In the southern reaches of the country of Ghereath, there stood a small town never mentioned in any travel brochure. Its name didn't matter. What mattered was the scent of iron and dust clinging to every breath its people took and the fact that no one truly lived here. They merely survived.
The streetlights flickered like the weary eyes of addicts. Cars passed now and then, splitting the silence with the rumble of aging engines and dim headlights. Yet between those quiet gaps, the town pulsed with a black vein of its own: black markets, shadowy deals, and lives lived in the hush behind the law.
Cassandra Von Mallearch walked along the cracked sidewalk. Her short white hair was slightly unkempt, and her golden eyes stared forward with a blank, unreadable expression. Her ash-white dress looked far too clean for a city like this, but the black cloak that draped her body blended perfectly with the night's shadows.
She looked like an ordinary woman.
But to those who knew Cassandra was anything but ordinary.
"She's the Predator's…" a man in the corner of an alley whispered, before quickly lowering his head and vanishing.
Not many knew what Predator's was. Only a few. And even fewer lived long after learning it. They said it wasn't magic, not exactly. It was a contract, a curse, or a force that demanded a cruel price. Lifespan. Or… flesh.
Cassandra rarely spoke. She didn't explain much. Perhaps even she didn't fully understand the truth behind the power flowing through her blood.
She stopped at the mouth of a narrow alley, where a dim red light buzzed overhead. A crooked sign reading La Merche hung over a rusted iron door a place where law held meaning only when paid in full.
Closing her eyes for a moment, silence filled her mind. And in that silence came flashes: the dry wind of the red desert, the metallic tang of blood on her tongue, and a voice once calling her name in fear.
She may have left the desert behind but its memory had not left her. Parts of her still lingered there, sacrificed and forgotten.
She took a breath and slowly pushed open the door.
There was no magic in this world. No wizards with golden wands. No immortal beings in crystal towers. But in the darkest corners of the earth, there were things worse than myth: twisted truths, bodies sold, and souls offered like coin.
Cassandra wasn't here to save the world.
She only wanted to know, Why was she still alive?
Cassandra moved on. The click of her heels echoed softly against cracked pavement, every sound reverberating through a city that had long since gone numb.
In the distance, she saw him a man hunched over the body of a lifeless young woman. His movements were wild, filthy, animalistic. Blood stained the ground, mingled with fluids best left unnamed. Cassandra didn't stop. She only glanced for a moment, then looked forward again.
It was nothing out of the ordinary in this city.
No one would scream. No police would come. Even the sky above had grown tired of weeping.
Cassandra walked on in silence, cutting through narrow, dark corridors. From behind one wall, gunshots rang out, quick, brutal. Two bullets. Silence. Then the screech of tires fleeing the scene. A cartel hit. Which one? It didn't matter. There were too many to count. Too alike to tell apart.
This city no longer knew justice. Only those cruel enough survived.
Cassandra knew that better than anyone. Her body carried wounds no eyes could see, and the night always brought them closest to the surface. This city had been her home for the last three years a place to hide, to endure, to breathe carefully among humans who had long forgotten how to be human.
But tonight… is her last night here.
The night wind blew gently, carrying the scent of iron, sweat, and rot.
She took a deep breath, eyes fixed on the dark sky that offered no hope.
"That's enough," she murmured. The short sentence wasn't a prayer, nor a threat. It was a statement. A decision that had long been growing in silence.
Tomorrow, she would leave. But tonight, she remained merged with the darkness that had devoured her whole for so long.
Cassandra kept walking, her boots crunching over gravel and shards of glass scattered along the empty street. Occasionally, she glanced at her watch—worn, with peeling leather straps and fine cracks running across its surface.
"Three more hours until dawn."
The voice was cold, weightless, nearly a whisper cast into the void of the night. No one was listening, and she didn't need anyone to.
She continued onward, slowly leaving the city behind. The streetlights began to dim, replaced by creeping shadows that devoured everything without mercy. Behind her, the city still breathed reeking of blood, bullets, and sins that were never cleansed.
Her steps were steady, as if each second burned away a page of the past in silence.
The night wind slipped beneath her cloak, cold and sharp like memories best left forgotten. Cassandra paused by the side of the deserted road. The city's dim lights danced slowly on the wet asphalt, reflecting the remnants of a fading life. With calm precision, she opened the worn backpack slung over her shoulder. The zipper groaned softly, as if reluctant to be disturbed.
From inside, she drew a pistol cold metal that had become her faithful companion. No fancy engravings, no ornaments, just a simple tool for survival, and perhaps… for killing, if needed. She checked the bullets out of habit, like a ritual repeated a thousand times, then tucked the weapon into a hidden pocket beneath her dark cloak.
The cloak fluttered lightly in the wind, like the shadow of a vulture circling from afar.
She drew a deep breath. Slowly. Heavily. Her eyes stayed fixed ahead, refusing to be distracted by distant echoes. Screams, drunken laughter, or the usual whine of bullets tearing through the night air.
Nothing behind her mattered. Nothing held meaning.
"The perfect nature of a demon…" she said softly, almost a whisper swallowed by the wind. Her voice was low, flat, and needed no reply. Because to her, those words weren't a question. They were a conclusion.
Her steps moved once more. Now she stood at the edge of the city—a borderless gate separating rotting civilization from a more honest emptiness. She looked back at the city one last time, not with nostalgia, but with a silent acknowledgment.
"It is the true nature of mankind."
Without another glance, she stepped into the darkness. A long, straight road awaited—no lights, no signs, no audience.
Cassandra no longer walked to escape. She walked to find something that may have never existed… or perhaps, something buried deep within herself.
In the silence, only the sound of her footsteps accompanied her. But beyond that stillness, a world awaited, one no less cruel than the city she had just left behind.
And Cassandra, with a pistol at her side and eyes that no longer believed in light, would keep walking. Until her old story burned away, and a new one began, one cloaked in shadows deeper than the night itself.
Cassandra kept walking, through the cold night and down an endless, barren road. Her footsteps echoed alone, crashing into thick walls of silence. No cars passed, no streetlights shone. Only thorny underbrush, whispering wind, and cracked earth bore witness to her journey.
The darkness grew thicker. Her watch was unreadable without light, but she knew dawn had not come—not yet, and maybe not at all for her tonight.
At last, in the distance, she saw a faint silhouette on the roadside. A small, crooked structure nearly swallowed by wild overgrowth. A dilapidated hut. Its walls were rotting wood, its roof nearly caved in, and the door… half destroyed, hanging askew like a broken jaw.
Cassandra approached cautiously. Her hand instinctively brushed inside her cloak, checking that her pistol was still there. Her eyes swept the surroundings. No signs of life. But silence could never be trusted.
She touched the door gently—a slight push made it creak open with a long, cutting screech into the night air. Dust danced in the faint moonlight, revealing an interior of bare wood and remnants of a forgotten time: a splintered chair, shattered bottles, and an old blanket tossed in a corner.
She stepped inside, shut the door as best she could, and leaned her back against the wall. Her breathing was heavy, but steady.
This place wasn't safe. But quiet enough to last a few hours.
Cassandra sat on the cold wooden floor, drawing her knees to her chest. Her eyes stared unblinking into the dark corners of the room, as if trying to see what couldn't be seen.
Something began whispering in her head. Not voices, but memories.
Memories of the red desert. Memories of hunger. Of wounds that dried on their own. Of unmoving bodies. Of laughter from creatures that did not laugh like humans.
And that woman's voice. The one that gave her strength… or a curse.
"If you want to live… then live as a predator."
Cassandra slowly stood, her body stiff from sitting too long. She brushed the dust off her worn cloak and reached into her bag for a small flashlight. With a soft click, yellow light pierced the darkness, dancing across rotting wood and floating dust.
The beam caught on something near the inside doorframe a piece of paper, stained with dried blood. Cassandra bent down, picking it up carefully. But she didn't read it just yet.
Her light moved across the rest of the cabin. It was wider than it looked from outside. As the beam swept across the right side of the room, Cassandra froze. Her eyes locked ahead, her face calm but visibly tense.
There, pinned to the back wall, were two corpses: one man, one woman. Their bodies were impaled with long rusted rods through the chest, hanging like broken dolls. Their heads were missing. Dried blood had pooled beneath their feet, forming a blackened stain.
On the wall above them, written in blood: "help."
Cassandra narrowed her eyes. She wasn't surprised. This wasn't an unfamiliar sight in her life. Yet still… the stench of death and cold air sank into her bones.
She didn't explore further, only returned to the note she had found earlier. Holding the flashlight in one hand, she unfolded the paper with the other. The writing was hurried, ink mixed with blood, but still legible:
"Every night... we hear it. Like iron scraping or claws on the floor. We thought it was rats. But then... something moved. Shadows. Breath against our ears. We couldn't sleep. The full moon rose. And now… we know... we are not alone here."
Cassandra read the words without emotion. Then softly, in a flat, calm voice, she said,
"The killer… wrote this."
Her tone held no doubt. This was no victim's cry, but a message left behind. A warning. Or worse—a game.
She pointed her flashlight upward, sweeping the ceiling and every corner of the room.
This wasn't a place to spend the night. But she was already inside.
"Are you here tonight too?" she whispered. To what, she didn't know. Or perhaps she did.
A faint, crooked smile curled on her pale lips. Not joy. But dark satisfaction. A cold echo of past chaos.
The light fell once more on the two corpses. It caught on blood that had blackened, on muscle fibers split open by the impalement. She stepped closer, bent slightly… and inhaled. Deep. As if savoring something long missed. The scent of iron, of rotting flesh, of fear that had dried.
Suddenly, footsteps—quick and light.
Cassandra didn't turn. She let the sound approach, as if welcoming it.
Then came the attack. A small shadow lunged from the left. Cassandra's arm rose, catching her assailant by the neck.
It was a little girl—hair matted, face smeared with dried blood, eyes white as if blind… or perhaps she had seen too much. Fanged teeth, ragged breath, and in her hand, a rusted, dull kitchen knife.
The blade clattered to the floor as Cassandra squeezed her throat with cold precision. The girl growled, clawing at Cassandra's arm, but she wasn't strong enough.
"Predator's…" Cassandra's voice was low, heavy. "Yes… you're the one I've been looking for."
Her face began to change. Her once-normal teeth lengthened into sharp fangs. Her gaze remained calm—not bloodthirsty, but hungry.
The girl babbled, her words like broken chants.
"Kill... kill... kill... for age… for power… I need human souls… to be devoured by maggots!"
She laughed. Then cried. Then thrashed wildly. But Cassandra's grip never faltered.
Cassandra pulled her closer, and without hesitation, tore into her face skin split, flesh shredded. The sound was wet, revolting… but to her, it was a symphony of destruction. The girl went limp in her grasp. Dead.
Cassandra stared at the ruined face, just meat now. Then calmly, she bit down, swallowing a chunk of the girl's head and drinking the still-warm blood like the finest red wine from hell.
There was no satisfaction in her expression. Only silence.
One Predator was gone. But this city, this world... still harbored many more.
Cassandra slowly lowered her head. Her hand reached out, fingers touching the pool of still-warm blood on the rotting wooden floor. With a gentle, strangely graceful motion, she smeared the blood across her lips, as if applying an expensive lipstick before a mirror. The color was deep, nearly black in the dim light—perfect for her pale face that showed not even a trace of human emotion.
Then she looked up. Her mouth began to open. Wide. Too wide for any human.
Her teeth had transformed completely—nothing but fangs, long, sharp, tightly packed. As if her entire jaw was made for only one purpose: to rip and chew living flesh.
"Bon appétit," she murmured softly, like a dinner greeting to an invisible guest.
Without hesitation, she began tearing into the small body. Her right hand clawed into the belly, exposing still-warm organs. Her movements were slow, almost ritualistic, as if presenting an exotic delicacy.
Piece by piece, she brought the flesh to her mouth. She chewed slowly. Swallowed. No disgust. No pleasure. Only silence.
Each bite was part of a ritual. The little girl's body vanished little by little, as if devoured by the night itself. Blood soaked the floor, pooling around her quiet steps.
Yet Cassandra remained silent. Motionless. Unflinching.
Only the wet sounds of chewing echoed. And the soft murmur of her own mind, slowly beginning to whisper…
"There are more out there…"
The tiny body was no longer whole. Shreds of flesh lay scattered across the decaying floorboards, mixing with the blood that seeped like a weary little river.
Cassandra sat cross-legged in the center of the room, arms stained red up to her elbows. Her face was painted with fresh blood—not in random patterns, but in lines that formed a twisted, mocking smile, like a clown of hell who had just dined on chaos.
Her breathing slowed. Deep. As if suppressing something burning from within.
Then… she felt it.
Like a needle piercing behind her eyes. A voice.
At first faint. Then louder. Then breaking apart.
"It wasn't me… it wasn't me… I'M NOT THE ONE TO BLAME! You… monster… why did you eat me? WHY!?"
Cassandra didn't answer. Her eyes widened, breath growing heavier.
More voices joined in. Not just one. Dozens. Then hundreds. The voice of the girl she had just torn apart and devoured—echoing, multiplied like a chorus in a boundless chamber.
They cried.
They raged.
They begged.
"I just wanted to survive… like you… why did I have to die?"
"You're not human… no… no…"
Her head throbbed, ready to burst. The voices weren't just noise. They bit into her thoughts. Clawed at the delicate seams of her awareness, trying to implant guilt, disgust, fear.
But Cassandra remained still. She closed her eyes.
"Quiet…" she whispered softly.
But the voices wouldn't stop. They mocked her. Screamed like burning children trapped in a collapsing house. They called her demon, corpse, blood-hungry wretch, a shadow of the human she had once been.
Her eyes opened. A smile bloomed.
"Quiet…" she repeated, softer, deeper—less a word, more a command.
Suddenly, everything fell silent. As if the room and her mind, were sealed in perfect void. Stillness.
Cassandra lowered her head, raised her hand. Blood still dripped from her fingers. Warm. Damp.
She dipped into it again and smeared it across her lips like high-end lipstick. Once. Twice. Drawing dark crimson lines over her pale mouth. Then she grinned. Her teeth—now fully monstrous—showed again.
"Bon appétit," she whispered.
And like a wild beast, she resumed devouring the girl's remains. Raw flesh torn from bone, swallowed without revulsion. Her tongue lapped up every drop of blood like sacred nectar. Each chew a hymn to immortality.
But it wasn't just flesh she consumed. She absorbed the soul, chewed the memories, swallowed the rage and agony of the girl.
And as the final bite slipped down her throat, Cassandra trembled slightly.
She looked up slowly. Her golden eyes blazed. Cold. Wrapped in terrifying calm.
Then she whispered—to no one in particular:
"The taste of a predator… is different. The taste of defeat. Of despair. That is the taste of power."
A long breath escaped her lips. The air thick with blood, death, and dominance.
"Then why do you scream, hmm?" she muttered to the fading voices. "You struck first. And a predator who fails the hunt…"
She stood slowly, her body untouched by fatigue.
"…is prey."
Her vicious smile returned.
And the night moved on, with one predator now a corpse, and another walking calmly toward the next feast of flesh and soul.
Cassandra's footsteps were light, almost like a little dance upon the creaking floor. She laughed. A soft giggle that pierced the night like a death waltz with perfect rhythm. In the fading beam of a dying flashlight, she approached the two headless corpses still dangling, their bodies trembling with the last echoes of trauma.
Without an ounce of pity, Cassandra bowed slightly.
"Your tongues are still, but your souls whisper," she said softly.
Then she seized their bodies, opened her mouth wide, and bit into their chests—not for flesh, but for something unseen to mortal eyes. A faint, distorted glow began to seep from the wound: their souls. Torn, filthy, drenched in sin, fear, and pain.
Cassandra opened her mouth wider, and the souls were drawn in, like the final breath swallowed by death itself.
Her quiet laughter echoed again, deeper this time, as if from her gut. She leaned against the hut's wall, tilting her head back, letting the strange sensation seep into her bones.
Their souls didn't go to heaven. They didn't ascend to any holy light or find solace in the arms of forgiving angels. No.
They were trapped.
Locked inside something colder than hell and denser than eternal torment, Cassandra's own soul.
Inside her, those souls curled up, shrieking, endlessly sliced by the absence of mercy. They weren't destroyed, they were imprisoned, tortured for eternity, feeding something no longer human.
Cassandra opened her eyes. They gleamed with the grim light of life and death entwined.
Some Predators pay for power with age, with decaying flesh, with shattered minds.
But Cassandra was different. She didn't trade years.
She traded suffering.
She paid with stolen souls. And not for strength, but for satiation. For the divine pleasure of licking human fear and chewing through their final hopes.
That sensation, between life and death was her drug. A thrill no breath, no love, no prayer could match.
This was the tale of the cannibal, Cassandra the one even Predators feared.
To humans, she was a walking nightmare.
To Predators, a curse in disguise.
And to God?
God was just a name to laugh at. For in the true logic of the Predator, God does not judge. God is a long-abandoned stage. And the souls who expected divine judgment…
...were devoured alive by Cassandra.