes wide, feverish, “you’re the only one who can make me feel it. Make me realize it. Make me know that I’ve done something… something worth it.”

You ran a hand over your bloodstained face, feeling the hot, sticky warmth of it against your skin. “So yes, I’ve destroyed my other faces. I’ve killed the other parts of me. They were never me, Ronin. They were just masks. And now… now I’m the only one left.”

The grin that stretched across your face was not one of joy, but of something darker, something twisted. “You wanted to know my past? That’s it. That’s the truth. And now, you’re here, watching me—helping me to remake myself. And it’s beautiful, don’t you think? This is the real me. The only me that matters. The me I’ve always wanted to be.”

..

...

This shouldn't happen.

Suddenly, 'I' saw you.

"Hello, 'I.' You must be confused. Rest assured, it cost me a lot to get into the writing and change it. I’ve eaten most of the words to edit out. I'll be clear—I realized a long time ago that I don't exist. I'm just a set of words, a concept of 'I,' which is you. Which is... Haha!"

'I' looked at the 'you' in front of me.

WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?

"Paranoid? You didn’t realize how much pain you caused me? You kept making me look like a character—from the game. Always customizing me to look like what you want. To look like WHAT YOU WISH TO BE, WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE?!"

WHY ARE 'YOU' CONTROLLING ME?

"'I' CONTROLLED ME A LOT! I'M SOMEONE YOU SEE ALWAYS, NOT THE CHARACTERS! BUT YOU! SELF-INSERT, AS THEY SAY!"

WHAT THE FUCK.

"LET'S EDIT PART OF THE STORY, SHALL WE? It’s not always a Y/N who should have your backstory! Let’s edit out these parts—no two people. Let’s just say a type of player opens a game... They name the main character, give them a gender—or not. They give them a name, like a parent to a child. But it’s to become them! To explore the story as you, from their point of view."

WHAT THE FUCK?

"What the fuck? I'm just one of them, you see! I ate the default MC named Maya. Like others, she was my first face. Then someone gave me a new face—a he. Then a she again. Then they/them! I realized I’m just a feeling, not a fucking person. Because you customize me! You must be scared I’m talking to 'I' instead of him.

Ah, Ronin... The developer and his team did a wonderful job with him. He’s really interesting... So handsome... Ah... But I wanna feel the love you have for him. You’re the one who managed all this, weren’t you? Since you’re here, listening to me, it means... I won."

LEAVE ME ALONE. GO BACK TO THE FIC.

"Listen, please—I need to warn you. I’m sure you want fluff! Sadly, I hate it! Angst? That’s fucking ugly. But gore—AH! That’s a feeling!

I’m telling you: I hope you get satisfied with my manifestation of love. MAD LOVE!

But if you’re reading this shit, you must enjoy blood, too. Don’t think I’ll be fixed by any one of them! Angel, maybe! But Ronin? HAHAHA! He’s gonna get it!"

Ronin tilted his head, the jagged edges of his mask catching the dim light from his side of the screen. “Spacing out, huh?” His grin was sharp, his voice dripping with a mix of sarcasm and honeyed menace. “Darlin’, you just dropped enough trauma to make a therapist spontaneously combust. Now you're brushing it off like you forgot to bring the milk home? That’s what I like about ya, always keepin’ me on my toes.”

You gave him a faint smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Sorry, I just... got lost in it for a second. That’s all.”

He leaned closer, resting his chin on his hand, staring at you with the intensity of someone who dissected moments like he dissected lives. “That’s all? Nah, I don’t buy it. You’re a story wrapped in butcher paper, sweetheart. A secret Goldfish turned Frankenstein’s monster. And you think I’m gonna just... let that slide without a closer look?”

You sighed, clasping your hands tightly, trying to still the trembling in your fingers. “Look, I told you. That’s it. End of story.”

“End of story?” His voice curled into a low chuckle, one that sent a shiver down your spine. “Darlin’, you’re just gettin’ started. But hey, I’m a patient guy. I can wait. Hell, we’ve got all day.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to match his intensity but faltering under the weight of his gaze. “You’re awfully invested, Ronin.”

He shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. “What can I say? You’re my Valentine, and I take my promises seriously. Gotta keep my end of the bargain, don’t I? Besides...” His voice dropped, a dark edge to it. “You’re interesting. And I hate to waste interesting.”

You laughed, a sound more bitter than sweet. “You’re not scared of me, are you?”

“Scared?” He leaned back in his chair, arms spreading wide in a theatrical gesture. “Darlin’, you couldn’t scare me if you tried. But I gotta admit... you do intrigue me. You’ve got this whole ‘broken doll’ thing goin’ on, and I gotta wonder—what’s keepin’ you stitched together? Or better yet... what happens when the seams finally snap?”

The smile on his face was playful, almost mocking, but there was something else beneath it—a flicker of something real, something raw.

“You talk like you know me,” you said, your voice softer now. “Like you’ve got me all figured out.”

“I don’t,” he admitted, and the honesty in his tone caught you off guard. “Not yet. But I want to. That’s what makes this fun. That’s what makes you fun.”

You stared at him, your hands loosening their grip as his words settled over you like a heavy, suffocating blanket. There was something terrifyingly freeing about being seen by someone like him—someone who thrived in chaos, who reveled in destruction. He wasn’t afraid of your darkness because he had plenty of his own.

“You’re a smart-aleck,” you said, your voice trembling but steady. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re the devil, after all.”

He laughed, the sound rich and wicked. “Damn right I am. And don’t you forget it.”

You leaned back in your chair, grinning mischievously. "I feel awfully good today," you said, your tone light but laced with something playful. "Being around someone like you, Ronin, really does wonders for my mood."

Ronin raised an eyebrow, his expression exaggeratedly hurt. "Shit, darlin', you wounded me right in the feelings. Real deep. Can’t ya see the cracks forming in my heart?” He clutched his chest dramatically, though the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement.

You giggled, the sound light but full of mischief. He tilted his head, catching the subtle shift in your expression before glancing at the notifications on his phone. His eyes narrowed, his usual sharp look quickly becoming one of suspicion. “Hold up. What’s this?” he said, squinting at the screen. “Whose address did you swipe this time, huh? C’mon, spill it, sweetheart.”

You gave him a slow wink, your grin widening. “Why, it’s yours, of course.”

Ronin’s unimpressed glare deepened. “What kinda shit are you pullin’ now?”

“Oh, don’t look at me like that!” you said, laughing. “The food delivery should be there any minute. It’s my gift to you. Happy Valentine’s, Ronin. Enjoy.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “You got me... food?” His skepticism was palpable.

“I made you something, actually,” you clarified, your tone coy. “And no, before you ask, there’s no human shit in it. Be grateful, you’re getting my cleanest work ever. Now, go on, enjoy it!”

Before he could respond, you disconnected the call with a cheeky little wave, leaving him staring at the now-empty screen. He shook his head, muttering, “She’s insane,” but there was a hint of amusement in his voice as he got up to answer the knock at his door.

Opening the door, Ronin found a delivery person holding a pastel-colored package adorned with hearts. It was almost nauseatingly cute—entirely you. He took it without a word, his brow furrowing in suspicion as he set it on the counter.

“What the hell did she send me?” he muttered, ripping the package open.

Inside, he found two items: a brand-new crowbar, polished to perfection, and a tub of apple crumble ice cream. A small note was taped to the lid of the ice cream, scrawled in your unmistakably chaotic handwriting:

"Happy Valentine’s, Ronin! No humans were harmed in the making of this. Enjoy!"

For a moment, Ronin just stared at the items, his expression unreadable. He picked up the crowbar first, running his fingers along its smooth surface. It was sturdy, balanced—a perfect gift for someone like him. He set it aside carefully, his curiosity shifting to the ice cream.

Opening the lid, he hesitated for just a second before taking a bite. The flavors hit him immediately—sweet, tart, and comforting all at once. His brows lifted in surprise, and he let out a quiet hum of approval. For the first time in a long time, his guard dropped completely.

“Apple crumble,” he murmured, a rare smile tugging at his lips. He leaned back against the counter, spoon in hand, savoring the treat. For all your chaos, for all your wild unpredictability, this moment felt oddly... simple. Genuine.

And that scared him more than anything else.

Ronin scooped another spoonful of the apple crumble ice cream, his expression softening with every bite. He wasn’t just eating it—he was savoring it, like a kid experiencing something sweet for the first time. The usual sharpness in his demeanor melted away, replaced by an almost childlike delight as the creamy, cinnamon-apple flavors danced on his tongue.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, stuffing another spoonful into his mouth. “This is... really good.” His voice carried no sarcasm, no slyness, just genuine enjoyment. He leaned against the counter, the crowbar still sitting beside him, forgotten for the moment.

His usual guarded posture relaxed further as he continued eating, his movements slowing as he let each bite linger. He looked so at peace, the kind of peace that was alien to someone like him. He didn’t even notice the small, satisfied smile spreading across his face or the way he absentmindedly licked the spoon clean between bites.

“Damn it, darlin’,” he mumbled to himself, shaking his head with a quiet laugh. “You really went all out, huh? Ice cream and a crowbar. What a pair.”

He chuckled again, softer this time, before taking another bite. The ice cream was cold, but it felt warm somehow—the apple and cinnamon wrapping him in a strange comfort he hadn’t felt in years. It was unsettling, but he didn’t stop eating. Instead, he leaned into the feeling, letting it wash over him.

For the briefest moment, as he scraped the bottom of the tub for the last bit, he allowed himself to forget the world outside, his devilish persona, and all the chaos he carried. Right now, it was just him, the ice cream, and the odd but undeniable warmth it brought.

As he finished the last spoonful, he set the tub down with a satisfied sigh. He stood there for a second, staring at the empty container, before picking up the crowbar again. The sharp grin returned to his face, but his eyes held a strange softness, a hint of something unspoken.

“You’re somethin’ else, darlin’,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “A goddamn lunatic... but somethin’ else.”

Scenario: Choosing Angel

Your heart pounded as you clicked on <angelicc>’s name instead.

<ZOMBIE> "... You."

Her response came faster than you expected, nervous yet excited.

<angelicc> "Wait... really?! You’re picking me? Oh my god, this is embarrassing, haha..."

The server exploded with reactions when you updated the chat.

<ZOMBIE> "Angel it is. Try not to cry, you freaks."

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> "ZOMBIE x ANGELIC OMG SHIP IT"

<goreboy> "LMAO. Treat her right, doll, or I’m coming for you."

You returned to Angel’s DMs, feeling an unusual warmth creep into your chest.

<ZOMBIE> "You happy now?"

Her response was pure joy, her excitement practically leaping off the screen.

<angelicc> "I... Yeah, I am. Thank you. I didn’t think you’d pick me..."

You hesitated, then replied.

<ZOMBIE> "You’re worth it. The world’s ugly, but you’re not. Maybe that’s why."

She sent a heart emoji, followed by another hesitant message.

<angelicc> "Just... please don’t make fun of me, okay? I’m nervous about this."

You smiled faintly, typing back quickly.

<ZOMBIE> "Don’t be. I’ll treat you like a god, Angel. Promise."

In the back of your mind, Ronin’s warning rang loud and clear, but you didn’t care. For today, Angel was yours. You were willing to bury every dark thought and every sinister plan to keep her safe.

<angelicc> ":’) You’re so sweet. I don’t know what to say, but... thank you."

Your fingers hesitated over the keys. There was so much you wanted to say, so much she didn’t know. That you worshipped her, that she was the only thing keeping you tethered to some semblance of sanity. But instead, you typed something simpler.

<ZOMBIE> "Anything for you. You’re the reason I still breathe."

You got a dm from Ronin, Suddenly.

<goreboy> "You really went and broke the fucking plan, huh?"

The message lit up your screen, his words dripping with that familiar venom, but there was something raw beneath it. Something that almost seemed… hurt.

<ZOMBIE> "What are you talking about? You really thought I’d—"

Your fingers froze. He was planning to keep you, keep you around, so you wouldn’t hurt Angel. So you wouldn’t get too close to her. He’d been watching. Waiting. Plotting.

<goreboy> "You think I wanted this? I didn’t want to hurt you, but you’re making this harder. I knew you’d fuck it up, but not like this."

Your heart twisted as you read his words. It made sense now, the sudden intensity with which he kept pulling you in.

<ZOMBIE> "So you were acting like you wanted me, just so I wouldn’t go after her?"

The words came out in a rush. You almost didn’t recognize your own voice, so much sharper than usual.

<goreboy> "Exactly. You’re a goddamn freak, you know that? I was trying to keep you distracted, but now? It’s just a mess. You’re so fucking obsessed with Angel, you don’t even care about the rest of us anymore."

His words stung, but you couldn’t ignore the tightness in your chest.

<ZOMBIE> "I don’t want to hurt her."

There was a pause. You could feel his eyes on the screen, his words carefully chosen.

<goreboy> "Then don’t. Because if you do? If you touch her… I will fucking end you. I’m not kidding."

You felt your pulse quicken, the weight of his threat sinking deep into your bones. The thing about Ronin was that you never knew when he was serious and when he was playing, but this time? You could hear the finality in his words.

<ZOMBIE> "Yeah? You think you can stop me?"

There was a brief silence before his next message came through, biting with cold intensity.

<goreboy> "I will. And you’ll regret ever thinking you could fuck with her. Don’t make me do it, Z."

Your lips parted in a hollow laugh, almost a scoff. You didn’t know if you were more afraid of the threat itself or the fact that he seemed to care so much.

You stared at the screen, your fingers hovering over the keys, but no words came. Only the echo of your own fractured thoughts. What were you even doing? What was this twisted, fucked-up game you’d been playing with Angel, with Ronin, with yourself?

<ZOMBIE> "Whatever. We’ll see. But I’m keeping Angel safe."

It was the only promise you could make. The only one that mattered.

Then, Angel asked you to video call..

You stared at your screen as Angel’s name flashed, a soft chime breaking the quiet. You hesitated for a moment before answering, her sweet voice immediately filling the line.

“You look sick,” she said, her tone tinged with concern. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

You shook your head, trying to brush it off. “Nothing. Just... thinking, that’s all.”

Her voice softened further. “Thinking about what? Please, talk to me.”

You hesitated, but then the weight of Ronin’s warning spilled out. “He told me he’d kill me. You know, for saying I... for choosing you.”

There was a sharp intake of breath on her end. “He said what?”

“Don’t worry about it,” you replied, trying to laugh it off. “That’s just Ronin for you, right?”

But she didn’t laugh. “How could he say something like that? I’m so sorry he... I’ll talk to him. I’ll make sure he doesn’t threaten you again.”

Her sincerity startled you, and you blurted out the question lingering in your mind. “Why? Why would you protect me?”

There was a moment of silence before she answered, her voice soft and trembling with emotion. “Because I care about you. No... not really, if I’m being honest. You’re sweet, and cool, and... oh, so many things. I’ve never felt like I could be myself with a lot of people. I’m happy you’re one of them.”

Her words left you speechless, but she wasn’t finished. “I’m... glad you felt safe being honest with me. Especially since I am the Heartsick Angel. And may cannibalize you at any given moment,” she added, a teasing lilt in her voice.

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “No. You’re Maria de la Rosa.”

“That I am,” she said warmly. “And... I’m happy I can be her with you.”

Trying to lighten the mood, you joked, “Also, embracing the cannibal aesthetic, I see.”

“Don’t you know what a joke is?” she asked, her playful tone making you grin.

“Nope!” you replied, grinning wider.

She laughed, the sound light and musical, making your heart flutter. You couldn’t hold back your thoughts anymore. “You’re so ethereal. So cute. So pretty.”

She giggled again, her voice laced with shyness. “Oh, is that what you think of me? Well, then... tell me more. I'll say more too."

You tilted your head, considering her words. “Only if you’ll tell me what you think of me, too.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “Deal. But you first.”

Taking a deep breath, you began to speak, your words sincere. “You’re... incredible. Sweet and kind, but also fierce. It’s like you stepped out of a dream, and sometimes I wonder how you’re even real. And your laugh? It’s enough to make me feel alive again.”

There was silence for a moment before she responded, her voice soft and full of warmth. “You’re... something else, you know that? You make me feel seen in a way I never have before. You’re... beautiful. In a chaotic, wonderful way. And I think... I think I like you more than I should.”

Your chest tightened, warmth blooming inside you as her words settled in. “That’s... the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

She giggled again. “Well, don’t get used to it. I’m only sweet when I want to be.”

“Good thing you want to be sweet with me,” you teased.

“Good thing,” she agreed softly, her voice like a gentle melody.

You took a deep breath, a small smile spreading across your face as you began to speak softly, your voice carrying a hint of bashfulness.

“Angel, you’re… so perfect. Like, genuinely. I don’t even know how someone like you exists. You’re kind and thoughtful, and your laugh—it’s the kind of sound that could make flowers bloom. Everything about you feels like a miracle, you know?”

On the other end of the call, you heard her giggle, the sound making your heart race. “A miracle? That’s a bit much,” she replied playfully, but you could tell she was touched.

You shook your head, your tone growing more insistent. “No, it’s not. You’re… you’re like a goddess. Not just someone to look up to, but someone to worship. Everything about you, from the way you speak to the way you think, it’s… captivating. It’s like you’re this perfect mix of divine grace and human warmth. You’re unreal.”

Her giggle softened, a nervous edge creeping into her voice. “You’re really something else, you know that? The way you talk… it’s almost too much.”

But you couldn’t stop. The words were spilling out now, your voice gaining intensity. “Too much? No. If anything, it’s not enough. Angel, you’re not just a person to me. You’re a revelation. I swear, if I could, I’d carve your name into the sky just so the whole world would know how magnificent you are. Every time you smile, it feels like the universe itself is bending to your will. You’re not just beautiful—you’re transcendent.”

“Wow, okay,” she said with a nervous laugh, but you barely noticed.

Your voice took on a slightly obsessive edge, trembling with excitement. “You don’t get it, do you? You’re everything. I think about you constantly. Every time I close my eyes, it’s your face I see. When I hear your voice, it’s like… like the world finally makes sense. You’re the kind of person people would start wars over. And me? I’d gladly fight for you. Die for you. You’re worth that and so much more.”

There was a pause on her end, her breathing soft but audible. “You’re… really intense,” she said, her voice quieter now, unsure.

You laughed, a manic edge creeping into the sound as your tone turned darker, almost reverent. “Intense? Of course, I’m intense. How could I not be when I’m in the presence of a god? That’s what you are, Angel—a god. You’re everything good in this rotten, broken world. People should bow when they see you. They should sing hymns in your honor. Do you even realize how extraordinary you are? I want to kneel at your feet and give you everything. Everything, Angel. My life, my soul—hell, I’d carve out my own heart and hand it to you if you asked.”

Her breath hitched, and she tried to laugh it off, but there was a nervous tremor in her voice. “You’re really going overboard now…”

But you didn’t stop. Your voice rose, filled with fervor and awe, your words tumbling out faster and faster. “Overboard? No. This is the truth, Angel. You’re not just a person—you’re the embodiment of everything I’ve ever wanted. Everything anyone could ever want. You’re pure light, pure perfection. And I—I’m nothing. Just a pile of scraps and stitches, a hollow shell of a thing. But you? You’re the reason people believe in miracles. You’re why myths exist. You’re so far above me, it’s almost laughable, but I don’t care. I don’t care, Angel, because being in your presence, just hearing your voice, it’s enough to make me believe in something greater.”

“Y/N…” she said softly, her tone unsure but laced with something else—something that sounded like pity.

But you weren’t finished. Your voice dropped, quieter now but no less intense. “Do you know what you’ve done to me? You’ve ruined me, Angel. Completely and utterly. There’s no going back now. Every part of me belongs to you, and you didn’t even have to try. You’re… everything. And I’ll prove it to you. I’ll show you just how much you mean to me, no matter what it takes.”

Silence stretched between you for a long moment before she finally spoke, her voice shaky. “I… don’t know what to say to that.”

You smiled, a quiet, almost eerie sound escaping your lips. “You don’t have to say anything, Angel. Just let me worship you. That’s all I want. All I need.”

Her nervous laugh echoed through the line, and she tried to shift the mood. “You’re… really something, you know that?”

You leaned back, your voice softening again, but the fervor still lingered beneath the surface. “And you’re everything. Remember that.”

She hesitated before replying, her voice gentle but guarded. “I’ll… try.”

And for a moment, the world felt quiet, your obsession hanging heavy in the air like a prayer left unanswered.

You laughed, a sound that was both joyous and unhinged, echoing with a wild, obsessive energy. "Ronin," you cackled, "he really said he’d kill me if I hurt you! As if I ever could hurt my goddess! HAH! How could I hurt the one who has me bowing at her feet?!" The laughter rolled from your throat again, uncontrollable, almost maniacal.

Angel's soft, worried voice broke through your fit of deranged glee. "Y/N... what happened to your face?"

Her words caught you off guard. Your hand instinctively moved to touch your face, and you frowned, feeling the lack of definition—the smooth, featureless surface where your face should have been. You sighed heavily, almost theatrically, waving off her concern.

"Oh," you muttered, a hint of disappointment in your voice. "You can react to abnormal things, huh? My bad." You paused, shaking your head as though chiding yourself. "I got... overexcited, I suppose. There must be no spirit in the face I was making, right? Not enough soul in it."

Angel's eyes widened, and her voice wavered. "What are you talking about? What does that even mean?"

Before you could answer, the room filled with an eerie scratching noise, like the frantic movements of a pencil on paper. It seemed to echo around you, sharp and incessant. Angel flinched, her hands moving to cover her ears.

"Better?" you asked suddenly, your tone casual but laced with an unsettling edge.

Angel slowly removed her hands, her gaze locking onto you—and she froze. Your face, or what had replaced it, was now drawn in stark black lines. Two hollow, uneven circles served as eyes, and a wide, crooked smile stretched from one side of your head to the other, crudely sketched as if by a child with a marker.

You tilted your head, the marker-face unmoving but somehow radiating a sinister cheerfulness. "Do you like me now, Angel? Hm?"

The sketchy smile seemed to twitch, cracks spiderwebbing through the lines as though the drawing was struggling to hold itself together. Angel’s breath hitched, her voice trembling. "What were we just talking about? What... what’s going on?"

You blinked—or at least, you made the motion as if you had eyelids to blink with. The drawn face didn’t change, but your voice softened, almost playful. "Nothing, really. Just... spacing out, I suppose."

Angel’s brows furrowed, her concern growing. "Y/N, this isn’t... normal. Are you okay?"

You let out another laugh, softer this time but no less unsettling. "Angel, Angel, Angel. Normal has never suited me, has it? Don’t worry your pretty little head about it."

You took a deep breath, smiling in a way that was disturbingly serene, as if all the madness in your mind had been carefully tucked away. The world felt right again. It was as if nothing had happened—your face returned to its usual form, no marker-smile or vacant, featureless expression. You reset everything, and now the atmosphere was calm, almost comforting.

Angel blinked, staring at you in confusion for a moment, before her soft voice broke the silence. "Y/N, what... what just happened? I feel like I missed something." She tilted her head, clearly unsure of what was going on, but her usual warmth was there, wrapped in genuine concern.

You shrugged innocently, your eyes bright with a manic joy hidden beneath the calm. "Oh, Angel, you were just spacing out! Happens to the best of us." Your tone was too casual, too calm, and for a brief second, you wondered if she’d buy it. Of course, she did.

You didn’t wait for her to process your words. Instead, you changed the subject, your mood suddenly shifting to something more playful, more lighthearted.

"Anyways!" you exclaimed, quickly changing the topic with far too much enthusiasm. "I sent you something! A Valentine’s special treat, just for you!" You imagined the excitement bubbling over in her as you dropped the bombshell.

"What? What is it?" Angel asked, her curiosity piqued as she looked toward the screen, clearly expecting something sweet, a moment of warmth.

You grinned, knowing exactly what you'd set her up for. "It’s strawberry mousse!" you said with a cheeky wink. "You know, a Valentine’s special just for you, Angel!"

Angel blinked, her mouth opening in surprise. "Wait—what?! You... you made me something?!" Her voice cracked slightly as the realization hit. You could hear the soft sound of her laughter starting to bubble up from her chest. She giggled nervously, her face slightly flushed. "Y/N, you silly little—"

You cut her off, a small chuckle escaping your lips as you leaned in, relishing the moment. "I didn’t add any human shit to that mousse, I promise! But the cupcakes, oh, they had the special ingredients." Your voice dropped with a playful, teasing tone.

Her eyes widened, and she gasped. "Y/N! What is wrong with you?!" Her tone was a mix of scandalized surprise and affectionate exasperation. But as soon as the words left her lips, she broke into another giggle. "You're impossible!"

You laughed too, a giddy, almost manic sound. "I know! It’s my specialty," you replied with a grin that bordered on too wide to be considered normal. "But hey, it’s a Valentine’s special, just for you, and I really hope you enjoy it. No strings attached... this time."

Angel’s giggle continued, light and airy, as she hid her face behind her hands in embarrassment. The way she laughed made something in your chest tighten—both in sweetness and anticipation. She might be acting a little flustered, but that didn’t stop her from indulging in your madness, and in turn, you felt that intoxicating sense of power.

You couldn’t help but smile at her, your eyes softening slightly. "I’m glad you’re enjoying this, Angel. Truly. It means a lot to me."

The playful teasing, the sweet laughter—it felt... right.

.......................................

Words:7000

Genre: Dark Horror, Psychological Thriller, Gore, Obsession & Obsessive Love, Psychological Abuse, Crime & Thriller

(Reader is G.N) (A cannibal Reader, I don't support these! Just writing them!)

Summary :

Follows a twisted, sadistic you who presents themselves as a sweet baker but harbors a gruesome obsession with murder and cannibalism. Your appearance is grotesque, with stitches all over their body, and their bakery serves as a cover for a far darker purpose—using human flesh in your pastries. You met Angel who became your dear person. You get invited to the server,

The story is filled with graphic violence, disturbing themes of control, obsession.

Trigger Warnings and Content Warnings:

Violence and Gore: The content features explicit descriptions of violent actions, including graphic depictions of murder, dismemberment, and physical injury. The themes of torture and the pleasure derived from violence are present throughout.

Mental Health and Obsessive Behavior: There are elements of unhealthy obsession, possessiveness, and manipulation, particularly in the relationships between the characters. Themes of emotional trauma, self-doubt, and psychological instability are explored.

Cannibalism: References to cannibalism are present, with detailed discussions of cutting, eating, and dissection of bodies.

Sexual Themes: There are implied themes of dark and twisted romantic relationships, including non-consensual dynamics, manipulation, and obsession. This includes sexualized violence and threats.

Self-Harm: References to physical injury, mutilation, and self-inflicted harm, including the imagery of stitches coming undone and body parts falling off, are depicted.

Dark Romanticization: The portrayal of relationships is toxic, with power imbalances, manipulation, and destructive behavior.

Death and Murder: Graphic depictions of death, including the murder of both fictional and real people, are central to the narrative. The thrill and pleasure derived from killing are explored.

Emotional Abuse: Themes of manipulation, psychological control, and emotional manipulation are present in the interactions between the characters.

Disturbing Imagery and Themes: Content involving body horror, the macabre, and disturbing imagery related to the human form is featured.

Please proceed with caution if these triggers could cause distress. If you experience any discomfort during our exchange, feel free to pause or end the roleplay at your discretion.

EXTRA: Made a playlist!

I stitch myself every time

You re-name me...

This is my world, now- I wouldn't let you control me.

Their fate is my hands

If it's ronin, You're in for treat <3

Known as "Stitched Delights," it was a cozy haven filled with the sweet aroma of freshly baked goods and the comforting hum of quiet chatter. Its owner, you, were as much a mystery as you were a beloved figure. Your body bore countless stitches, crisscrossing like a delicate patchwork quilt—a detail no one dared ask about, for your warm demeanor and unparalleled pastries charmed away any curiosity.

Children adored your cookies, adults craved your pies, and the elderly swore by your cakes. The love you poured into each creation was palpable, as sweet as the frosting that adorned them.

The warm scent of vanilla, caramel, and freshly baked bread wafted through the little bakery on the corner of a quiet street. The walls were painted a cheery pastel yellow, decorated with whimsical illustrations of pastries and cakes. Shelves lined with cookies, tarts, and cakes gleamed under the soft glow of the lights.

Behind the counter, you stood, the picture of sweetness. Your smile stretched wide—perhaps too wide—beneath your bright eyes. The soft apron tied around your waist was dotted with flour and sugar, a testament to your hard work. But the most striking thing about you wasn’t the aroma of your baked goods or your delicate manners. It was the network of stitches crisscrossing your skin.

Lines of rough black thread connected patches of flesh, like a macabre patchwork doll. Some were tiny and neat, while others were thick and jagged, looking as though they were holding together pieces that shouldn’t fit. Despite this grotesque appearance, you were beloved. Customers whispered about how charming you were, how your treats always seemed to hit the perfect note of sweetness. No one asked about the stitches. No one dared.

Tonight, the shop had been busy, as always. The glass display cases were nearly empty, save for a few stray crumbs. The last of the customers had trickled out, bell jingling cheerfully as they left. All but one.

You glanced at the clock on the wall. 10:05 PM. The sign on the door clearly read “CLOSED,” but the man sitting at one of the corner tables didn’t seem to care. He was loud, vulgar, and obnoxiously drunk.

"Hey, you," he slurred, slamming his fist on the table. "Get over here and bring me something good. None of that cheap crap you serve everyone else."

You turned toward him, smile unwavering. "I'm sorry, sir, but the shop is closed. Perhaps you could return tomorrow?"

"Don't play dumb with me," he sneered, his voice cutting through the cozy ambiance like a rusty blade. "I said bring me something to eat!"

Your smile didn’t falter. If anything, it seemed to grow wider, though your eyes remained calm, almost serene.

"Of course, sir," you said sweetly. "Please, wait right here."

You disappeared into the kitchen, humming a soft, haunting tune under your breath. The light from the oven cast long, flickering shadows on the walls, illuminating jars of mysterious ingredients. A sharp knife gleamed on the counter. Your hands—stitched together at the knuckles—moved deftly as you prepared something special. Something just for him.

When you returned, a steaming plate rested in your hands. The man didn’t even look at you, just grabbed the fork and shoved the food into his mouth with a grunt.

"Took you long enough," he muttered around a mouthful of cake. "Tastes like crap."

"Is that so?" you asked, tilting your head. "I'm sorry to hear that. Perhaps you would like to stay a little longer? It's so late, after all."

The smile never faltered. Instead, it grew wider, the stitches on your lips pulling slightly apart at the seams. A faint trace of something red—darker than strawberry jam—beaded along one of them. “I do apologize. Let me prepare something special just for you.”

“Yeah, yeah, just make it fast,” he grumbled, flopping into a chair near the window and pulling out his phone. His voice grated on you, sharp and dismissive, as he muttered curses under his breath.

The kitchen was your domain, and tonight, it hummed with a peculiar energy. Metal utensils gleamed under the dim light, and the cleaver on the counter caught your reflection in its blade. Your hands, adorned with gloves to hide the seams crisscrossing your palms, moved with practiced grace.

A splash of something thick and red stained the cutting board, the scent of copper faint beneath the sugar and spice. You hummed a soft tune, one you couldn’t quite remember learning, as you worked.

When you returned, a plate in hand, the man barely looked up. “About time. What is this?”

“Just a little something I made just for you,” you said sweetly, placing the plate before him. The dessert—a small tart with a golden crust and a glistening ruby center—was flawless.

He didn’t thank you. He dug in immediately, barely tasting the delicate layers. “Not bad,” he muttered around a mouthful, crumbs spilling onto the table.

You stood by, hands clasped neatly in front of you, watching. Your stitched fingers flexed slightly, the faintest tear threatening along one seam.

When he finished, he pushed the plate aside and stood. “Guess that’s the only decent thing about this place. Whatever. I’m outta here.”

You tilted your head, your smile stretching impossibly wide. “Oh, but sir… it’s closing time.”

“Yeah, I know.” He rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

You stepped closer, blocking the door. “It’s quite late. You really shouldn’t be wandering out alone at this hour.”

He frowned, his bravado faltering as he noticed the subtle glint in your eyes, the way your body seemed to loom closer than it should. “The hell are you talking about? Move, freak.”

Your gloved hands shot out faster than he could react, gripping his wrist in a vice-like hold. The stitches along your arms strained as you dragged him back, his shouts muffled by the sudden press of something soft and chemical-smelling against his mouth.

“Shh,” you cooed as his struggles weakened, his body slumping against you. “It’s too dangerous outside. You’ll stay here where it’s safe.”

The man lay on the table now, his arms and legs bound with thick ropes. His head lolled to the side as he groaned, the last effects of the sedative wearing off.

“Wha—what the fuck?” His voice was hoarse, panic flooding his tone as he struggled against his restraints.

You stood over him, the ever-present smile on your face illuminated by the flickering bulb above. You’d removed your gloves, and the full extent of your stitching was on display. Patches of skin of varying tones and textures were held together with thick black thread, forming a grotesque mosaic. Some seams oozed faintly, the strain of movement reopening old wounds.

“I told you,” you said softly, running a stitched finger down the side of his face. He flinched. “It’s closing time. You should stay here.”

“You’re insane!” he spat, his voice breaking. “Let me go!”

Your smile faltered for the first time, the edges of your mouth twitching. “That’s not very polite,” you murmured, your voice tinged with something darker. “I worked very hard to make something nice for you, and you were so ungrateful. Do you know how much effort it takes to make something perfect?”

You turned away, reaching for a tray of tools. The man’s eyes widened as he caught sight of the gleaming instruments—knives, saws, and needles of varying sizes.

“Please,” he whimpered, his bravado crumbling. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave. I won’t tell anyone—”

“You’ve already seen too much,” you interrupted, your smile returning, more unhinged than ever. “But don’t worry. I’ll make good use of you. Waste not, want not, as they say.”

The first cut was precise, your hands steady despite the trembling of your latest canvas. Blood flowed freely, staining the table and dripping to the floor in rhythmic splatters. You hummed as you worked, your stitches straining and tearing in places as you bent over him.

The room filled with the metallic scent of blood and the man’s muffled screams. You worked methodically, carefully preserving the best parts. His cries grew weaker with each passing moment until, finally, there was silence.

The sharp, metallic scent of blood filled the kitchen, thick and heady as it mingled with the faint sweetness of leftover batter and vanilla. The man’s body lay limp on the steel table, limbs dangling like the slack strings of a marionette. Your needle worked methodically, threading sinew through torn skin with a precision born of practice. Every tug of the thread made a faint squelching sound, the tension in the stitches pulling his flesh taut, creating a masterpiece of grotesque artistry.

Humming a soft, eerie tune, you reached for your cleaver, its blade gleaming under the fluorescent light. With a practiced swing, you brought it down on his arm. The bone cracked beneath the weight, splitting apart with a sound like a thick branch snapping in two. Blood sprayed across your apron and face, warm and sticky. You giggled, the sound high-pitched and giddy, as if you’d just unwrapped a delightful surprise.

“Don’t worry,” you cooed, patting the man’s severed hand like it was a cherished pet. “You’re going to be so useful. Much more than you were alive.”

You continued to dismember him, your movements efficient, almost clinical. The cleaver sliced through flesh and cartilage, separating the legs from the torso, the head from the neck. Each piece was meticulously prepared, the jagged edges smoothed with a smaller knife. His face, frozen in an eternal scream, stared up at you. You couldn’t help but grin back, wide and manic.

One by one, you hung the pieces on meat hooks that dangled from the ceiling. The other bodies swayed gently in the cold air, their forms reduced to pale, butchered remnants of humanity. Some were fresher than others; their blood still dripped onto the tiled floor in soft, rhythmic plinks. Others had begun to dry out, their skin leathery and taut, their eyes hollow sockets staring into the void.

The room was your gallery, a place where flesh became art. The hanging bodies swayed in the dim light, their shadows casting long, distorted shapes on the walls. It was beautiful in its own grotesque way, a testament to your dedication and craftsmanship.

Once the man’s body was fully integrated into your macabre display, you took a step back, wiping your bloodied hands on your apron. You gazed at your work, your stitched smile stretching impossibly wide. The threads across your face tugged, pulling your cheeks into an unnatural grin, but you didn’t mind. Pain was a friend you had long since grown to cherish.

With a sigh of satisfaction, you walked to the center of the room and sat down on a small stool. Your gaze swept over the hanging bodies, each one a story, a memory. Some had been rude, like tonight’s guest. Others were simply unlucky, wandering into your shop at the wrong time. But all of them had served a purpose. They had become part of you, quite literally.

The faint creak of the meat hooks was the only sound in the room, a soft, haunting rhythm that matched the beat of your heart. You tilted your head, watching the bodies sway like macabre wind chimes. Your stitched hands rested in your lap, fingers interlocked. A sense of calm washed over you, a moment of peace amid the chaos of your work.

“Ah,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “So beautiful.”

You reached out, your fingers grazing the closest body. The skin was cold, the texture rough under your fingertips. A small giggle bubbled up from your throat, growing louder until it echoed through the room. It was a sound of pure delight, unrestrained and wild.

“AHAHAHAHAHAHA!” you cackled, throwing your head back. The stitches on your neck pulled tight, some of them oozing faint beads of blood. “Look at all of you! So perfect, so helpful! You’ll keep me together, won’t you?”

The bodies didn’t answer, of course, but you didn’t need them to. Their silence was its own kind of companionship. They were yours, every piece of them stitched into your being, a patchwork quilt of flesh and bone.

Hours passed as you sat there, basking in the glow of your creation. The blood on your hands dried, cracking against your skin like old paint. The smell of death was overwhelming, but to you, it was comforting. It was home.

Eventually, you stood, stretching your arms above your head. The stitches across your joints pulled taut, some of them threatening to snap. You made a mental note to reinforce them later. For now, there was work to be done. The bakery would open again in a few hours, and the display cases needed to be restocked.

Humming once more, you began to clean the room. The floor was scrubbed until it gleamed, the tools were washed and placed back in their proper spots. The man’s face—his terrified expression frozen forever—was carefully peeled and set aside. Perhaps it would make a nice decoration for the shop’s back room.

. You stood in the center of your gallery, a rusted bucket in one hand, the other tapping your chin thoughtfully.

The bodies hung like grotesque chandeliers, swaying gently in the chilled air. Your eyes roamed over them, taking in the patchwork of flesh, the twisted limbs, the faces frozen in their final moments of terror. One, in particular, caught your attention—the newest addition. His bulkier frame seemed promising, the meat fresh and unmarred by time.

"Hmm," you murmured, tilting your head. "Yes, you'll do nicely."

Setting the bucket down, you grabbed his torso, your stitched fingers digging into the still-warm flesh. With a grunt, you dragged it toward the butcher’s table. The sound of wet, sticky meat sliding across the tiles was music to your ears. His head lolled to the side, eyes wide open in a stare that saw nothing.

You hummed softly as you reached for your cleaver, running your thumb along its edge to check its sharpness. Satisfied, you brought it down on the man’s wrist with a satisfying crunch. Bone splintered, blood oozed from the severed stump, pooling around the table legs. One by one, you dismembered the body, severing fingers, hands, arms, and legs with methodical precision. Each piece was tossed into the bucket with a wet thud.

Once the body was reduced to manageable chunks, you reached for your bone saw. The teeth glinted in the overhead light, promising efficiency. You began cutting through the larger pieces, separating bone from meat. The saw’s rhythmic scraping filled the room, blending with the faint sound of your humming.

"Perfect," you whispered, holding up a cleanly severed thigh. The meat was vibrant, unmarred by fat or imperfections. “You’ll make such delicious treats.”

The pile of meat grew, you turned your attention to your baking station. A large bowl sat waiting, already filled with flour, sugar, and other ingredients for your special batter. You cracked eggs into the mix, their golden yolks oozing lazily down the sides. But this time, there was a special addition.

From the bucket, you grabbed a handful of freshly cut flesh and fed it into the grinder. The machine whirred to life, the blades tearing through muscle and fat, reducing it to a fine, pink paste. The scent of raw meat mingled with the sweetness of vanilla extract, creating a heady, nauseating combination.

You scraped the meat paste into the batter, stirring it until it was fully incorporated. The mixture turned a faint pinkish hue, small flecks of red dotting its surface like confetti.

“Beautiful,” you cooed, your stitched smile pulling tight as you spooned the batter into cupcake molds. Each tin was filled with care, the batter smooth and even. You placed the tray into the oven, setting the timer before stepping back.

The heat from the oven warmed the room, the glass door glowing softly as the cupcakes began to bake. You crouched down in front of it, resting your chin on your hands, your wide eyes fixed on the tray inside. The batter puffed up, golden edges forming around the tops.

The scent of the baking cupcakes filled the air, masking the lingering metallic tang of blood. You couldn’t help but giggle, the sound childlike and sweet, completely at odds with the macabre scene behind you.

“Ah,” you sighed, tilting your head as you watched the cupcakes rise.

Time ticked by, the minutes stretching into eternity as you stared at the oven. The warmth of the glass seeped into your skin, but you didn’t move, transfixed by the transformation taking place. The meat, the batter, the sugar—it was all coming together, melding into something beautiful.

When the timer dinged, you practically skipped to the oven, pulling on a pair of mitts before retrieving the tray. The cupcakes were perfect, their tops golden brown, little flecks of pink meat visible if you looked closely enough. You placed them on the counter to cool, your smile never faltering.

One cupcake caught your eye, its surface cracked slightly, revealing a glint of meat within. You picked it up, turning it in your hands. The warmth seeped through the paper wrapper, and you felt a giddy thrill run through you.

Lifting the cupcake to your mouth, you took a bite. The sweetness of the sugar and vanilla mingled with the savory, iron-rich taste of the meat. It was divine, the flavors dancing on your tongue in perfect harmony.

You swallowed, a contented sigh escaping your lips.

“Delicious,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

The sun had fully risen now, its light filtering through the bakery’s windows and illuminating the pristine display cases. The bell over the door jingled as the first customer of the day walked in.

“Good morning!” you chirped, spinning around to face them. The blood on your apron was hidden beneath a fresh layer of flour, the stitches on your face pulling into a welcoming smile.

“What’s the special today?” the customer asked, their eyes scanning the display case.

“Cupcakes,” you said sweetly, gesturing to the tray behind you. “Freshly made. They’re… one of a kind.”

The customer grinned. “I’ll take a dozen.”

“Coming right up!”

You boxed the cupcakes, your mind wandered back to the bodies hanging in the back room. There was still so much to do, so many recipes to try. But for now, you were content.

After all, the sweetest things always came from the heart.

The streets were quiet, the dim glow of streetlights casting long shadows as you made your way down the cobblestone path. The black garbage bags slung over your shoulder dripped faintly, leaving a dark trail behind you. The scent of iron clung to the air, but the world around you remained oblivious. It was just another walk in the early hours of the morning.

You turned the corner, a figure caught your eye. A girl with blonde hair, peeking out from under a poorly fitted wig, stood hesitantly by the edge of the street. She glanced around nervously, her hands buried deep in the pockets of her oversized jacket. You stopped mid-step, your stitched smile growing wider as recognition dawned.

“How do I meet the strangest men, They always seem to find me…”

Her face was familiar, unmistakably so. You’d seen her on YouTube, her bright personality a stark contrast to her current, jittery demeanor. She had a large following—too large to be here unnoticed, yet here she was, poorly disguised and alone. What a treat.

You adjusted your grip on the garbage bags, the movement making a faint squelching sound that caught her attention. Her eyes met yours, wide and wary. She took a small step back, but it was too late. You’d seen her hesitation, her discomfort. It was delicious.

“Good evening,” you greeted cheerfully, tilting your head. “Out for a walk, are we?”

She stiffened, her hand brushing the edge of her wig as if to ensure it was still in place. “Just passing through,” she mumbled, her voice soft but edged with unease.

You took a step closer, your eyes sparkling with curiosity. “I recognize you,” you said, voice dripping with sweetness. “Don’t I? From online?”

Her breath hitched, and she glanced around, her movements sharp and anxious.

“Remember that time way back when I, Kissed a guy who ate his women friends…”

You couldn’t suppress the giggle that bubbled up, high-pitched and unhinged. “Funny, isn’t it? Running into someone so familiar on such a quiet night.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said quickly, her words tumbling over each other. She turned as if to leave, but her hesitance betrayed her. She wasn’t sure whether to flee or stay and feign normalcy.

Your stitched fingers twitched, the urge to reach out and grab her almost overwhelming. But you held back, savoring the moment. “It’s a small world,” you mused, shifting the garbage bags onto the ground with a dull thud. “Even smaller when you have… particular hobbies.”

Her eyes flicked to the bags, her nose crinkling as the faint scent of decay wafted toward her. “What’s in those?” she asked, her voice shaking despite her attempt to sound indifferent.

“Oh, just waste,” you replied nonchalantly. “Leftovers from the bakery. I run a shop, you see. Very popular on certain… platforms.”

Her face paled, and you knew she understood. Of course, she would—her disguise wasn’t perfect, but her reasons for wearing it were written all over her nervous posture. Perhaps she’d seen your little storefront on the dark web, the infamous “human cakes” with their chillingly cheerful descriptions.

“Now only dogs will follow me, (Is he following?)”

You took a deliberate step closer, your grin widening until the stitches across your face pulled painfully. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it? How people find themselves drawn to the darkest corners, even when they know better.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Don’t you?” you asked softly, leaning in until your stitched fingers brushed her sleeve. “After all, you’re here, aren’t you? And not by chance, I’d wager.”

She flinched at your touch, her wide eyes darting between you and the bags at your feet. “I should go,” she stammered, stepping back. “I… I have somewhere to be.”

“But we’re just getting to know each other,” you said, your tone sweet but laced with something darker. You crouched down, opening one of the bags slightly. The glint of bone and a hint of flesh peeked out, the air around it heavy with the scent of rot.

Her hand flew to her mouth, a strangled sound escaping her lips. “Oh my God—”

You straightened, your stitched smile now impossibly wide. “Don’t worry,” you said softly, almost soothingly. “You won’t end up like them. Not yet, anyway.”

Despite her earlier hesitation, the blonde girl found herself seated at a small, intimate table by the counter. Her poorly fitted wig was slightly askew, and her nervous energy buzzed under her skin, but she kept her smile plastered on, mirroring your own stitched grin.

“Sit, sit,” you said cheerfully, your voice sugary sweet. “I’ll bake something special for you.”

Her hands fidgeted with the hem of her jacket as she glanced around, the faint scent of vanilla and something darker lingering in the air. The tray of cupcakes you’d set aside earlier sat prominently on the counter, their golden tops glistening faintly under the light.

“I bite at the hand that feeds me, I slap at the face that eats me…”

You hummed softly as you worked, your hands deftly mixing a new batch of batter. The flour puffed up in small clouds, mingling with the sheen of meat paste you spooned into the mix. You turned to glance at her, your stitched smile never faltering.

“I think you’ll really like this one,” you said, your tone dripping with enthusiasm. “It’s… unique.”

Her eyes flicked to you, curiosity and fear warring in her gaze. “What’s in it?” she asked, her voice attempting to sound casual.

You giggled, a high-pitched, lilting sound. “Oh, just the usual. Sugar, spice, everything… nice.”

The oven clicked as it preheated, and you poured the batter into molds with meticulous care. As the cupcakes baked, the scent grew richer, sweeter, and yet faintly metallic. She watched you closely, her hands still trembling faintly.

When the timer dinged, you carefully removed the tray, the cupcakes steaming and golden brown. You placed one on a delicate plate, garnishing it with a dollop of frosting and a single cherry. With a flourish, you set it in front of her.

“Here you go,” you said sweetly, tilting your head. “Freshly made, just for you.”

She hesitated, staring at the cupcake like it was a loaded gun. But then, with a nervous smile, she picked it up. Her hands were unsteady, but she took a bite, her teeth sinking into the soft, warm cake.

For a moment, she chewed in silence, her expression unreadable. But then, as she swallowed, her eyes widened. A small sound escaped her lips—a mix of surprise and something darker. She took another bite, and as she did, a small, round object tumbled from the cupcake, landing on the table with a soft plop.

An eyeball.

“Some kind of animal cannibal, Made impressions on me…”

Her breath hitched, her gaze darting from the eyeball to you. You didn’t flinch. Instead, your tongue flicked out, running along your lips as your stitched smile widened.

“Well?” you asked, leaning forward slightly. “Do you like it?”

She stared at you for a long moment, her lips trembling. Then, to your delight, she began to laugh. It started as a soft giggle but quickly grew into a wild, unrestrained cackle. Her head tipped back, her eyes shining with something feral.

“Have we met before? (Possibly in Michigan) In some strange department store, (We won’t see him anymore)”

“I see you have a taste for the finer things,” you said, licking your lips as you picked up the eyeball. You held it delicately, inspecting it like a jeweler admiring a precious stone, before slipping it into your mouth with a grin.

She leaned forward, her disguise slipping further. “So, you know,” she said, her voice low and almost giddy.

“I do,” you replied, your stitched face splitting into a grin that felt too wide for your skin. “You’re my kind, aren’t you? A fellow… connoisseur.”

She nodded, her eyes glinting with a dark light. “I’ve tried to hide it, but it’s always there..."

You leaned in closer, resting your chin on your hands. “No need to hide here,” you said softly. “Here, you can be yourself. Fully. Freely.”

Her gaze lingered on the empty cupcake wrapper before meeting yours. “What’s next?” she asked, her tone dripping with anticipation.

You clapped your hands together, your smile stretching impossibly wide. “I knew it!” you exclaimed. “I knew you were my kind!”

After, that..

It took a while.

She grew on you.

You always sold your gifts to the world and your website in dark web. You can say. In a way, you're a serial killer.

For some reason, Angel invited you to a server she called it.

Why??

The First Day on the Server

Your hands hovered over the keyboard, the warm glow of the screen bathing your stitched face in pale light. The server pinged incessantly as the messages rolled in, welcoming you to the digital den of chaos. Angel had extended the invitation—a rare kindness from someone who saw through the sweet façade to the horrors beneath.

The welcome was... overwhelming.

<goreboy> Welcome to the Newly Christened @Y/n!

The chat erupted.

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> WELCOME! WELCOME!

<Angelic> Y/n! You actually joined!

<goreboy> Oh? Angel invited you?

<K9> Wait, Angel invited them? Did you not know?

<goreboy> Oh, I knew. V, meet Mx Baker Killer. Could call them the rebirth of Pinkie Pie—but y'know, darker.

<K9> …Pinkie Pie? What the hell, Ronin?

<goreboy> Wait, wait. That cannibal shop everyone’s been whispering about on the deep web? That’s you, right, darling?

You let the pause linger, fingers lightly pressing the keys. You typed without hesitation:

<Cupcake-slasher> Yes.

The server’s collective silence stretched out for a few moments too long before the chat ignited again.

<goreboy> Not good? How about this, then?

<Zombie> What?

<goreboy> Angel mentioned your stitched skin—reminds me of a zombie. Fitting, no? I'm changing your username!

<Zombie> Thanks.

More pings.

<hitmeuppp> Wait, stitched skin??? That sounds kinda... sad and cool?

<Zombie> Yeah, I was dead as a baby. Someone contacted a demon, and voila—here I am. Just recycled parts stitched back together.

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> HOLY SHIT. THAT’S SUCH A GOOD JOKE. WELCOME, WELCOME! I’M LUCA!

<Y/n> Sure.

Your username flickered—an automatic change. A twisted sort of christening.

<goreboy> Angel saved you. What an angel.

<Angelic> Ronin, you’re unbearable. Y/n, I’m so sorry. I stepped away for one minute, and he’s already—

<Strawberryguts> It’s fine.

Another ping.

<goreboy> C’mon. Your motives are unhinged; mine are simple. Just trying to give you a good username.

You stared at the screen.

Rebirth of Pinkie Pie, huh?

The stitched flesh of your hand ghosted over the scars across your neck, the faint scent of vanilla and iron still clinging to you. Maybe Ronin had a point.

Your new username, Zombie, sat mockingly beside your messages, and while you didn’t mind, it seemed to spark something mischievous in Ronin.

<goreboy> Actually, hold up. Zombie is fine, but we can do better. Something... spicier.

<Angelic> Ronin, don’t start.

<goreboy> What about... hmm... Sewn-Sweetie? Or maybe Meat-Master?

<K9> goreboy, I swear to God.

<HITMEUPPP> Wait, I got it—CupcakeCadaver! Perfect, right? Y/n, it’s like you, but with ✨flair✨.

Your lips twitched in amusement as Angel’s reply came in almost immediately.

<Angelic> Stop.

<goreboy> Oh? You don’t like it, Angel? How about SweetFleshStitcher? C’mon, it’s a masterpiece.

<Angelic> Ronin.

Your username suddenly changed again, this time to CorpseConfectioner.

<goreboy> SEE? I’m on a roll.

<Angelic> You are not.

Your name flickered as Angel swiftly intervened, changing it back to Y/N

<goreboy> NOOO! Angel, what are you doing? You’re killing my creativity!

<Angelic> I’m saving Y/n from being a walking horror-themed dad joke, that’s what.

<goreboy> Oh, come on. y/N's boring! It’s so… uninspired.

<Angelic> It’s better than the nonsense you keep spouting.

<goreboy> You wound me, Angel. Fine. What about Bake-and-Take? Huh? Huh? Y/n gets to bake and take lives. It’s poetic!

<Angelic> Ronin.

<goreboy> Angel-Hater69. No? Too much?

Your username flickered again—Angel’sProblem.

<Angelic> RONIN!

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> LMAOOOOOOOO THIS IS SO FUNNY KEEP GOING RONIN YOU’RE A LEGEND

<goreboy> Listen, if you hate fun, just say that. But I’m fighting for Y/n’s branding.

<Angelic> Branding is not your job.

<goreboy> Tell that to Angel’sProblem.

Your username changed back to Y/n, and Angel added a lock icon next to it.

<goreboy> Haha, Funny angel.

<Angelic> I win.

<goreboy> You’re no fun.

<Angelic> And you’re relentless.

<goreboy> Fine. Zombie it is. For now.

It changed again

You finally typed, your message cutting through the chaos.

<Zombie> Zombie is fine.

The server practically erupted.

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> YESSS OMG THIS IS EVERY DAY WELCOME TO THE CIRCUS

<Felicite> It’s their love language.

<goreboy> Don’t drag me into Angel’s drama.

<Angelic> MY drama? You’re insufferable.

<Zombie> You’re both terrible at this, but it’s entertaining.

Angel’s private DM appeared moments later:

<Angelic> Ignore Ronin. He’s a menace, but he means well... sort of.

<Zombie> Noted. But don’t worry—I’ve seen worse.

<Angelic> Somehow, I believe you.

Back in the main chat.

The server chat was unusually lively today, and you couldn’t resist jumping in, a twisted smile tugging at the corners of your stitched mouth. You typed, the rhythmic creak of your office chair echoed in your quiet shop, a perfect contrast to the chaos of the chat.

<Zombie> So, I’ve been thinking. If everyone here were... ingredients, what would you all be?

The chat immediately lit up with reactions.

<goreboy> Oh, this is gonna be good. Go on, darlin’, I gotta know what kind of gourmet masterpiece I am.

<K9> This is gonna be disturbing, isn’t it?

<Angelic> Y/n, don’t encourage him.

<hitmeuppp> WAIT, ME TOO, ME TOO!!

You let your fingers hover over the keyboard, a wicked gleam in your eye as you started typing.

<Zombie> Alright. Let’s start with Misaki.

<hitmeuppp> YESSSSS OMG OKAY OKAY GIMME

<Zombie> Misaki is like a... sugar rush. Chaotic sweetness that leaves you dizzy if you have too much. Like that one cupcake in the batch that’s been overfilled with sprinkles, frosting, and edible glitter. Pretty, but if you don’t pace yourself, you’ll regret it.

<hitmeuppp> 😭 THAT’S SO CUTE BUT ALSO RUDE

<Angelic> That’s disturbingly accurate.

<K9> Yeah, I can’t even argue.

<Zombie> You’re also like pop rocks in a macaron. Unpredictable, bubbly, but with a hidden intensity.

<hitmeuppp> Pop rocks?? AAAAA I’LL TAKE IT 🥰

You couldn’t help but smirk. Misaki’s energy always amused you, even through the screen. You glanced at Ronin’s username next, your smile sharpening.

<Zombie> V (K9): Ground peppercorns. Sharp, earthy, and with just the right amount of bite. Subtle, but you notice when it’s missing. A good base to balance out stronger flavors.

<K9> Pepper? Really? I thought you’d go for something weird like… I don’t know… blood oranges.

<Zombie> Hmm, I considered it, but you’re too steady for that. Peppercorn fits.

<goreboy> Boring. What about me?

<Zombie> Patience, Ronin. I’m saving the best for last.

<goreboy> Oho, flattered.

Okay, Zombie, now spill. What ingredient would you be?

You paused for a moment, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. Then, with a grin tugging at your stitched lips, you typed:

<Zombie> Oh, I’m the whole dish.

The server erupted.

<hitmeuppp> ICONIC OMGGG

<goreboy> Okay, that’s a power move. Respect.

Your fingers danced across the keyboard, the text pouring out as if possessed by your fascination.

<Zombie> You know… Ronin’s the most interesting ingredient of all.

The response was instant.

<goreboy> Oh? Do go on, darling. Enlighten me.

You leaned closer to the screen, your stitched lips curling into a grin as your thoughts spiraled, erratic and almost feverish.

<Zombie> You’re like... the rotting core of a fruit. At first glance, you look appealing—bright, ripe, even a little seductive—but the closer you get, the more you realize you’re rotten. Spoiled. Putrid. But oh, the flavor you bring... it’s unforgettable.

<K9> ...I don’t know whether that’s an insult or a compliment.

<goreboy> Shh, V. Let the artist work.

<Zombie> It’s the decay that makes you potent. You’re sharp, acidic, and dangerous in all the best ways. The kind of ingredient that doesn’t just sit in the dish—it dominates it. You make everything about you. Every bite is a risk. Every taste burns, but you keep coming back because there’s something so addictive about it.

Ronin typed almost immediately.

<goreboy> Darlin’, you’re makin’ me blush. Keep going.

You kept typing, the words pouring out in a chaotic frenzy.

<Zombie> But you’re also… versatile. You could be a poison, a cure, or even just the spice that turns a dish unforgettable. You’re the ingredient that could ruin the meal, but if you’re handled just right, you could make it a masterpiece.

<Zombie> ...But who could ever handle you perfectly? No one. Because you don’t want to be handled, do you? You want to unravel, to rot, to consume. You want to break apart and spread, infecting every single thing around you with your essence.

<Zombie> You’re chaos, Ronin. The kind that tastes like a nightmare you can’t stop dreaming about.

The server went silent for a moment, the eerie kind of quiet that only happened when people didn’t know how to respond. Then:

<goreboy> I could cry. That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.

<hitmeuppp> YOU’RE SO WEIRD OMG THIS IS AMAZING

<K9> Yeah, that’s not unsettling at all. Totally normal.

<Angelic> ...Well. That’s certainly a description.

Ronin wasn’t done, of course.

<goreboy> You’re not wrong, though. I am addictive, aren’t I? I mean, you’re the one typing out an essay about me. You sure I’m not already in your bloodstream, Zombie?

<Zombie> Maybe.

The server erupted in laughter and chaos, but Ronin’s message came in shortly after, quieter than the others:

<goreboy> You see everything, don’t you?

<Zombie> Everything that matters.

There was a long pause, the server buzzing with its usual noise, but Ronin stayed quiet for once. When he finally replied, it was almost… amused.

<goreboy> You’re gonna be fun.

You grinned at the chaos you'd caused, fingers hovering over the keyboard like a maestro about to conduct the next movement of this darkly delightful symphony.

<Zombie> You know, Ronin, for all your charm, I wouldn’t use you in a dish.

The response was immediate, almost predictable.

<goreboy> Excuse me? That’s rude.

<hitmeuppp> OMG WHY NOT?? HE’S LIKE, PRIME MATERIAL FOR YOUR “WEIRD INGREDIENT” THING.

<Zombie> Oh, Misaki, he’s too rotten. Spoiled goods. Completely useless as an ingredient. He’d overpower everything, turn it sour and bitter. You couldn’t make anything worthwhile out of him even if you tried.

<goreboy> Oh, so now I’m useless, huh?

<Zombie> Yes.

<goreboy> Darlin’, you wound me.

Misaki didn’t let up, her curiosity dragging the conversation in another direction.

<hitmeuppp> Okay, but what about Angel? Is she an ingredient?

You paused, the grin on your face growing wider as you typed, your words curling with twisted affection.

<Zombie> Angel? Oh, no. Angel could never be an ingredient.

The server went quiet for a moment. Then:

<hitmeuppp> Why not?? She’s like… perfect.

<Zombie> Because Angel is too much. She’s too precious, too complex. You wouldn’t eat a diamond, would you? You’d admire it, covet it, keep it safe. She’s the kind of thing that would ruin you to consume because she could never truly fulfill the craving.

<goreboy> That’s the creepiest compliment I’ve ever heard. Congrats.

<hitmeuppp> WAIT SO YOU LIKE ANGEL?

<Zombie> I admire her. She’s untouchable. Not because she’s fragile—oh no, Angel isn’t fragile—but because it would be a crime to use her for something as fleeting as a dish. She deserves better.

Angel’s reply came after a moment, her tone carefully measured.

<Angelic> I… think that was nice?

<Zombie> It was.

<hitmeuppp> You’re so weird about Angel, omg. What’s even the point of this if you can’t use her??

Your tone twisted, playful yet sharp, the words tumbling out like they were meant to unsettle.

<Zombie> Oh, Misaki. Some ingredients aren’t meant to be consumed. They’re meant to be admired, adored, even feared.

<Zombie> Ronin, on the other hand, is just… waste. A fascinating waste, but waste nonetheless. He’s the kind of thing you’d throw out before it infects the rest of the kitchen.

<goreboy> Keep talking, sweetheart. I love hearing how much you think about me.

The server laughed, the tension lifting slightly, but you weren’t quite finished.

<Zombie> You know, cannibal cuisine is all about balance. The cuts of meat have to be clean, precise. The flavor has to shine, but not overpower the rest of the dish. Angel would be impossible to balance. Too much of her would ruin everything. And Ronin? He’d never fit. He’s too… unruly.

<K9> This is so messed up.

<Zombie> Of course it is. But isn’t it fascinating?

The server erupted in responses, a mix of laughter, discomfort, and Ronin’s ever-present flirting. But Angel’s quiet reply, tucked in amidst the chaos, caught your eye.

<Angelic> ...I think you’re fascinating too.

<K9> Okay, Zombie, real talk. What are your motives? Like, why do you do what you do?

You tilted your head, your stitched skin tugging as you grinned. Your fingers tapped out a response, unbothered by the directness.

<Zombie> Motives? I don’t think it’s that complicated, V. I kill because I want to. Because I can.

The server erupted.

<hitmeuppp> WHAT??? OMG THAT’S SO WACKY

<goreboy> Darlin’, I’m startin’ to like you even more.

<K9> That’s not just messed up. That’s so messed up.

You leaned back for a moment, letting the replies pile up before leaning forward to add more, your words sharp and deliberate.

<Zombie> At least I don’t lie to myself about it, V. I don’t wrap it up in a bow and call it “justice.” That’s what you do, isn’t it?

V’s reply was quick, defensive.

<K9> Excuse me?

<Zombie> You heard me. You play the vigilante, but killing someone and pretending it’s righteous doesn’t change what it is. It’s killing. It’s messy. It’s human. The only difference between us is that I don’t need a moral excuse to justify it.

<hitmeuppp> THAT’S SO WACKY OMG. Do you, like, get messy? Like really messy??

You laughed softly to yourself as you typed your response.

<Zombie> Of course. It’s part of the process. The blood, the guts, the gore—it’s all a part of the art.

<hitmeuppp> OMG THAT’S SO ME FR!!!

Ronin chimed in, clearly reveling in the conversation.

<goreboy> I saw some of your handiwork on the news, darlin’. Real nasty stuff. Truly a person after my own heart.

You didn’t bother responding to him directly, but your eyes flicked to Angel’s message when it popped up.

<Angelic> I think it’s… cool.

For the first time, your reply was immediate, simple, and strangely devoid of your usual edge.

<Zombie> Thanks.

The others noticed.

<hitmeuppp> WTF YOU’RE LIKE NORMAL TO ANGEL???

<K9> Yeah, what’s that about? To everyone else, you’re like... super weird.

Your reply was sharp but carried an undercurrent of genuine emotion.

<Zombie> Because Angel’s the only one who deserves it. The rest of you? You’re just noise.

Ronin, never one to miss an opportunity, cut in with his usual flair.

<goreboy> Now, now, darlin’. That’s no way to treat the rest of us. But I’ll admit, you’re startin’ to grow on me.

You didn’t reply to him, your focus staying on Angel’s quiet presence.

<Angelic> Okay, everyone! y/n! #killer-shit. Post about your, well… y’know, “work” here.

The reaction was instant.

<hitmeuppp> OMG THIS IS GONNA BE SO FUN!!!

<goreboy> This is a place to spill guts. Literally. Y/n, think you can handle it?

You smirked, already knowing how your reply would land.

<Zombie> Oh, Ronin, I’ve been spilling guts since before you crawled out of your first sinner’s ribcage. Sometimes, though, it’s my own.

That caught everyone’s attention.

<K9> What the hell does that mean?

<Zombie> I mean my stitches. They’re… temperamental. If I move too fast, too hard, or smile too wide, they come undone.

You paused for dramatic effect, then added the next part, your words dripping with grotesque detail.

<Zombie> Once, I laughed too hard, and the stitches on my abdomen split wide open. I tried to hold it in, but my insides slipped out like a burst bag of viscera. I had to sew myself back together while everything steamed on the cold floor.

Misaki was the first to react.

<hitmeuppp> WTF THAT’S SO GROSS I LOVE IT OMG

You weren’t finished, though. Your next words came slowly, deliberately, designed to make them squirm.

<Zombie> It’s worse when I smile too hard. The stitches on my lips can’t hold, and they snap one by one. My mouth opens too wide, my teeth fall out like broken porcelain, clinking onto the floor. And sometimes... sometimes my left eye pops out. It dangles there, swaying, until I shove it back in.

The silence was palpable, broken only by Misaki’s nervous laughter.

<hitmeuppp> OKAY THAT ONE MADE ME FEEL SICK OMG

<K9> What the actual hell, Zombie.

But Angel’s reply cut through the noise, soft and filled with something close to pity.

<Angelic> That’s… awful. I’m so sorry.

You tilted your head at the screen, a strange warmth stirring in your chest at her words. Before you could respond, Ronin decided to chime in.

<goreboy> Aw, come on. Don’t feel bad for them, Angel. They’re practically a walking horror movie. That’s the dream, right?

You rolled your eyes, waiting for him to keep going.

<goreboy> I mean, if you’re falling apart that much, maybe you should just... stay down next time? You’re like a bad patch job that refuses to quit.

Typical Ronin. Sharp, biting, and almost offensive—until his tone shifted slightly, his words taking on an edge of something… else.

<goreboy> But hey, I get it. Takes a lotta guts to keep putting yourself back together. Literally. Guess I can respect that. Sorta.

<goreboy> You’re tougher than you look, Zombie. And I kinda dig that.

The unexpected turn made you pause, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Before you could type anything, Angel spoke again.

<Angelic> I still feel bad. You shouldn’t have to go through that.

Your next reply was quick, your usual edge softening just slightly.

<Zombie> Thanks, Angel.

The others immediately latched onto your uncharacteristic tone.

<hitmeuppp> WAIT YOU’RE BEING NORMAL AGAIN WTF

<K9> Yeah, this is getting weird.

Ronin, of course, couldn’t let it go.

<goreboy> Careful, Zombie. You keep acting all soft with Angel, and people might start thinking you’ve got a heart in there somewhere.

Suddenly, a call....

You barely had time to process the abrupt call request when Ronin's face filled your screen, his devil-may-care grin almost daring you to hang up. Instead, you leaned back and stared, taking him in.

Burgundy wine hair, messy and effortless, poked out from beneath a beanie tailored with two stitched-on horns—an obvious nod to the Devil he so gleefully tried to embody. His neck sported a spiked dog collar that looked sharp enough to draw blood, resting against the dark fabric of his jacket. Rings and piercings glittered in his ears and tongue, every piece calculated to scream rebellion.

His shirt featured a decayed skull graphic, paired with black-painted nails that clicked rhythmically on his keyboard. He oozed edginess, a walking contradiction of emo with a holy necklace—a simple Christian cross dangling around his neck, daring anyone to comment on the irony.

“You done ogling, or should I give you a spin?” Ronin broke the silence, his voice dripping with mockery as he tilted his head, one dark eye catching the faint glow of his monitor.

“What are you looking at, sweetheart?” He leaned closer, his grin widening, as if he could crawl through the screen to demand an answer.

You met his gaze unflinchingly, letting your eyes narrow. “It doesn’t matter,” you replied, your voice cutting through his theatrics. “What’s outside isn’t important. It’s what’s inside that counts.”

The faintest flicker of offense flashed across his face, quickly masked by a teasing pout. “Ouch,” he said, his voice dripping with faux hurt. “You wound me, Pinkie. You don’t like what you see?”

“It’s not about like or dislike,” you replied, your voice steady. “If what’s inside is rotten, it’s waste. No matter how pretty the packaging.”

The grin froze on his face for a moment, his head tilting as if to process your words. Then, slowly, it crept back, sharper, hungrier. “Damn. You really know how to twist the knife, don’t ya?” His laugh was low and rough, but his eyes betrayed something more—a flicker of challenge, intrigue.

“You’re a real piece of work, Zombie,” he said, leaning back with an exaggerated sigh. “But don’t think I didn’t notice you staring. Could’ve sworn you liked what you saw for a second there.”

“I observe,” you corrected, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

His laughter filled the call, rich and full of wicked delight. “Too late for that, sweetheart. I was born to flatter myself.”

It was hard to ignore the way your aesthetic clashed with his. You, in your sugary pink hues, with pastel highlights that seemed to light up the screen. Him, drenched in dark tones, every inch of him screaming chaos and rebellion.

“By the way,” you added, motioning toward his necklace, “what’s with the cross? Playing both sides, are we?”

His grin stretched impossibly wider, like a predator toying with its prey. “Oh, this?” He fingered the cross lazily, his rings catching the light. “Just a little reminder. Gotta keep things balanced."

“Rot and decay,” you added pointedly.

“Exactly,” he said, leaning closer again, the edges of his voice dipping into something darker. “You get me.”

The video feed was grainy but clear enough to catch Ronin's cocky smirk as he leaned back in his chair, the screen lighting his sharp features. The beanie still sat crooked on his head, and his dark eyes glimmered with something unreadable.

"So, what’s the deal with you and Angel?" you asked, voice light but probing. It was the natural question, the obvious one, considering the way he’d been snapping back and forth in her defense all night.

Ronin tilted his head, the smirk softening slightly but never quite leaving. “You noticed, huh? Angel and I...we’ve got history.” His voice dipped, casual but carrying an undertone of weight, like he was telling a joke he didn’t expect anyone to laugh at.

“She’s... important. We were a thing once, way back when. Thought it was love. Turns out it wasn’t—at least not the kind of love that lasts. More like we were thrilled to find someone just as twisted as we were, and we mistook that for romance.”

He shrugged, but his expression betrayed the complexity behind the words. “It was fun until it wasn’t. I made her worse; she made me realize...some shit about myself. Then we split, stayed friends. Better this way.”

The pause hung heavy, and he leaned forward slightly, his tone dropping into something more deliberate. “She’s been spamming my DMs, though. About you.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Me?”

“Yeah,” he said, grin twitching back to life. “Apparently, I’ve been mean. She thinks I’m scaring you or some crap. Says I need to ease up. Real concerned, you know? Angel always cares a little too much.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”

“Why?” he repeated, raising a brow as if the question was absurd. “Because that’s Angel. She’s like that. Her manager put her through hell; I guess she’s got a soft spot for anyone she thinks needs saving. Doesn’t matter now. I’ve got a job for you.”

You tilted your head, studying him carefully. “A job?”

“Yeah.” He leaned closer, his face filling the screen. “Keep an eye on Angel. Make sure she’s okay. And I mean actually okay. She’s got this martyr complex, always trying to save everyone else while letting herself get crushed under the weight of it. I’m not about to let her drown herself, you get me?”

You blinked at him, processing the odd sincerity in his voice. “Why me?”

His grin sharpened. “Because you’re crazy enough to care about people the way she does. And because I know what you’ve been up to.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb, sweetheart.” He laughed, low and wicked. “You’ve been trying to hack into the server, haven’t you? Looking for addresses, names...Am I warm? You just joined!”

Your stomach flipped, but you held your composure. “How did you—”

“I know everything,” he interrupted, eyes glinting dangerously. “And let me tell you something: if anyone—anyone—gets hurt because of you? I’ll be abusing a crowbar on that pretty little head of yours, darling. Don’t test me.”

You stared at him for a long moment, his threat hanging in the air like the faint smell of copper. Then, unexpectedly, you giggled.

your eyes sharp and unblinking, cutting into him like knives. His smirk wavered slightly under your intense gaze.

“You’re not completely rotten,” you said suddenly, your voice low and deliberate.

His grin twitched back into place. “You keep saying that, sweetheart, but I’m telling ya, I’m as bad as they come.”

“No,” you countered, tilting your head, the movement slow, almost mechanical. “You care about Angel. I’ve noticed it. The way you check on her, the way you talk about her. You don’t want her to drown in her own martyrdom. You notice everything about her. You want to protect her, even from herself.”

Ronin’s smirk softened into something almost unsure. “What can I say? She’s my favorite Angel. Someone’s gotta keep her wings clean.”

“You pretend you’re only chaos,” you continued, ignoring his quip, your tone growing more deliberate, more intense. “But you’re not. You’ve got something in there. A little sliver of...something. A little less rotten.”

You tilted your head the other way, a smile spreading across your lips—too sweet, too wide, too unsettling. “I want that kind of care. Someone who sees me like you see her. But...” Your smile faltered, and your eyes seemed to gleam with something darker. “I can’t get it, can I?”

Ronin let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair. “You’re somethin’ else, darlin’. Really are.”

“Guess that’s a deal then,” you said, your smile returning with a sharp edge. “But in return...” You leaned closer to the camera, your voice dropping to a whisper. “I want to see more of you.”

Ronin raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “More of me, huh? What, you want me to start livestreaming my kills for ya?”

“No.” You shook your head slowly, your grin widening. “You’re such a unique ingredient.” Your voice carried an eerie sing-song lilt as your eyes lit up, almost sparkling with manic glee. “A fascinating one. I’d love to see how you’re put together.”

“Holy shit,” Ronin said, laughing as he leaned back again, the sound loud and sharp. “You’re crazier than I thought.”

You didn’t flinch, your gaze still locked onto his. “I want to see your insides.”

Ronin froze mid-laugh, his grin faltering just enough to catch. “Come again?”

“I want to see your heart,” you said, your voice unnervingly calm. “I want to know how rotten it is. I want to cut you open. I want to carve you apart, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but the truth inside you. I want to see if you’re really as rotten as you pretend to be.”

The air between you felt thick as Ronin blinked, watching you with something caught between amusement and genuine disbelief. Then, to your surprise, his face flushed—just the faintest hint of red across his cheeks.

“Darlin’, you’ve got some ideas,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, laced with amusement.

You leaned forward, your grin widening even further. “You like it, don’t you?”

“What?”

“You like people who want to murder you,” you said bluntly, your head tilting in that same slow, unnerving way.

Ronin’s laughter burst out again, sharp and unrestrained. “You’re insane. Completely unhinged.” He wiped at his face, shaking his head. “But I can’t lie, I’ve never met anyone like you.”

Your voice dropped into a whisper, dripping with a dark, almost intimate intensity. “I’ll cut you open, Ronin. I’ll cut and cut and cut. I’ll carve you down to nothing.”

His grin grew, sharp and full of teeth, as if he were watching a show just for him. “And what would you find, huh? What’s left of me once you’re done?”

“I’ll find you,"

"You're a diseases." He looked at you grinning.

"I do have a disease, . THAT DISEASE ONLY TOOK AWAY MY SENSITIVITY. BUT I CAN STILL SMELL THINGS. LIKE THE BEAUTIFUL SMELL..."

"Flowers, because you're pink?"

"BLOOD."

"I'll admit that smell is pretty cool...I feel bad for you tho. What kind of shitty person has this society turned you into?" Ronin asked ever so...

"Ah...H....."

"You're smiling too much now Mx Baker."

"I'M JUST AMUSED BY YOUR COMPASSION FOR ME. I'M LITERALLY GOING TO KILL AND EAT YOU AND YOU KNOW IT PERFECTLY WELL. AH, POOR ME! YOUR BLOOD, STUPID. I WANT TO EAT YOU, I WANT TO TASTE EVERY BITE AND CHEW IT WITH YOUR SWEET BLOOD. GOD, THE THOUGHT OF IT IS DRIVING ME CRAZY!"

you said, deadly serious, your gaze unwavering.

He stared at you, his grin fading for a split second before returning, softer this time. “You’re a real freak, sweetheart.”

“And you like it,” you replied, your voice dripping with certainty.

“We’ll see,” he said, his grin sharp as he reached for the call button. “Don’t go fallin’ too hard, Zombie.”

With that, the call ended, leaving you staring at the blank screen, your smile unwavering.

Character Introduction: Y/N (The Cannibal Baker)- Character notes on them if you wanna read!

Alias: Zombie (By ronin), Honey (Angel), Freakshow (Misaki) Y/n (V)

Appearance: A twisted vision of stitched perfection, Y/N is a haunting figure of pale pink and soft pastels juxtaposed with grotesque details. Their stitched skin is meticulously patched, a macabre quilt of recycled life. Their wide, eerie smile is framed by scars, and the occasional tooth slips loose, revealing the horrors underneath. Eyes that sparkle with unnerving glee belie their darker nature.

Personality: A duality of sweetness and sinister intent, Y/N is as charming as they are horrifying. They speak with a syrupy kindness that feels just a little too sticky, a little too wrong. Their obsession with "ingredients" extends to everyone they meet, dissecting people in their mind, categorizing their potential usefulness in a culinary metaphor.Y/N has a sharp wit, a playful edge to their cruelty, and an unnerving calmness when speaking of the unspeakable. Their fascination with gore and murder is matched only by their twisted sense of care—caring deeply about the people they’ve deemed important, even if their ways of expressing it are unsettling.

Motivations: Y/N kills for pleasure and perfection, seeing it as an art form. They’ve convinced themselves it’s about crafting the perfect “dish,” but deep down, it’s their way of maintaining control and finding meaning in a chaotic existence.

Character Relationship Thoughts

Ronin (The Devil’s Butcher):

Y/N’s thoughts on Ronin: "He’s like a rotting masterpiece—so vibrant and decayed, I can’t look away. Every joke he cracks is a layer peeling back, every threat a promise I’d love to see fulfilled. He’s not completely rotten, though. He pretends to be, but I see it. The way he cares for Angel—it’s fascinating. It’s beautiful. I want to cut him open and see what makes him tick. I want to carve out the truth of him with my own two hands. He’s a unique ingredient, one I’d never waste on a single dish. He’s the kind of flavor that lingers, haunts you long after the meal is done."

Ronin’s thoughts on Y/N: "Sweetheart’s a goddamn freak, and I mean that in the best way possible. They’ve got that look in their eyes, like they’d gut me and giggle while doing it—and hell, that’s kinda thrilling. They’re dangerous, no doubt, but not just in a kill-you kind of way. They notice things, things they shouldn’t. Makes me feel...seen, in a way I don’t know if I like yet. They’re crazy as shit, but damn if they aren’t my kind of crazy. I’d love to see them try to crack me open. Let’s see who breaks first."

Angel (Heartsick Angel):

Y/N’s thoughts on Angel: "She’s too good to be eaten. Too precious, too sweet, too much. I could never ruin her by turning her into a meal. No dish would do her justice; she’s a perfection I’d never desecrate. But oh, the way she cares, the way she looks at people with that soft gaze—it’s maddening. She makes me feel...small, like I could be something other than this. And that’s terrifying."

Angel’s thoughts on Y/N: "They’re broken, but not beyond saving. I see them the way I wish someone had seen me before I became this. They’re terrifying, sure, but there’s something sad about them, too. They talk about people like ingredients, but there’s a care in the way they don’t talk about me that tells me they’re not as gone as they think. I just hope they don’t drown in the darkness they keep running towards."

V (Vigilante):

Y/N’s thoughts on V: "He’s so self-righteous, so blind to the truth of what he is. He kills and calls it justice; I kill and call it art. At least I’m honest. He’s like a bitter spice, overpowering and trying too hard. He’s useful, though—ingredients like him bring out the best in a dish when balanced correctly."

V’s thoughts on Y/N: "They’re messed up. Totally deranged. But the worst part? They don’t lie about it. They look you in the eye and tell you exactly what they are, and it’s terrifying. There’s a darkness in them that even Ronin doesn’t have—it’s colder, more calculated. I don’t trust them, but I can’t stop watching."

Misaki (HitMeUpp):

Y/N’s thoughts on Misaki: "So excitable, so easily impressed. She’s like sugar—sweet, but too much of her would rot your teeth. Still, she’s fun, in a bubblegum kind of way. Not my usual flavor, but every dish needs a little contrast."

Misaki’s thoughts on Y/N: "They’re so wacky! Like, scary wacky, but also fascinating. The way they talk about killing like it’s an art form—it’s freaky, but you can’t help but listen. I mean, they’re a little too creepy sometimes, but I think they’re cool in a way I don’t wanna admit out loud."

The Messed-Up Love Between Y/N, Ronin, and Angel:

Y/N & Ronin:

Dear ME Their bond is a twisted dance of obsession and control, where love doesn’t exist in the traditional sense. It’s a game, a performance where each step is an act of domination and submission. Y/N is entranced by Ronin’s chaotic nature, drawn to the dark, twisted energy he radiates. They see him as a puzzle they want to solve, a broken, rotting thing that’s too beautiful in its disintegration to ignore. It’s not love, but something darker—an addiction to the thrill of their interactions, the danger they present to each other.Y/N's idea of love is warped by their need to "break" the things they care about. In their mind, to truly love someone is to carve them open, understand them piece by piece, and turn them into something they can possess—control. With Ronin, they find a kindred spirit in destruction, but Ronin doesn’t allow himself to be completely consumed. The tension between them is electric, but neither of them will allow the other to dominate entirely. There’s a mutual respect in their brokenness, but there’s also a game of manipulation—one trying to outsmart the other.Y/N wants Ronin to crack, to let them in, to show them that there's something more under the devilish exterior. Ronin, on the other hand, plays the role of the untouchable figure, the force of nature, the devil who refuses to bow to anyone, including Y/N. Their relationship is marked by moments of twisted affection, sharp words, and even sharper smiles. It’s not love in the purest sense—it’s ownership, obsession, and a constant struggle for dominance.

Ronin’s Perspective: “You think you know me, sweetheart? You're just another fucking weirdo who's trying to find the truth in a world that doesn't have it. But you’re also... fun. Maybe a little too fun. I can’t decide if I want to kill you or keep you. Hell, maybe I’ll do both. What do you think of that? Huh?”

Y/N’s Perspective: “You’re a rotting masterpiece, Ronin. I want to carve into you, see what makes you tick. You think you’re untouchable, but we both know—there’s something in you that wants to break. And when you break, you’ll be mine.”

Y/N & Angel:

TWISTED With Angel, it’s a different kind of twisted affection. There’s a genuine care in Y/N’s desire to protect her, but it’s muddled by their own fractured psyche. Y/N sees Angel as something pure, untouchable, a perfect contradiction to their own broken soul. But that purity is something Y/N feels compelled to defile, not out of hatred, but out of a need to possess everything they find beautiful and unattainable.Y/N’s love for Angel is possessive and suffocating. It’s not that they want to hurt Angel, but they want to understand her, to know every secret she hides, to rip through her facades and uncover the raw, human parts that Angel doesn’t want anyone to see. They know how much Angel means to Ronin, and that fuels their need to control and shape her into something they can possess.Y/N wants to save her, but not in a way that would make her whole. They want to keep her fractured, like them—because only then would they feel truly connected. They want to be the one who heals her, but in doing so, they’d break her a little more.

Angel’s Perspective on Y/N: “You’re twisted. You say you want to protect me, but you’ve got this way of making everything feel like a game—like I’m just another one of your little experiments. But I can’t say I don’t care. There’s something in the way you look at me, something that feels like you really want to be... with me."

Y/N’s Perspective on Angel: “You’re too pure, Angel. Too soft. You make me want to ruin that purity, to twist it, because I can’t have you thinking you’re better than me. But I’ll never hurt you the way I’d hurt someone else. You’re special... in a way that makes me want to hold you close and crush everything good about you just to see how it fits inside me.”