#pearlscott

His home. The deep, the dark, the swirling currents that made his scales gleam, the silence broken only by the hum of the abyss. Here, on land, he was Scott, human, with two legs and lungs that craved air. The transformation was all thanks to the shell necklace nestled against his skin, a spiral of iridescent mother-of-pearl that thrummed faintly with magic. As long as it was close, he was safe, human. Without it… without it, the salt in his blood would clamour, his skin would dry and crack, his lungs would betray him. 

Martyn, bless his oblivious heart, was his anchor. His booming laugh, his easy charm, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled – Martyn was everything Scott risked being so close to the Sea for. But he was also the secret keeper, the reason Scott buried his true self so deep. How could he explain it? How could he tell Martyn, or anyone, that he was a merperson in disguise? The world of this death game, with its inherent dangers and fierce self-preservation, was not kind to the unique, the exploitable. Scott had seen enough lives snatched away, enough resources hoarded, to know his secret would be a death sentence of a different kind. He’d be a specimen, a prize, a tool. Never just Scott.

“Morning, love!” Martyn’s voice, a warm rumble, cut through Scott’s thoughts as he joined him on their porch, overlooking the turquoise expanse. “Beautiful day for it, isn’t it? Almost makes me want to dive in without the gear.”

Scott offered a strained smile, his fingers unconsciously straying to the necklace hidden beneath his shirt. “Almost.” He imagined Martyn’s joy, his wonder, if he could truly see what lay beneath the waves, if he could truly see him. The fantasy was fleeting, crushed by the weight of fear.

Their idyllic morning was interrupted by a chirpy, slightly too-loud voice. “Ooh, what a view! Mind if I join?”

Pearl. His ex-soulmate, now their aggressively “nosy neighbour.” She materialized from around the corner of their house, a bright, insincere smile plastered on her face. Her blonde hair, usually a wild mane, was pulled back in a severe braid, emphasizing the sharp angles of her face. Scott felt a familiar chill. Pearl had always been intense, possessive. After Double Life, he’d thought he was free. But then she’d shown up on the Coral Isles, moving into the house next door, claiming it was a “coincidence.”

“Pearl,” Scott said, his voice flat. “Didn’t think you were up this early.”

She laughed, a brittle sound. “Oh, you know me, Scott. Always up for an adventure. Or just… observing the neighbourhood. You two are so interesting.” Her gaze lingered on Scott, a possessive glint in her eyes that made his skin crawl. Martyn, ever the diplomat, offered her a cup of tea to try to curb the tension.

Over the next few weeks, Pearl’s presence became a suffocating shroud. She always seemed to be there – at the market, on the beach, even ‘accidentally’ dropping by for sugar when they were having a quiet dinner. She’d ask too many questions, her eyes dissecting Scott with an unnerving intensity. “You spend so much time near the water, Scott,” she’d commented one afternoon, watching him from her porch as he cleaned his boat. “Almost like you’re… drawn to it. A fish out of water, if you will.” She’d smirked then, a knowing, unsettling expression.

Scott had dismissed it, then. Pearl was always dramatic, always trying to get a rise out of him. But the unease festered. He started being more careful, never letting the necklace out of his sight, never venturing too far into the shallow waters where he felt the pull of his true form most acutely.

One sweltering afternoon, the heat was unbearable. The sun hammered down on the Coral Isles, making the air thick and heavy. Scott, alone while Martyn was out mining, felt his human form protesting. His skin felt tight, his throat parched, a deep, primal thirst creeping into his bones. The ocean, shimmering just beyond his reach, called to him with an undeniable urgency. He succumbed.

He crept to the secluded cove behind their house, a spot only visible from their property or the open sea. He glanced around, heart pounding. No one. He quickly stripped, then, with a trembling hand, unclasped the shell necklace. The moment it left his skin, a strange, exhilarating agony ripped through him. His legs fused, scales erupted across his skin, a magnificent tail, iridescent blue and green, burst forth. His lungs burned, gasping for the water. He plunged in, the cool embrace of the ocean an instant balm.

The relief was overwhelming. He dove deep, reveling in the freedom, the power, the sheer rightness of his merform. He twisted and turned, letting the currents carry him, his worries momentarily forgotten. He spent a precious hour in the depths, feeling whole again, washing away the residue of land.

As he finally made his way back to the surface, the sun beginning to dip below the horizon, he saw it. A glint of golden hair, a pale face, partially obscured by the thick foliage separating their properties. Pearl. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, were fixed on him, a strange, terrifying mixture of awe and something deeply sinister. He froze, the air knocked from his lungs even in the water. He scrambled ashore, clutching the necklace, his scales receding, legs reforming in a painful, clumsy burst of magic. He pulled on his clothes, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs, but he knew it was too late. He had been seen.

The next few days were a blur of paranoia. Scott barely slept, his gaze constantly darting to Pearl’s house. She was quieter now, too quiet. The chirpy intrusions stopped. It was worse. It felt like the calm before a storm, like a hunter waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

The storm broke on a particularly dim, rainy day. Martyn had left early to go get resources, leaving Scott alone in the house, feeling the oppressive weight of the sky. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and the damp earth. A shiver, not from the cold, snaked down Scott’s spine.

He was in the kitchen, making a cup of tea, when he heard a faint click from his bedroom. He froze, every muscle tensing. He’d locked the door. Hadn’t he? His mind screamed Pearl. He crept towards the bedroom, reaching into his inventory and pulling out a sword.

The bedroom was eerily still. The window was slightly ajar, rattling in the wind... And then he saw it.

His heart plummeted, the bottom falling out of his world. His necklace. It wasn’t on his bedside table where he always left it when he showered or went swimming. It wasn’t anywhere.

A cold dread seeped into his bones, colder than any ocean current. He frantically searched, tearing through drawers, tossing clothes aside, his breath catching in his throat. It was gone. His lifeline. His only way to survive on land. Panic, cold and sharp, began to claw at him. He could only survive a few hours on land without it. His skin already felt tight, a subtle itch spreading, a prelude to the agony of desiccation. He needed water. He needed his necklace.

A soft, almost imperceptible sound behind him. He spun, the sword flashing in his hand.

Pearl stood in the doorway, a serene, almost beatific smile on her face. In her hand, clutched like a precious jewel, was his shell necklace. A beacon of his doom.

“Looking for this, Scott?” Her voice was soft, purring, stripped of its previous forced cheerfulness. It was the voice of a predator who had finally cornered its prey.

Scott’s grip tightened on the knife. “Pearl. Give it back. Now.” His voice was raspy, already feeling the strain of his body fighting its natural state.

She tilted her head, her smile widening into something genuinely unhinged. “Oh, Scott, you truly are a marvel. All this time, living among us, pretending. I always knew there was something… special about you. Something different. But this?” She laughed, a low, guttural sound that sent shivers down his spine. “This is beyond my wildest dreams.”

“What do you want?” he demanded, his legs feeling strangely heavy, his balance off. The world seemed to tilt.

“You, Scott. I want you.” Her eyes burned with an obsessive fire. “You always ran from me. You always chose others. But now… now you can’t run. Now you’re mine.”

She lunged, quicker than he anticipated, a blur of motion. He swung his sword, but she was agile, ducking under his arm. Her hand shot out, grabbing his wrist, twisting. The sword clattered to the floor, forgotten. Her strength was surprising, fueled by a terrifying, singular focus. He tried to fight, to pull away, but his body was already failing him. The air burned his lungs, his skin tightening, protesting the lack of its true element. He gasped, a guttural sound.

“Shh, my love,” she cooed, her face inches from his, her breath hot and unnerving. “Don’t worry. You’ll be home soon. My home.”

A sharp, searing pain exploded at the base of his skull. Darkness swallowed him whole.

He awoke to the jarring sensation of cold, wet air and the faint hum of machinery. His eyes fluttered open to reveal a dimly lit, claustrophobic space. He was lying on a cold, damp floor, his limbs heavy, his body screaming in protest. A metallic taste filled his mouth. He tried to sit up, but his muscles felt like jelly. He looked around wildly, his vision swimming.

Concrete walls, rough and unforgiving. The air was thick with the smell of stale water and something metallic. A single, bare bulb hung precariously overhead, casting long, dancing shadows. He pushed himself up, his legs buckling, his body feeling alien and wrong. The agonizing dryness of his skin was almost unbearable, a million tiny needles pricking him. He was dying, slowly, and terribly.

And then he saw it.

In the center of the room, built into the concrete floor, was a large, cylindrical tank. It wasn't vast, not like the ocean, but it was deep, and filled with clear, cold water. Filtration pipes snaked around its base, and a small, almost undetectable current stirred within. It was an aquarium. A prison designed for one.

He staggered towards it, drawn by an instinct as old as the sea itself. He pressed his hand against the cool glass, feeling the faint vibrations of its currents. Water. He needed water. He needed to be himself.

“Welcome home, Scott.”

Pearl emerged from the shadows, her voice a chilling whisper. She was no longer just the nosy neighbour or the crazy ex. She was something far more terrifying. She held his necklace, twirling it idly in her fingers, her smile wide and predatory.

“You like your new dwelling?” she asked, gesturing grandly at the tank. “I had it specially built. Took weeks, but it was worth it. For you.”

“Pearl, please,” he rasped, his throat raw, his voice barely a whisper. “Give me my necklace. I can’t… I can’t survive out here.” His skin was now visibly flaking, his scales, fighting to emerge, were tearing at his human epidermis.

She tutted, shaking her head. “Oh, I know, my love. That’s the whole point. You’re so vulnerable without it. And so, so dependent on me.” She stroked the shell necklace, a possessive gleam in her eyes. “This little trinket… it’s the key, isn’t it? To your freedom. To your disguise.” She paused, her smile turning brittle. “But I don’t want you to be free anymore, Scott. I want you here. With me. Forever.”

He stumbled towards her, a desperate plea in his eyes. “You’re sick, Pearl! This is insane!”

She laughed, the sound echoing unnaturally in the confined space. “Insane? Is it insane to want the person you love? To keep them safe? To make sure they never leave you again?” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “You tried to escape me once. You ran to Cleo. You ran to Martyn. But he could never give you what I can. He doesn’t even know what you truly are. He wouldn’t understand. He’d be scared. But I… I accept you, Scott. I adore you. Every scale, every fin. You’re perfect. And you’re mine.”

With a swift, practiced motion, she unlatched the top of the tank. The cool, damp air immediately brought a wave of relief mixed with horror. He looked into the depths, seeing his salvation, but also his cage.

“Get in, Scott,” she commanded, her voice suddenly sharp, devoid of its previous cooing. “Or I can make it harder for you.” She took a step closer, holding the necklace just out of his reach.

He looked at her, truly saw the monstrous obsession in her eyes, and knew there was no reasoning, no escape. This was his reality now. With a defeated sigh, his body screaming for water, he stumbled towards the tank, and plunged into its cold embrace.

The transformation was swift and agonizingly familiar. His legs fused, his skin erupted in scales, his tail unfurled with a powerful, desperate surge. His lungs filled with water, and he gasped, a silent scream of relief and despair. He was home, but it was a home built by his captor, a gilded cage designed by a madwoman.

Pearl knelt beside the tank, her face pressed against the glass, her eyes shining with twisted devotion. “Beautiful,” she whispered, her voice laced with triumph. “Absolutely beautiful.”

He watched her through the glass, his heart heavy. He was a creature of the ocean, powerful and free, but now he was nothing more than a captive spectacle, trapped in a concrete box, his freedom held hostage by a piece of shell around Pearl’s neck.

Scott had built a loyal following on his charismatic personality, intricate builds, and welcoming queer community. His channel boasted a million and fourty-five thousand subscribers, and his live streams routinely pulled in thousands of viewers. Life was good, if a little relentless in its demands for constant content... until, that is, something changed.

It began slowly, like a pebble dropped in a vast ocean. A comment on a Twitch stream during one of his first Cowboy SMP streams, buried deep among thousands of messages: “Scott, you need to find the right girl. You’re clearly not straight, but I can see it in you. Just gotta find your true self.” Scott had blinked, but pretended not to see it, knowing his chat mods would deal with it. He was openly gay, had been since 2018, he didn't care what some random homophobic stream viewer thought. He’d ignored it.

Then came another, on a YouTube video this time: “Heard about your new boyfriend, Scott. I think you’re confused. You’ll be much happier with a woman, and I know just the one for you. Me.” And another, on 'X': “Your laugh is so cute. You’d be even cuter if you weren’t so scared of what you really want. I know what you want. You want me.”

Scott felt a prickle of unease. Not just the "not gay" part, which was annoying, but the possessive tone, the insistence. He blocked the accounts, thinking that would be the end of it. Just a weird, overzealous fan with a bizarre fixation, that was all.

But they kept coming back. Different usernames, different platforms, always the same chilling insistence. “You can’t block destiny, Scott.” “Every block you place brings us closer.” “I’ll find you. I always do.” The messages grew progressively more personal, hinting at knowledge they shouldn’t have. They'd found that old deleted article on him by the Daily Record back when he'd only had 170k and was still a student at Dumbarton, they knew what classes he took at Glasgow Caledonian University, they even knew his sister's name, despite the fact he did his damnest to keep her out of the celebrity spotlight.

Scott started feeling watched, a phantom gaze on the back of his neck even when his curtains were drawn. He dismissed it as paranoia, a side effect of constant online exposure.

The real shift, the truly stomach-dropping moment, came two weeks later.

He was scrolling through Instagram, idly checking his DMs, when a message from a new, private account popped up. The profile picture was a blurry shot of a cat, innocuous enough. He clicked, ready to report.

The message contained a single image.

It was a photo of him. Not a screenshot from a video, or a blog, or an old Instagram post. It was him, sprawled on his couch, wearing his faded university hoodie, a half-eaten bowl of cereal on his chest. A truly unflattering, private moment. A photo he knew he’d never shared. He’d taken it himself, a silly selfie for his own amusement, deleting it moments later.

His breath hitched. How? How was this possible?

He stared at the image, then at the time stamp. A week old. He felt a cold dread seep into his bones, colder than the air conditioning blasting in his studio. He frantically scrolled through his camera roll, a desperate, futile search for a shared version... Nothing.

Then came another message. A cascade of images.

A picture of his living room, taken from outside, through the window, showing his messy coffee table and the discarded game controller. A photo of him and his closest friends – Pearl, Jimmy, Joel – together in a photoboth when they'd met up at the Minecraft Movie premiere back in March. This one he knew Pearl had taken on her phone, a quick snap for their private group chat. It had never left that group. Then, A childhood photo, faded and creased, of him holding a lopsided paper mache volcano. This one was from his old family album, stored in a dusty box in his attic.

His hands shook so violently he almost dropped his phone. This wasn’t just a weird fan. This was a stalker. A real, terrifying, flesh-and-blood person who was somehow breaching every wall he put up.

He typed, his fingers flying across the screen, rage warring with raw panic, threatening to call the cops, sue, anything to get them to stop.

The reply was immediate. Another picture. This one of him, right then, at his desk, staring wide-eyed at his phone, his face pale with fear. The angle was from above, slightly tilted, as if someone was watching him through a hidden camera mounted in his ceiling. He looked up, frantically scanning his studio, his heart hammering against his ribs. Nothing. Only the familiar lights and soundproofing panels.

The accompanying message was a single, chilling line: “You look so much cuter when you’re scared, Scott. Don’t worry, darling. I’m just getting started. It’s for us.”

Sleep became a luxury his mind refused. Every creak of the floorboards, every shift of wind outside, every shadow in the corner of his eye became a potential threat. He started checking his windows obsessively, double-locking his doors, even putting tape over his webcam when he wasn’t streaming. His concentration for content creation plummeted. The cheerful facade he presented online began to crack. His commentary became distracted.

Finally, after a particularly harrowing night spent staring at the ceiling, convinced he could hear faint whispers outside his bedroom window, he broke. He opened Discord and called his friends.

“Guys,” he began, his voice hoarse, “I need to talk to you. Something really messed up is happening.”

 Scott recounted the bizarre comments, the persistent accounts, and finally, the photos. He pulled up the damning evidence on his phone, the image of him asleep on the couch, the shot of his living room, everything.

Jimmy's voice cracked through the audio, “Dude, that’s… that’s not just a weird fan. That’s a full-on invasion of privacy. Who even has old photos like that?”

Grian, ever the pragmatist, frowned. “And the current shots? Are you sure your house isn’t bugged? Or your computer?”

Pearl was silent for a long moment. “This is bad, Scott,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “They seem dangerous."

Scott shivered. “There was a private picture of all of us at the premiere. How could they get that? What do I do?”

Pearl took charge. “Okay. First, you need to change all your passwords. Every single one. Use unique, strong ones. Enable two-factor authentication on everything. Check your devices for malware, immediately. Get a professional to sweep your house for bugs. And do not, under any circumstances, engage with them. Replying, even blocking, tells them they’re getting to you. That’s what they want.”

She continued, a rapid-fire list of instructions. “We need to report this. Gather all the screenshots, dates, times. Digital evidence is crucial. I can help you compile everything. We’ll go to the police. This isn’t online harassment anymore, Scott. This is stalking."

Over the next few days, Pearl was a constant presence, a beacon of rationality in Scott’s spiraling fear. She helped him painstakingly collect every screenshot, every username, every timestamp. She walked him through security protocols, patiently explained VPNs and secure networks. She was diligent, empathetic, and unwavering.

“We’ll get through this, Scott,” she’d say, her hand resting reassuringly on his arm. “This person will get bored, or they’ll crack under pressure once the authorities get involved. They thrive on your fear. Don’t give it to them.”

Scott, following Pearl’s advice, stopped interacting entirely. He blocked new accounts without even looking at the messages, turning off notifications, trying to make himself as digitally invisible to the stalker as possible. Pearl made a pointed post on her social media vaguely referencing "escalated online harassment" and the legal ramifications given their communites tended to overlap.

And it worked.

Within a week, the messages dwindled. A stray one here or there, easily ignored, but nothing like the onslaught. No more new photos. No more chilling pronouncements. The digital silence was deafening, a balm to Scott’s frayed nerves. He started to breathe easier, to sleep more soundly. He thanked Pearl profusely.

“You’re my hero, Pearl,” he’d told her, a genuine smile returning to his face.

“Anytime, Scott. That’s what friends are for, after all!"

The peace lasted for nearly a month. Scott slowly eased back into his routine, though a lingering sense of unease still clung to him like a shadow. He was more private, less trusting, but at least the immediate terror had subsided. He even managed to put out some of his best content in weeks, a renewed energy flowing through him.

Then, one Tuesday morning, as he poured his coffee, his phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number. He almost deleted it, thinking it was spam, but something urged him to open it.

It was a single text, cold and precise.

His coffee cup slipped from his fingers, shattering on the tile floor.

His address. His exact, precise address.

And beneath it, a final, bone-chilling line:

"We’re going to be together soon, Scott. So very soon."

Terror unlike anything he’d felt before seized him. This wasn't just online anymore. This was real. This person knew where he lived. They were coming. He couldn’t stay there. He was exposed, vulnerable.

His thumb flew to Pearl’s contact. He called her, his voice shaking so hard he could barely get the words out. “Pearl! Oh my god, Pearl, they sent my address. My actual address. They said… they said they’re coming for me."

Pearl’s voice was instantly calm, soothing, but with an underlying urgency. “Scott? Breathe. Tell me exactly what happened.” He choked out the details, the shattered coffee cup, the rising panic.

“Okay,” Pearl said, her voice firm. “Okay, listen to me. You are not safe there. Not anymore. Don’t stay there another minute. Pack a bag, grab your essentials, and get in your car. I'm actually in the UK visiting some family in Littlehampton right now, it's less than an hour drive away from Brighton, they won't mind if you crash, especially given the situation. You can stay as long as you need to. Please, Scott. For your own safety.”

Scott didn’t hesitate. Pearl was his anchor, his protector. She had saved him once; she would save him again. He threw clothes into a duffel bag, grabbed his laptop, his wallet, keys. He didn’t even bother cleaning the coffee mess. He just needed to get out.

The drive to Pearl’s felt endless, every car behind him a potential threat, every shadow a lurking danger. He clutched the steering wheel, his knuckles white, his eyes darting nervously from his rearview mirror to the road ahead. He made it to her adress, punched in the code she’d given him, and drove through, the heavy gates closing behind him with a comforting clang. Security. Refuge.

Pearl was waiting for him at her doorstep, a concerned, welcoming smile on her face. She looked warm, safe, her chair ulled back, wearing a comfortable sweater. “Scott, thank god you’re here,” she said, her voice laced with genuine relief. She pulled him into a hug, a surprisingly tight embrace. “You’re safe now. Come on in.”

He sagged against her, the adrenaline beginning to recede, replaced by exhaustion. “Thank you, Pearl,” he mumbled into her shoulder. “Thank you so much. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She pulled back, still holding his shoulders, her gaze lingering on his face a moment too long. Her smile widened, subtly, morphing into something else. Something predatory. Her eyes, usually so kind and intelligent, held a chilling gleam he’d never seen before.

“Oh, Scott,” she whispered, her voice dropping to a low, purring tone that was utterly alien. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you to say that.”

Scott blinked, a cold wave of realization washing over him, slowly, sickeningly. The pieces clicked into place with horrifying precision. Pearl’s immediate, almost too-perfect advice. Her unwavering presence, her insistence on staying close, her strange, knowing smile when he thanked her for the lull in the stalking...

He tried to step back, but her grip on his shoulders tightened, like steel bands. Her smile stretched, unnatural, unfurling to reveal a terrifying excitement.

“You tried so hard to fight it, didn’t you, my darling?” she murmured, pulling him into the dimly lit hallway of her house. The door clicked shut behind them, the sound echoing ominously in the sudden, profound silence. “But I told you, didn’t I? Destiny. We were always meant to be together.”

Scott’s eyes darted around the hallway, searching for an escape, for a weapon, for anything. The air in the house grew heavy, suffocating. The terror Scott had felt online, the paranoia, the dread, coalesced into a visceral, paralyzing horror. He was in the lion’s den, led there by the lioness herself.

Pearl giggled, a soft, chilling sound that resonated in the quiet house. “Don’t worry, Scott. You’re finally safe. With me.” She traced a finger down his cheek, her touch unnervingly possessive. “No more nasty comments. No more scary messages. Just us... Forever.”

Who's to say what Pearl did with Scott that night, behind the secure, double-locked doors of the house she'd rented in the UK and flown twenty-seven hours from Melbourne to get to just for the occasion... The screams, if any, were muffled by thick walls, unheard by the outside world.

And, Scott? Well, the next day, he disappeared from the Internet entirely. His fans assumed he was taking a well-deserved mental health break away from social media, his friends assumed he was trying to ignore the cyberstalking he'd been facing online by focusing on his life offline, and his best friend insisted they not bug him while he was taking some time away from the spotlight.

After all, it was 2025. Youtubers were quitting left right and center, especially Minecraft Youtubers. He wouldn't be the first to abandon his channel and leave without a trace, and, really, curious fans should respect his privacy and his choice to step away from the screen!

The biting wind howled like a banshee, clawing at Grian’s threadbare cloak as he stumbled through the forest. Each gust was a knife twisting in his lungs, a chilling reminder of the torment he’d fled. Scar. The name alone almost sent phantom pain through his body, a consequence of their cursed bond. Whether it be a catcus' pricks or a dunk in powdered snow, the pain was constant, never-ending. He had to escape. The torture had to stop. He couldn't take anymore.

Grian pressed on, his legs burning, his breath ragged. He had to reach Pearl’s tower. It was his only hope. His sister, distant and enigmatic as she was, was still family. And, right now, family was all he had. He knew they hadn't exactly been as close as late, he hadn't really been there for her much, but still, surely, surely she wouldn’t turn him away. Surely, she wouldn’t let Scar drag him back to that hell. He pictured her face, trying to recall a flicker of warmth, of understanding. He latched onto the faintest memory of shared laughter from their childhood, a fragile raft in a sea of icy dread.

He finally saw it, a dark silhouette against the bruised sky. Pearl’s tower, a solitary spire that pierced the heavens like a defiant finger. He quickened his pace, adrenaline surging through his veins. He pounded on the heavy oak door, his knuckles raw and bleeding.

The door creaked open, revealing Pearl’s face, her eyes wide with surprise, then softening with a practiced concern. “Grian? What are you doing here? You’re freezing!” She ushered him inside, the warmth of the hearth a welcome balm against his numb skin.

The tower's interior was surprisingly cozy, filled with tapestries and overflowing bookshelves. He focused on Pearl’s face, searching for any sign of reluctance, of judgment. He found none.

"I… I need help, Pearl," he managed, his voice hoarse. "Please."

Pearl’s expression melted, sympathy awash as she reassured him, “Hey... Don’t worry, Griba. You're safe. I'm here. You’re safe."

Relief washed over Grian, so potent it almost brought him to his knees. He was safe. He was finally safe.

“Scott’s here too, you know,” Pearl said, drawing him further into the tower. “We… we had a rocky start, but, we’re doing much better now.”

Grian followed her into the dimly lit room. A figure sat huddled in a corner, wrapped in a thick blanket. As they approached, the figure looked up, revealing a gaunt face with hollow eyes. Huh, it was Scott. 

“Scott, you remember Grian, right?” Pearl said, her voice unnaturally bright. Though, Grian did find the wording strange. Sure, he and Scott weren't necessarily more than acquaintances, but he didn't think he was so forgettable it would've slipped Scott's mind who he was. But he brushed it off.

Scott offered a weak, hollow, almost vacant smile. His eyes held a profound sadness, a silent plea that sent a shiver down Grian’s spine.

Pearl fussed over Grian, offering him food and drink, her concern almost suffocating. As he ate, he observed the interaction between Pearl and Scott. There was a forced intimacy, a palpable tension that crackled in the air. Pearl's hand lingered too long on Scott's shoulder, her voice was a touch too sweet, and Scott’s reactions were withdrawn, almost fearful.

Later that night, unable to sleep, Grian crept from his room. He found Scott sitting by the fire, staring into the flames.

"Can't sleep either?" Grian asked softly.

Scott flinched, as if startled. He hesitated for a moment, glancing around, then looked up at Grian, his eyes filled with a desperate urgency. “You have to help me,” he whispered suddenly, his voice barely audible. “She’s… she’s not who you think she is.”

Grian’s heart pounded in his chest. “What... do you mean? Pearl? I know who she is. She's my sister, duh."

“And she's my soulmate. She’s- listen. She's... she's keeping me here, I don't want to be here,” Scott confessed, his voice trembling. “She says if I leave, she’ll… she’ll…” He choked on the words, unable to finish the sentence.

Grian knew then, with a sickening certainty, what Scott was trying to say. Because he'd heard it before.

Scott looked around nervously, like she had eyes in the walls, before continuing, “She… she threatens to- to kill herself. A-and because we are soulmates, if she... so would I. I can’t leave. She'd kill me. She'd kill us both."

Grian’s blood ran cold. Pearl... Pearl was just as twisted as Scar. She was using their soulmate bond as a weapon, a tool for control and manipulation. And Scott was trapped, just like him.

“When I'm bad, She… she sits in powdered snow,” Scott continued, his voice cracking. “She-she tortures me..."

He trailed off. A horrifying realization dawned on both of them, both their gazes falling upon the other's fingertips, each respectively blackened at the tips from frostbite. They were... they were the same, weren't they? They were the same. They were both victims, trapped in a web of love and pain, woven by their twisted soulmates.

"We have to get out of here," Grian said, his voice urgent. "Both of us."

Scott shook his head, despair clouding his features. "It's no use. She'll just… she'll kill herself. I'll just die if I leave."

"There has to be a way," Grian insisted, desperation clawing at his throat. "I can't just leave you here-"

The heavy thud of boots on the stairs resounded. Pearl. He grabbed Scott’s hand, frostbitten fingertips entwining with each other, his mind racing. They had to escape. They had to get away from her.  

But it was too late. Pearl burst into the room. And behind her, a figure emerged from the shadows, a cruel smile twisting his lips.

Scar.

Grian’s heart plummeted. How? How could Scar be here?

“Grian, darling,” Scar purred, his voice dripping with false affection. “I've been so worried about you. Running away like that... It wasn't very nice. Luckily for you, Pearl was kind enough to let me know where you were hiding, and keep you safe for me while I came over to collect!"

Pearl stepped forward, her expression triumphant. "Scar was so concerned, he came all the way here to check on you! Isn't that sweet? He cares about you so much, Grian."

Grian stared at her, his mind reeling. They were in league. Pearl and Scar, two sides of the same, twisted coin. 

“Pearl... how could you do this? To me? Your own brother?" Grian whispered, his voice choked with disbelief. "And... To him? Your own soulmate?"

Pearl giggled, a high-pitched, unsettling sound. "Oh, do you mean the snow? Scar was the one who gave me the idea! He said it was a very effective way to remind your soulmate of your bond."

Scar chuckled. "And Pearl, here, gave me a few ideas of her own, for when my little birdie needs a bit of a tickle!"

"Why? Why... are you doing this?" Grian whispered hoarsely, desperately, his voice barely audible.

Pearl stepped closer, her eyes gleaming with a disturbing light. "Because we love you, Grian. And you belong with Scar. You're soulmates. You're my brother, I can't let you throw your life away like this- I know what it's like to be without a soulmate, it's awful, it'd be cruel of me to let you condemn yourself to that fate."

"It's true!" Scar added, turning to Pearl with a sickeningly sweet smile. "She had no one, no soulmate to lean on when Scott rejected her, when the other soulbounds ostracised her. It was horrible. You don't want that for yourself, do you? We just want what's best for you," Scar reassured him. "Even if it means being a little… firm."

Grian stared at them, horror churning in his stomach. He had run from one nightmare straight into another, a meticulously crafted trap designed by two twisted souls.

"I'm taking Grian home now, Pearl," Scar said, a predatory glint in his eyes. "That alright with you?"

He reached for Grian, his touch sending a jolt of revulsion through him. Grian tried to pull away, but Scar's grip was like iron.

"Of course! Don't worry, Grian," Pearl said, her voice saccharine sweet. "You'll be happy soon. You'll see. You'll realise how lucky you are to have a soulmate who loves you so much. Now go on- I’m sure you two have a lot to catch up on!"

Scar tightened his grip, dragging Grian towards the door. "Come on, darling~! Let's go home."

As they reached the threshold, Grian saw Scott watching them, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and despair. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out.

Grian knew, with a chilling certainty, that this was the end. He was trapped, bound by a cruel twist of fate to a man who reveled in his suffering. And Scott, poor, broken Scott, was trapped, too, a prisoner of Pearl's twisted obsession. They were both doomed, victims of a love that had curdled into something monstrous.

The gnawing hunger was a beast, its teeth sinking into Pearl’s insides, leaving a raw, echoing emptiness. Normal food – carrots, berries, even the surprisingly palatable spider eyes they’d found last week – offered nothing. It vanished like mist, leaving her ravenous, weaker with each passing hour. The world, capricious as ever, had decided this week they wouldn't just suffer from a severe hunger effect but suffer from being unable to satiate it. 

She’d tried cobblestone. The taste was like dust and despair, leaving a gritty film on her tongue and a burning sensation in her throat. She’d experimented with dirt, a nauseating experience that ended with violent retching. Even the smooth, cool deepstone had produced only a fleeting sense of fullness, quickly replaced by the agonizing hollowness.

Scott watched her with growing concern. His own hunger was intense, but clearly, not as all-consuming as hers. He tried to comfort her, offering whatever meager scraps remained, but the gesture was useless. Pearl knew, with a chilling certainty, that this hunger wouldn't be soothed by anything ordinary.

The desperate, primal need clawed at her, twisting her insides into knots. She felt herself changing, becoming something less human, something more driven by instinct, something familiar. The world outside, nothing but a blur of twisting, dreary landscapes, faded as the hunger consumed everything, every feeling, every thought.

Scott. His face pale and drawn, his usually bright eyes clouded with worry. His gentle arms, his kind smile, his cyan, messy hair...

She was hungry. She was ravenous. She was starving.

For him. 

A low growl rumbled in her throat. A sound that felt wonderful, savage in her throat. Her eyes locked onto his wrist, the artery that lead to the finger where a string had once been attached, the skin thin and pale under the weak sunlight filtering through the sparse trees of their current biome.

A thought, brutal and unforgiving, struck her: his blood, his flesh, his being... a momentary respite from the gnawing torment.

Without a word, Pearl lunged, like a hungry wolf eyeing a rabbit. Her teeth, sharp and honed by her desperate hunger, sank into his skin, crunch. A cry escaped Scott, a mixture of pain and shock. She felt the warm, rich blood flood her mouth, a taste unlike anything she'd ever experienced. It was sweet, it was intoxicating, a feeling that shot pure life into her veins. It tasted was so, so... him. It tasted perfect. Like everything she'd ever wanted.

Scott thrashed, his body straining against her weight, instinctual horror and panic warping his features. His cries, choked and desperate, echoed in her ears, but were little more than background noise to the pulsing rhythm of his blood filling her. He tasted of starlight and sunshine, of the long days spent together as he'd cook her porkchops and beef with a soft laugh Last Life, of the smile she'd always wished had been directed at her in Double Life. It was the taste of him, of everything that she coveted, needed.

“P-Pearl- what are you doing?" he gasped, his voice ragged, pleading.

But the hunger was a tide, pulling her under, drowning her in its insatiable need. His struggles were weakening, becoming mere twitches as the warmth of his blood spread through her, a tide washing over the endless emptiness gnawing at her half-a-soul. 

She wasn't just surviving, she was thriving. The blood, thick and warm, was more than just sustenance; it was a conduit, connecting her, on some primal level, to the very essence of the man she loved. To him. The violence of her act was somehow intertwined with an almost overwhelming sense of intimacy.

"Scott," she whispered, her voice thick with the blood that dripped from his wrist onto her fingertips. "Please," The words were laced with genuine remorse, but they couldn't mask the desperate joy that pulsed within her. The sweetness of his blood was a potent elixir, but it was the taste of him, of his very essence, that truly intoxicated her. She was addicted. And she was not ashamed.

 His eyes, once bright, were now dull with pain and fear. But he'd stopped fighting. He'd realised what she had already known.

"I… I need this," she reafirmed, her words slurred and thick. And, in that moment, she wasn't just feeding her hunger... She was feeding her obsession. It was a perverse, terrible love, a dark hunger that consumed her very being.

His struggle ceased at her words. Scott was always good at sacrificing himself; his lives for that of his allies, always. She knew, and he knew, that he wouldn't fight. That he'd let this happen. He always did. He always would. She'd already lost a life last session, she knew he blamed himself, for not going into the caves with her, and it'd be unfair of her to lose another when he was right there. He went still, compliant, his breath shallow and ragged. She saw the fear in his eyes, the pain on his face, and the horror of what she was doing to him. Yet, she continued, the primal need overriding all sense of morality and compassion. His blood was the only thing that could end her agonizing hunger. This was her love: a twisted, terrible, beautiful thing. A paradox of immense pain and perverse pleasure.

The hunger in her gut had long-since ceased, a new, more ravenous kind of hunger overtaking it; no, not new, perhaps an old hunger finally resurfacing. A hunger for him, for his very being, a hunger that would only be satisfied with complete and total merging into her, body and soul. This hunger could never be satiated, her hunger for him was undaunting, unending. She needed him, she needed him wholly, entirely, all of him, inside of her, engulfed in her, forever hers.

Her hands, now claws, tore into his flesh as she ripped out his sternum, prying open his ribcage, gently cradling the ventricles as she ripped his still-beating circulatory organ out of his chest as he screamed. Her fingers closed around his heart, warm and pulsing, and brought it to her lips, trailing her tongue across the atria. The taste was a symphony of flavours, a blend of coppery sharpness and the underlying sweetness that was uniquely him. 

But she did not sink her teeth into it. She did not eat it. No, instead, she gently held it in her two bloodied, dirtied hands, cradled it against her chest reverently, and grinned.