#scarletswriting

The vibrant tapestries and hand-carved trinkets that once adorned it now felt like a mockery of life. Loneliness, that insidious predator, had begun to gnaw at the edges of her sanity. Tilly, was her only solace. Tilly didn’t judge, didn't leave, didn't choose another. Tilly just was.

The hurt had festered, turning cold and sharp. Scott’s rejection wasn’t just a simple preference; it was a cosmic betrayal. The game had chosen them. It was destiny, immutable. How could he deny destiny? And Cleo… Cleo was a viper, stealing what was rightfully hers. Stealing her future. Stealing her connection.

Days bled into weeks. The sun rose and set, but Pearl barely noticed. Her mind was a kaleidoscope of fractured memories and twisted logic. Scott wasn’t rejecting her; he was simply confused. He was naïve, foolish, easily led astray by the likes of Cleo. Cleo, with her knowing smiles and her possessive gaze, acting like Scott’s protector, his keeper, his mother.

Mother. The word snagged in Pearl’s mind, a snagged thread in the unraveling tapestry. Cleo was trying to be his mother. But Cleo wasn’t his soulmate. Pearl was. And a soulmate’s bond was deeper, more fundamental. A soulmate knew how to truly take care of someone. A soulmate knew what was best.

The howling of wolves outside her window became a chorus, whispering new truths. A pack protected its young. A mother wolf nurtured her pups, kept them safe, taught them how to survive in a dangerous world. Scott was out there, vulnerable, easily swayed, a lamb amongst wolves. He needed her. Not as a lover, no. He had spurned that. But as something more profound. Something he couldn't reject.

He needed a mother.

The idea, once terrifying in its absurdity, began to blossom in her mind, fragrant and beautiful. He was lost. He didn’t know how to navigate the complexities of Double Life, the treachery of other players, the subtle dangers. He needed guidance. He needed protection. He needed her. And if Cleo was trying to be his mother, Pearl would be the real one. The only one.

The delusion solidified, hard and unyielding as granite. Scott wasn’t a man who had rejected her; he was a child who had strayed. A child who needed to be brought home, cherished, and sheltered from the cruel outside world. 

The night she came for him was moonless, shrouded in an oppressive fog that clung to the trees like funeral shrouds. Scott was alone in his small, shared cabin, Cleo having gone to scout for supplies. He’d drifted off, lulled by the distant drone of the forest.

He woke to a faint scratching at the door, then a soft thud. A waft of something sweet, cloying, invaded his senses. His head swam. Panic, cold and sharp, pricked him. He tried to move, but his limbs felt heavy, weighted.

Then he saw her. Pearl, a silhouette against the barely discernible moonlight filtering through the window. Tilly stood beside her, a silent, furry shadow. Pearl moved with an unsettling grace, her eyes were glittering an manic intensity he’d never seen.

"Shhh, little one," she cooed, her voice a strange, high-pitched lullaby. "It's all right. Mommy's here."

Scott tried to call out, but his throat was thick, his tongue numb. He watched, helpless, as Pearl draped a heavy, hand-knitted blanket over him, tucking him in with an unsettling tenderness. Her hands, calloused from crafting, brushed his forehead.

"You've been so brave, my sweet boy," she whispered, stroking his hair. "But it's time to come home. Time for Mommy to keep you safe."

The last thing Scott saw before darkness claimed him entirely was the wolf’s head embroidered onto the blanket, its eyes staring blankly into the void.

When Scott awoke, the world was soft. Too soft. He blinked, disoriented. He was in a small, unfamiliar room. The air smelled of lavender and something vaguely medicinal. Sunlight, filtered through lace curtains, cast a gentle glow on floral wallpaper.

He sat up, his head still fuzzy. He was wearing… a onesie? A soft, pale blue garment with tiny silver stars sewn onto it. His clothes were gone. A sinking dread began to pool in his stomach.

"You're awake, pup!" Pearl's voice, bright and falsely cheerful, made him flinch. She entered the room carrying a tray with a bowl of something creamy and a sippy cup. Tilly padded in behind her, tail wagging, seemingly oblivious to the horror unfolding.

Pearl was dressed in a long, flowing dress, her hair braided with wildflowers. She looked like a figure from a children's storybook, an unsettlingly serene picture.

"Mommy made you breakfast!" she announced, her smile wide and unblinking. "Good, warm oatmeal. Just how you like it!"

Scott stared at the bowl. Oatmeal. He hated oatmeal. "Pearl, what… what is this?" he croaked, his voice rough.

Her smile faltered, a flicker of something dark crossing her face. "Now, now, we don't use that tone with Mommy, do we, sweetie? You're still a bit sleepy, I understand. But you need to eat your food to grow big and strong." She spooned a dollop of oatmeal and brought it to his lips.

Scott instinctively recoiled. "Get away from me, Pearl! What are you doing? Let me out of here!" He tried to scramble off the bed, but his legs felt heavy, uncooperative.

Pearl’s eyes widened, a hurt expression replacing the cheerful one. "Oh, my poor baby, you're still so confused. It's that awful Cleo, isn't it? Putting ideas in your head. Trying to turn you against your own mother. Don't worry, she can't get to you here. Mommy will keep you safe." She gently but firmly pushed him back onto the bed. "Now, open wide."

He twisted his head away. "I am not your baby! I'm literally older than you! You're… you're insane!"

Her face hardened, a mask of wounded parental authority. "That's not a nice word to say, little one. Mommy knows what's best. You've forgotten, haven't you? All the bad people out there, trying to hurt you. Mommy's just protecting her precious boy." She picked up the sippy cup. "Drink your juice. It'll make you feel better."

He slapped the cup away, sending orange liquid splattering across the floral duvet. "No! I'm not drinking that! I want to go home! I want Cleo!"

Pearl’s eyes narrowed. The playful sweetness vanished, replaced by a chillingly calm resolve. "Well, that's it, then." She sighed, a sound of profound disappointment. "If you're going to be a naughty little boy, Mommy will have to teach you. You wouldn't want Mommy to be sad, would you?"

She produced a small, silver bell from her pocket, shaped like a wolf’s head. She rang it once, a bright, clear chime that echoed in the small room. Tilly, ever obedient, nudged open a closet door Scott hadn't noticed. Inside, stacked neatly, were dozens of cloth diapers.

"You... Pearl, no, you can't be serious-"

Scott didn't even get to finish his sentence before he saw the look in her eye, and realised she was.

"Don't worry, baby, once we get you a clean diaper, I'm sure you'll feel much less fussy~"

Pearl stitched feverishly, almost obsessively, creating a vibrant red hoodie that mirrored her own. With a smile, she imagined Scott wearing it beside her, twin flames of crimson and scarlet.

But when she presented the gift, Scott's eyes darkened, rejection clinging heavily in the air. "I can’t, Pearl. I won’t,” he insisted.

Pearl's heart sank, Scott's words echoing in her mind, a bitter reminder of the painful truth: he would not be her soulmate. He would not accept the truth of their soulbound, no matter how obvious, no matter how evident. "Why not? C'mon, Scott- I made it just for you! It’s just a hoodie," she pleaded, her voice trembling with hurt, with need. But Scott just shook his head.

"It’s not just a hoodie, Pearl. I don’t want to be tied to you. You have to understand that. I'm my own person." He was exasperated, his refusal cutting deeper than any blade she had ever imagined wielding.

Pearl stared at him, the rejected red hoodie an unwelcome reminder of her longing. "But... but... we're meant to be," she begged, desperation spilling into her voice, thick and broken.

Scott's face hardened as he argued with a sigh, "Meant to be? You think I choose this? I don't like you, not like that, I can't like you like that. And I won't wear something just because you tell me to. I'm choosing my own destiny, and my own wardrobe, too." Her heart raced, the weight of rejection twisting inside her, vile and ugly. How could he not see? Couldn’t he feel the pull of their soullinks? To her, they were bound together, a shared existence forged in fate, and yet here he stood, unwilling to embrace it. She felt an icy shard of reality slicing away the warmth of hope.

Pearl watched Scott retreat silently, the door to the tower clicking shut behind him. Her heart felt shattered, yet a flicker of determination ignited within her. She traced the fabric of the hoodie, feeling an electric rush at the thought of them wearing matching outfits. “He'll come around,” she murmured to herself, envisioning him draped in the crimson cloth, softening under the weight of affection.

Weeks passed, and loneliness gnawed at her, but her mind spun a tapestry of their future, inseparable under the glow of a shared bond. In her heart, she knew the depth of their connection, and it was simply a matter of time before Scott realized it too. It was inevitable.

Pearl paced her tower, the hoodie pinned to the wall like a trophy. Each stitch whispered promises of their inevitable bond, a future she crafted solo while Scott remained blind.

"Everything happens for a reason," she murmured, adjusting the fabric as if correcting fate itself. In her mind's eye, she envisioned togetherness: laughter shared, secrets exchanged, a life intertwined. "No matter how long it takes, Scott... I'll wait for you. Until you understand. Until I make you understand." she vowed, a glint of obsession igniting in her gaze. Hope blossomed, thriving even in her solitude, shaping each passing day into an echo of love waiting to be acknowledged.

Scott was hers. Even if he didn’t yet know it.

"One day, you'll wear it."

It was a plea. It was a promise. It was a threat.

"I swear it."

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.

The fluorescent hum of the classroom lights cast a sickly pallor over everything, but to Pearl, only one thing radiated true light: Scott. His blue hair, the color of a midnight ocean, caught the faint glow and seemed to shimmer, a beacon in the mundane. Scott was sketching in his notebook, his brow furrowed in concentration, completely unaware of the intense, possessive stare fixed upon him from three rows back.

Pearl’s heart thrummed a dangerous rhythm. She traced the outline of his profile with her gaze – the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his stubborn nose, the observant eyes that saw so much, yet somehow remained blind to the devotion she harbored. Scott didn't know much about her; probably didn't even know the quiet girl from a few rows back wasn't even a girl at all. Though she supposed that was an easy mistake to make; she did go by she, after all, and to Pearl, such labels were trivial; only Scott mattered.

Tilly was waiting at home, a silent confidante to Pearl’s growing dossier on Scott. Pictures, schedules, notes about his favorite lunch, his most hated subjects – it was all meticulously cataloged in a shoebox under her bed. Tilly would listen patiently as Pearl recounted every detail of Scott’s day, her tail thumping softly against the rug, oblivious to the dark currents flowing beneath her owner’s words.

Scott’s best friend, Cleo, with her vivid red hair and level-headed demeanor, leaned over, laughing at something he'd drawn. Pearl’s lips thinned. Cleo. A rival, though Scott, in his absolute obliviousness, saw her only as a friend. 

Then there was Martyn, Cleo’s boyfriend. Martyn, with his cheeky smiles and lingering glances at Scott, was a more insidious problem. Pearl had seen the way his eyes followed Scott, the subtle flush on his cheeks. Martyn, she knew, had a crush on Scott. This was a true and present danger.

And, of course, Jimmy. Scott’s ex. Pathetic, clingy, and a constant nuisance, Jimmy still tried to worm his way back into Scott’s life with clumsy apologies and gifts Scott never accepted. Pearl considered Jimmy less of a rival and more of an irritant, a fly buzzing too close to her precious flower.

The bell shrieked, shattering the illusion of normalcy. Scott stretched, gathering his things. Pearl melted into the stream of students, always a few paces behind, close enough to observe, far enough to remain unnoticed by him.

That evening, after Tilly had been fed and walked, Pearl meticulously updated her notebook.

Cleo's laughter too loud today. Constant seeking of attention from Scott. Must be dealt with.

Martyn lingered at Scott's locker. His gaze was impure. Dangerous.

Jimmy left another apology note in Scott's shoe locker. Pathetic. And a direct threat to my happiness.

Pearl lived a double life. By day, she was quiet, unassuming, a decent student who kept to herself. By night, she became an architect of obsession, a meticulous planner of intricate, dark designs.

The first target was Jimmy. He was the weakest link. Pearl knew Jimmy had a part-time job at an electronics store. She also knew he was easily flustered and prone to making mistakes under pressure. Over the next few days, anonymous online reviews flooded the store’s page, all scathing, all seemingly from different, irate customers, specifically mentioning Jimmy by name. Then came the phone calls – complaints about missing orders, faulty devices, all directed to Jimmy. Pearl, using a voice changer, made herself sound like an elderly, confused woman, then a furious businessman, then a weeping student. Jimmy’s sales plummeted. His manager, already strict, began to watch him with a critical eye.

One afternoon, Pearl "accidentally" overheard Jimmy complaining to a friend about his job. "I'm going to get fired," he whined, "and then Scott will never take me back." This was Pearl's cue. That night, a package arrived at Jimmy’s house. Inside was a single, pristine poppy, and a note, typed and anonymous: "Some things are better left unspoken. Some people are better left alone. If you truly care about Scott, you will disappear."

The next week, Jimmy stopped coming to school. Rumors spread that he'd moved away suddenly, overwhelmed by family issues and his job loss. Scott, though not particularly fond of Jimmy, expressed a flicker of concern. "That's a bit extreme, isn't it? He just vanished." Pearl offered a sympathetic shrug. "Maybe he needed a fresh start, Scott. Some people just aren't cut out for pressure." Scott, observant but not suspicious, accepted it. One rival down.

Next was Martyn. He was more cunning, more of a direct threat to Scott's heart. Martyn’s crush was clear, and Scott, though clever, was also friendly and sometimes naive. Pearl had seen Martyn try to make plans with Scott, always with Cleo as a buffer, but his intent was obvious.

Pearl began to subtly sabotage Martyn. She started by making him late for things. Setting his alarm ahead by fifteen minutes, hiding his school bag during morning club activities, "accidentally" spilling a drink on his homework before a deadline. Martyn, a generally organized person, became increasingly flustered, his grades slipping. Cleo, loyal as she was, noticed his growing disarray. "You've been so scatterbrained lately, Martyn," she'd say, concerned. "Are you getting enough sleep?"

Pearl escalated. Martyn was an avid gamer. Pearl found an old, seemingly innocuous USB drive and, using a moment when Martyn stepped away from his computer in the school’s media lab, she plugged it in. A few clicks, and a sophisticated keylogger was installed. She now had access to his passwords, his private messages.

One afternoon, Pearl scrolled through Martyn’s chat logs. There it was: a confession of his feelings for Scott, sent to an anonymous online friend. It was heartfelt, vulnerable. It was also, to Pearl, a declaration of war.

Pearl printed the conversation. She then used a public computer to create an anonymous email account, attaching the printout. The recipient? Cleo.

The fallout was immediate and spectacular. Cleo, as stoic as she was, was also deeply hurt. She confronted Martyn in the school courtyard, her voice trembling, her red hair blazing in the afternoon sun. Scott, by chance, was walking past and witnessed the entire, painful breakup. Martyn, tearful and ashamed, admitted everything. Cleo, heartbroken, stormed off. Martyn then tried to apologize to Scott, who looked stunned and uncomfortable.

"Martyn, I-I appreciate your honesty, but you know I don't feel that way," Scott said, his blue eyes wide with a mixture of pity and awkwardness. "And Cleo's really upset. You should focus on her." Martyn crumbled, humiliated.

Within days, Martyn transferred to a different school, unable to face Cleo or Scott. He disappeared from their lives, leaving behind a void of confusion and sadness. Scott was troubled, seeing two of his acquaintances vanish so abruptly. "It's like people are just… leaving," he mused to Cleo one afternoon. Cleo, still raw from her breakup, could only nod, her gaze distant. Pearl, watching from a short distance, felt a smirk tugging at her lips. Two down.

Now, only Cleo remained. She was Scott's best friend, his confidante. Pearl knew her removal would be the hardest, and the most crucial. Scott needed to be isolated, to understand that Pearl was the only one who truly understood him, the only one worthy of his devotion.

Pearl's tactics for Cleo were far more insidious. She began undermining Cleo's reputation, subtly at first. Leaving anonymous notes on Cleo's desk, hinting at her "true nature." Printing out excerpts from Cleo’s old social media posts, taken out of context to make her appear shallow or gossipy, and taping them to the back of bathroom stalls. Cleo, popular and well-liked, found herself facing increasingly cold shoulders, confused stares. Her level-headedness began to crack under the pressure.

One rainy afternoon, Pearl saw Cleo and Scott under an umbrella, laughing. Cleo was still a presence, a comforting constant in Scott’s life. Pearl felt a cold fury bloom in her chest. This had to end.

Pearl remembered Cleo's route home, a shortcut through a narrow, unlit alleyway behind the old bookstore. It was rarely used, especially after dark. Pearl had been studying it, memorizing the security camera blind spots, the slippery moss-covered steps, the loose grate over the storm drain.

That evening, Tilly whined softly, sensing Pearl's agitated state. "Soon, Tilly," Pearl whispered, stroking her fur, "Soon, Scott will be all mine. No one else will get in the way."

Pearl placed a call to Cleo’s phone, using a burner. "Scott needs help," she said in a disguised voice, mimicking a panicked, young girl. "He collapsed near the old bookstore. Hurry!" Cleo, ever loyal, didn't hesitate. She grabbed her bag and ran out into the pouring rain.

Pearl watched from a concealed spot at the mouth of the alley as Cleo rushed past. Cleo's phone was tucked into her pocket, flashlight on, illuminating the slick, uneven ground. She was calling Scott, getting no answer. "Scott? Scott, where are you?"

As Cleo reached the point Pearl had marked, Pearl stepped out from the shadows. Cleo screamed, startled.

"Pearl? What are you doing here? Where's Scott?" Cleo’s voice was laced with frantic worry.

Pearl’s eyes glinted in the dim light. "Scott is fine, Cleo. He's just… busy." Pearl held up a small, empty bottle. "I'm just making sure he stays fine."

Recognition, then horror, dawned on Cleo’s face. "You… you did this, didn't you? Jimmy, Martyn, all of it!"

Pearl smiled, a slow, chilling curve of her lips. "They were in the way. They didn't understand. Scott needs me. Only me."

Cleo began to back away, her eyes darting frantically for an escape. "You're insane, Pearl! Scott would never—"

"Scott will understand," Pearl interrupted, her voice dangerously soft. "Once all the distractions are gone, he'll see. He'll have to see."

Cleo turned to run, but Pearl was quicker. With a sudden, powerful shove, Pearl sent Cleo sprawling. Cleo’s head hit the concrete with a sickening thud, a sharp crack echoing in the quiet alley. Her phone clattered, its flashlight beam swinging wildly before settling on her still form. A dark stain began to blossom on the wet concrete.

Pearl stood over her, breathing heavily, the rain plastering her hair to her face. Cleo was unconscious, or worse. Pearl felt no regret, only a grim satisfaction. This was for Scott. This was for their future.

Pearl knelt, checking Cleo's pulse. Pearl knew she couldn't leave Cleo here. The body would be found too soon. And Scott… Scott would be devastated. Pearl wasn’t trying to cause him pain; she was trying to protect him.

Then, a thought, cold and brilliant, formed in Pearl’s mind.

She dragged Cleo’s limp body further into the shadows, towards the loose grate over the storm drain. It was just big enough for a small person to squeeze through, leading to the forgotten labyrinth of the city’s old underground waterways. No one would ever look there. And Cleo, a missing person, a runaway, would simply vanish like the others. Scott would grieve, yes, but he wouldn’t suspect. He’d simply feel utterly alone. And then… he’d turn to the only one left.

Later that night, Pearl was home, showering away the rain and the lingering scent of wet concrete. Tilly whined from outside the bathroom door. Pearl emerged, fresh and clean, her usual unassuming self. She went to her shoebox, pulling out a small, framed photo of Scott, taken stealthily during a school festival. His blue hair was illuminated by fairy lights, a gentle smile on his face.

"Soon, Scott," she whispered to the photograph. "Soon, you'll be safe. You'll be mine."

The next morning, Scott arrived at school to hushed whispers and solemn faces. Cleo hadn't come to school. Her parents had reported her missing. A search was underway. Scott's blue eyes were clouded with worry. He remembered the arguments, the stress Cleo had been under recently. He remembered Martyn's sudden departure, and Jimmy before that. It was all so unsettling. He felt a profound sense of loss, a growing unease that he couldn't quite articulate.

Pearl approached him, her face a mask of carefully constructed sympathy. "Scott," she said softly, her voice pitched with just the right amount of concern. "Are you alright? Cleo running away… it's so terrible."

Scott looked at her, his observant eyes searching her face for a moment, then dismissing her as another grieving classmate. He sighed, running a hand through his blue hair. "No. I'm not. It just feels like… everyone's leaving. Like… I'm losing everyone."

Pearl reached out, her hand hovering just shy of his arm before she drew it back, a gesture of thoughtful restraint. "You'll never be alone, Scott," she murmured, her voice a balm. "You have me."

Scott offered her a weak, grateful smile, completely missing the chilling promise in her eyes, the dangerous triumph hidden deep within them.

He was alone now. Truly alone.

Scott, who hated her more than anything in the world.

It had been three months since Scott had run. Three months since she’d looked Pearl in the eye, since she'd left, since she'd chosen Cleo. Three months of a constant, gnawing ache that resonated through every fiber of Pearl's being, a phantom limb of a lost connection. The soulbond.

It was supposed to be sacred. A gift. The universe hand-picking your perfect match, a partner destined for you. But for Scott, it was a curse. Because Scott was straight. Scott liked men. And, well, Pearl? Pearl was drowning in an ocean of sapphic devotion for a woman who wanted nothing to do with her.

The world hadn’t been kind. The soulbond was celebrated, revered. To be without your bonded was considered blasphemy. And Pearl, unwilling to hunt Scott down, unwilling to force her into a love she didn’t want, became an outcast. Whispers followed her. Doors slammed in her face. Loneliness became her only companion, aside from the occasional fellow stray.

They shared the pain. Every scraped knee, every heartbreak, every headache throbbed in both their skulls. But Scott had learned to block it out, to compartmentalize. Pearl hadn't. She didn't want to. No, she revelled in it. It was the only connection she had left.

“She’ll come around,” Pearl muttered to the empty room, her voice raspy from disuse. Her tower was a shrine to Scott: discarded garbage of hers thrown into the ravine, flowers from her windowsill, polaroids taken from afar... a carefully curated collage of a woman who remained agonizingly out of reach.

Even though Scott wanted nothing to do with her, she wanted everything to do with Scott, she wanted to be hers, to protect her. And, so, she kept an eye out, watched out for her, and, no, it wasn't stalking, no matter what Scott called it, it was just keeping her safe, that was all. Especially given who Scott had left her for. Scott's boyfriend. Even as much as Scott insisted that Cleo wasn't her boyfriend but her queerplatonic partner, and even insisted that Cleo wasn't a boy at all, that he was non-binary... But Pearl knew it was all a hoax. Just Cleo's pathetic attempt to hide his true nature, what he was: a man. No matter what he called himself, no matter what label he hid behind, Cleo was a man, born and raised, misogyny and privilege running through his veins. Pearl hated Cleo. She hated them all. They were unworthy of Scott's radiant light. They were stealing her away, pushing her further into a world that wasn’t meant for her, the world of men, of disgusting pigs.

"Men," Pearl spat, her grip tightening on the pictureframe. "They're all the same. Using her, taking advantage. She just doesn't see it yet. She doesn't know they're all just sexist, hungry wolves. That she's a poor lamb being herded towards the slaughterhouse..."

The plan had been brewing in Pearl’s mind for months, a slow simmer of obsession turning into a rolling boil of conviction. She had to save Scott. Save her from herself, from the clutches of these boorish men. She had to show her the truth, the undeniable, burning truth of their soulbond.

She would make Scott understand. She would make her see that this attraction to men was just a phase, a misguided detour on the road to their destiny, that she wasn't actually straight. Love wasn't a choice, anyway, not when the universe had already made it for you. Scott was just in the closet. Deep, deep in the closet, but still just in the closet, nonetheless, their soulbound was proof she had to like girls, she was just scared to admit she was a lesbian, to come out about her true sexuality. But it was going to be okay. Pearl would show her it was safe to be her truest self, that she didn't have to hide anymore, that there was nothing to be ashamed of.

Pearl had been thrown to the wolves before. To the hands of those horny, thirsty animals. She'd learned that, without hesitation, it was always better to pick the bear. That literal animals were much better than those perverted hogs. 

That's why, when given the choice, she decided to live with actual wolves rather than those wolves in men's clothing. Her wolves didn't try to take advantage of her, they were loyal, faithful and loving, her darling babies. Calling men wolves, she decided, was more of an insult to wolves than it was men. Wolves were much, much better than men. 

Scott, on the other hand, didn't know any better. Scott hadn't been thrown to the wolves yet. But that would soon change. Pearl knew it. It was the way of men, it was only a matter of time until Cleo gave in to his inherent, depraved nature, until the wolf couldn't resist sinking his teeth into the rabbit's soft skin, until Cleo couldn't contain his debauched lust and took advantage of Scott, until he ripped her open, stripped her of her innocence, ruined her. And Pearl couldn't let that happen. She wouldn't.

They say fight fire with fire. And, so, Pearl would. She would fight wolves with wolves.

It was a bloodbath. Her darlings rippped apart anyone who stood in her way, who tried to take Scott away from her, tried to taint her soulmate. She taught the men, every man on the server, what it felt like to have teeth sink into your neck, to beg for mercy, and to be granted none. They were all irredeemable, and so, they were purged. The wolves were slain by her wolves, until only the women, the pure, on the server remained. Her and Scott.

“Scott,” Pearl breathed, her voice trembling with relief and joy. “It's-it's okay. You're safe now. They're gone. They can't hurt you anymore."

Scott stared at the carnage, her eyes vacant, her body trembling. “You…” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “You... you did this? You... killed them. You killed them... all. You... you killed Cleo-"

"-I saved you, Scott,” Pearl cut her off, her voice rising in exasperation, in desperation for her to understand. “I saved you from them, from their cruelty, from their… their… They're monsters. All of them. But you’re safe now. We’re together. We can be together now, you and me. We're safe. We can finally be happy. The wolves are gone."

But Scott shook her head, her eyes wide with horror, with pain, with tears. “No, Pearl, you… you don’t understand. You’re… you’re not saving me. You’re not… you're not my saviour. You... you did this. You hurt me. You... Don't you see? You… you're the one I needed saving from. You’re the wolf."

Pearl felt the words like a blow, her heart shattering into a million pieces. "W-what? No, I'm not the wolf, I saved you from the wolves, I- I'm saving you-"

Scott turned away, her shoulders shaking with sobs, the tears of a lamb grieving her dead companions, the death of her own innocence.

“Scott…” Pearl whispered, the pain in her chest sharp, so sharp it took her breath away. She felt dizzy, like her world was spinning, crashing down around her. “I-I just wanted you to see… I just wanted you to understand. That we’re meant to be together. They were going to hurt you. That's all men do. Hurt. I saved you from them. You're safe. We're finally together. That… this is how it’s supposed to be-"

Scott's laughter was bitter, broken. “No, Pearl. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. You… you’ve taken everything from me. My friends… Cleo…” She paused, her voice cracking. “I’ll never be the same again. I’ll never… I’ll never be whole again. You've ruined me."

It was in that moment that, hearing Scott's words, her hurt, that Pearl's heart broke.

And, as she stood there, surrounded by the blood and gore of those she’d deemed unworthy, Pearl finally understood the horrifying truth. 

She'd become the very thing she sought to destroy.

She was the wolf.

Martyn stepped through the door after a night of celebrating his thirty-sixth, excitement bubbling as he found a colorful box on the table, no doubt in light of the occasion.

"A surprise present? For moi?" he mused to himself, picking up the letter on the red-ribboned box to read through the birthday card. It was only courtesy to read the card before opening the present, after all, he wasn’t that ill-mannered.

Happy Birthday, Martyn! Your adventure begins with this treasure hunt!

Love, Pearl

P.S. The first clue is within!  

Intrigued, he set the card down and lifted the lid of the box. His smile quickly faded; a glass jar contained a macabre gift—a single eyeball, glistening under the kitchen light. Horror clawed at his insides as he stumbled backward, a chilling realization washing over him.

He knew those eyes. He knew that eye. A fierce, determined greenish lime, vigorous and viridescent, always filled with so much life… now lifeless before him.

His mind raced, scrambling to comprehend the chilling truth. This couldn’t be Cleo’s. It- it just couldn’t. Pearl wouldn’t... his heart was pounding. This had to be some sick joke. But deep down, a gnawing fear told him otherwise, that this was humorously dark rather than dark humour.

With trembling hands, Martyn dropped the jar onto the table, its contents rattling as he forced himself to breathe. What had Pearl done?

Martyn’s heart raced louder than ever. He turned around, desperate for answers, panic flooding his system. Shaking, he stumbled through the dimly lit rooms of their shared home, each step heavy with dread. The house felt impossibly silent, only the faint echo of his rapid heartbeat filled the space as he began to search. Had Pearl really gone that far? Surely not. Right? He dashed to the living room, heart pounding like a drum, looking for any further signs of Pearl’s crime. That’s where they spent countless weekends, laughing, eating popcorn, snuggling. Martyn flipped couch cushions, praying for some semblance of reassurance.

Instead, buried within the fabric, he found a severed hand, fingers elegantly manicured with a familiar dark nailpolish.

His breath caught in his throat. These were the slightly-calloused, gentle hands that often intertwined with his on their walks. His fingertips still slotted perfectly into hers- but they did not hold his hand back, lifeless and unmoving in his clasp. Fear and grief clawed at him as he stumbled back, nearly tripping over the coffee table with the motion. There had to be more—more to this horrifying mystery. He continued his search throughout the house, because people could survive without a hand, without an eye; she should still be alive. In- well, not in one piece, but if she was still breathing, he needed to find her while there was something left of her left to find.

Racing into the kitchen, Martyn’s breath quickened as he scanned every corner. It felt like a nightmare unfolding, each shadow taunting him. As he opened the fridge, terror surged through him, numbing his tongue in his throat. Instead of food, he unearthed a few organs neatly wrapped in clear plastic bags, each labeled in Pearl's frenzied scrawl: "Cleo's gallbladder", "Cleo’s tonsils”, Cleo's kidney"… people- people could live without their kidney, right? There was only one here, she had to still have the other one, people could live with just one kidney, she could still be alive, she had to still be alive. He needed to believe she was still alive. She had to be.

Martyn slammed the fridge door shut. He clutched his head, struggling to differentiate reality from a twisted dream. How could Pearl, someone they trusted, their friend, descend into such unthinkable madness? As he stumbled backward, he caught sight of the hallway, dimly lit and foreboding. With apprehension clawing at him, he rushed down the corridor, praying desperately for even a glimpse of her, anything that confirmed she was still alive. Each breath he took felt like ice, each shadow in the hallway nudging him toward despair. At the end of the hall, he noticed a slightly ajar door—Cleo's bedroom.

His heart raced, and he pushed the door open. The room was a chaotic mix of familiar belongings, but nothing felt safe. The air felt heavy, thick with palpable dread as he stepped inside and froze, breath hitching in his throat when he saw her dismembered feet, casually placed at the bed’s foot as if they were nothing but slippers, a comedic tickle beneath the horror. A sickening wave of disbelief crashed over him as he clutched the doorframe for support, but it was fine it wasn’t a vital organ she could live without feet she could still be alive she had to still be alive.

But then, in the corner of his eye, he spotted something that made his stomach drop further- a gift-wrapped box on her nightstand. The wrapping paper was brightly colored, cheerful like the birthday card that started this nightmare. He almost didn’t want to open it, leave the box unopened, as if it were Schrodinger’s cat. As long as he didn’t open it she could still be alive. He could pretend she was still alive.

But he knew he had to know. And so, clenching his fists, he approached the box, each step laden with trepidation. There was another letter on the box’s tag. But yet, despite it all, he was still well-mannered- or maybe he just wanted to procrastinate on breaking the quantum superposition- and, so, again, he read the card first.

Happy Birthday, Martyn! Much better than a gift card, aye? I hope you had fun on your treasure hunt! Your whore girlfriend’s been eyein’ my Scottsy, so I thought I’d do us both a favour and get rid of her homewrecking arse for ‘ya! You deserve better, mate. I heard Ren’s single, by the way~ double date sometime, mayhaps? But, I digress, hope you liked your present! No receipt, though for obvious reasons, hehe!

Martyn had always known Pearl had a thing for Scott. Her crush on him was the friend group’s worst-kept secret. Though Scott had made it clear multiple times he didn’t reciprocate, Pearl never seemed to get the memo, and they all assumed she’d eventually grow out of the puppy love.

Turns out she hadn’t grow out of it. She’d grown into it. The puppy love turned into a snarling, vicious wolf’s obsession.

He didn’t know if what she said was true. If Cleo really had tried to cheat on him, if she really had made a move on Scott, or if that story was just a product of Pearl’s obvious insanity and jealousy. But did it matter? He still loved Cleo. He still wanted her to be alive. To live.

Martyn fought back bile rising in his throat as he tore open the colorful paper, his heartbeat thundering in his ears like a judge's gavel. Inside, nestled against a crumpled tissue, lay Cleo’s shriveled heart, preserved like a twisted keepsake. He gasped, dropping the box as revulsion flooded his senses, black creeping into the edge of his knees as he fell to his knees, gagging.

For you could live without an eye.

You could live without a kindey.

You could live without a foot.

But you could not live without a heart.

Cleo was dead.

And some terrified, small part of him knew Pearl wouldn't stop there. Morbidly, he couldn't help but wonder,

It had been six months. One hundred eighty-two days.

That's how long Scott had been missing.

Or, more specifically, that's how long it had been since Scott was kidnapped.

That's how many sleepless nights Cleo had spent looking for him. Spent praying for his safety. Spent refusing to move his things to the attic, because no matter how much Martyn begged to stop sleeping on the couch and move into Scott's unoccupied room, they were going to find him, they had to, and when they did, he'd come back to his room exactly as he left it.

Cleo didn't think they would be able to handle looking for another six months. Another second, even.

So it was a good thing they found him on day one-hundred-eighty-three.

"It's going to be okay. You're okay, now, you're safe," Cleo whispered consolingly to the soulmate she hadn't seen in one-hundred eighty-three days. He hadn't said a word since they'd rescued him, hadn't blinked, hadn't so much as breathed, but that was okay; she didn't know what he'd gone through, what he'd seen, but she wasn't going to push him. They were just glad he was safe, that he was home, that he was here.

Cleo settled Scott into a plush chair in the living room, hoping the warmth would coax him from whatever fog had enveloped him. They wrung their hands nervously as she turned to make tea, Scott's favourite, trying to ignore the unease curling in their stomach. Of course he was acting odd; he'd been in captivity for six months, enduring who-knows-what. He was a bit disoriented, that's all, “Just tired,” she reassured themself, and focused on boiling the kettle and the comforting aroma of tea leaves.

When they returned with a steaming cup, Scott tilted his head, watching her with wide, vacant eyes, almost unrecognizing.

“Here, Scott,” they offered gently, handing him the cup with a weak smile. "Chamomile. Your favourite. Remember?"

He tentatively took the cup, and, to, her shock, dropped the teacup onto the floor, the cup shattering into a thousand shards and the tea becoming a puddle at his feet, doing so without even a second of hesitation, without so much as a flinch. She didn't even have time to stutter before he dropped to the floor, as well, and for a second she assumed it was to clean up the mess as an unspoken apology, before Scott began to lick up the spilt tea with his tongue, like some sort of animal. 

"Scott?" they blanched, her voice a mix of shock and disbelief as they took in the scene before her. "What... what are you doing?" They asked, but he paid her no mind, fixated on the puddle, lapping up the tea with an animalistic fervour. He didn't even seem embarrassed, only acknowledging them with a strange, gurgled sound from his throat, almost like a whine.

They didn't have time to unpack his strange behaviour, grabbing a dustpan to try to collect the soggy teacup's shards before Scott cut his tongue, gently trying to push him away from the puddle with the brush, "Scott, no, please, you're going to swallow some glass if you keep-"

Scott growled. Cleo was so suprised by the noise she stopped cleaning to stare at him, and apparently their gaze was enough of an admonish, because the growl died in his throat instantaneously as he shrunk in on himself with a regretful whimper, pressing his belly to the floor like a chastised stray, whining remorsefully, almost fearfully.

Cleaning up the spilt tea seemed like a distant endeavour, Cleo's attention now focused on his strange, concerning behaviour, kneeling down to his level. "Scott... what's wrong with you? What happened? Why are you acting like a... a-"

The glisten of something metallic tied to Scott's neck caught her attention, something they hadn't noticed before, her question dissipating from their mind at the sight. Slowly, cautiously, they reached out towards it, and flipped over the choker's silver embellishment.

SCOTT. 

PROPERTY OF PEARL.

IF OUT ALONE LOST. PLEASE RETURN TO MY OWNER AT:

-10642, 10230

It was a dog tag. Scott was wearing a dog collar.

"What the fuck," Cleo whispered, horror creeping into her voice as Scott let out a confused yip, nudging her hand with his nose and licking her palm. Like a dog.

He thought he was a dog.

Pearl had turned him into a fucking dog.

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.