Jyoti hit the bottom hard.
The last ten feet were less of a climb and more of a chaotic slide over loose shale. Her feet found no grip on the shifting trash, skidding on a patch of ancient, congealed oil. She went sideways, flailing, and slammed onto the rusted grate of the lower ledge.
Clang.
The impact rattled her teeth. A white-hot spike of pain shot through her skull, momentarily blinding her.
She lay there for a second, gasping, waiting for the dizziness to subside. The air down here was thicker, heavy with the metallic taste of ozone and the cloying, sulfurous stench of the dead beast.
She forced herself up, wiping grit and oily residue from her eyes, and looked for the boy.
He was already crouching.
He hadn't waited for her. He hadn't checked the perimeter or offered a hand. He was huddled over the massive, slumped form of the dead beast, his back to the sheer drop into the abyss. In his hand, he held a long, jagged splinter of steel—a piece of high-grade shrapnel he must have snagged during the descent.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
The sound was rhythmic and unnerving. He was scraping the metal against the concrete lip of the ledge, methodically working the edge.
Jyoti went rigid. Her survival instincts, honed in the pitch-black violence of the Pits, screamed at her. She didn't move closer. She shifted her weight to her back foot, her hand hovering near her waist instinctively, though she had no weapon there.
He's armed, she thought, the realization settling in her gut like a stone.
It didn't matter that they had just climbed a mountain together. It didn't matter that she had saved his life with the falling scrap. In the Pits, an alliance lasted exactly as long as the immediate danger did. Now the danger was dead, and he was holding a makeshift knife that looked sharp enough to open a throat with a flick of the wrist.
She watched his shoulder muscles bunch and release under his grime-streaked skin as he worked the metal. He was meticulous. He wasn't just cleaning off the rust; he was honing an edge. He was preparing for surgery. The focus he applied to the task was terrifying—absolute, unwavering.
Jyoti cleared her throat. It was a sharp, intentional noise. A warning. I'm here. Don't try anything.
The boy didn't turn around. He didn't stop scraping. He just finished his stroke, the metal singing against the concrete, then held the shard up to the dim grey light filtering from above. He inspected the edge, turning it slowly to catch the glint.
He ran his thumb lightly over the steel. A thin red line appeared on his skin. He nodded once, satisfied, and turned his attention to the beast.
Jyoti exhaled, the tension in her chest loosening just a fraction, though she kept her distance. He wasn't hunting her. Not yet. She shifted her gaze to the carcass.
Up close, the thing was repulsive.
From a distance, it had been a shadow, a nightmare of claws and speed. Here, lying in a heap of its own filth, it was just... meat. Wrong meat.
The smell hit her first—a thick, invisible wall of sulfur, rot, and that terrible, ancient scent of the black blood. It smelled like a grave that had been flooded with sewage. It made her eyes water and her stomach heave. The beast's skin was grey and loose, hanging off its frame like a suit that was two sizes too big. It looked wet, like rotten rubber left out in the rain too long.
This thing hunted us? Jyoti thought, wrinkling her nose against the assault. It looks like it's been dead for a week.
She watched as the boy reached out. He didn't hesitate. He didn't flinch at the smell or the texture. He placed the tip of his metal shard against the beast's flank, right between the visible ridges of its ribs.
He applied a fraction of pressure.
Zip.
The skin parted.
It didn't cut like leather or hide. It didn't offer the resistance of a wolf or a bear. It split like wet paper.
The boy paused. For the first time since she'd met him—since she'd pulled him from the wreckage—he looked genuinely surprised. He pulled the blade back, looking at the incision, then at the tool, then back at the beast. He prodded the grey flesh with a purple, swollen thumb. It dimpled instantly and stayed depressed, like memory foam that had lost its memory.
"Fragile," he muttered. The word was barely a breath.
He went back to work.
If the skin was disappointing, the inside was a biological horror show.
He sliced down the sternum, peeling back the layers with disturbing ease. There was no sound of tearing gristle, no resistance of connective tissue. Just wet, squelching slides as the anatomy gave way.
Jyoti took a step closer, morbid curiosity overriding her disgust. She peered over his shoulder, careful to keep out of striking range.
"Where is the fat?" she whispered.
There was none. No white layers of insulation. No energy reserves. The beast was pure, red-black muscle striation laid directly over bone. It was an engine built for one thing: speed. It burned everything it consumed instantly. It was a biological furnace that ran hot and died fast.
The boy reached into the chest cavity. He grabbed a rib bone to leverage it open, needing to access the deeper meat.
Snap.
The bone broke in his hand.
It didn't snap like solid bone; it crushed inward. The sound was hollow, lacking the density of marrow. He pulled out a fragment and held it up to the light.
It was hollow. Honeycombed with air pockets.
"Like a bird," Jyoti breathed, her eyes widening as the realization struck. "That's how they climb. That's how they jump so far. They don't weigh anything."
They were glass cannons. Terrifyingly fast, capable of tearing steel, but physically brittle. If you hit them hard enough, they shattered.
The boy tossed the bone shard aside. It clattered on the metal like a piece of hollow plastic. He went back to the muscle. He tried to pull a section of the thigh meat free, digging his fingers into the fiber.
The muscle, which minutes ago had been strong enough to drag the beast up a vertical slope on three legs, fell apart in his hands. It had no tensile strength. Without the electrical impulse of life, the fibers turned to mush. It was like cutting through gelatin. The rapid degradation was unnatural.
He worked with a terrifying, rhythmic efficiency. Slice. Separate. Discard. Slice. Separate. Hang.
He found a twisted piece of rebar sticking out of the wreckage nearby. He began to drape strips of the reddish-black meat over it, creating a grotesque drying rack. The meat hung limp, oozing that viscous black fluid.
Jyoti watched him, torn.
Part of her wanted to vomit. The gore was slick and black, coating his hands up to the wrists. The smell was getting worse, a metallic tang that coated her tongue and throat. It tasted like licking a battery.
But another part of her—the analytical part—was impressed. He knew exactly where to cut. He knew how to avoid the burst organs, how to drain the toxic veins. He stripped the carcass quickly, not wasting a single movement.
"You're really good at this," she said, the words slipping out before she could check them. It was a weak attempt to bridge the silence, to make this nightmare feel a little more human.
The boy didn't answer. He didn't even grunt. He just sliced another strip of meat and slapped it onto the rebar with a wet thwack.
Jyoti shifted her weight. The silence was starting to itch. It felt heavy, pressing against her ears.
"Is... is this edible?" she asked.
He sliced.
"I mean, look at the blood. It's black. Is it toxic? Do we need to cook it? We don't have fire. Are you planning to eat it raw?"
He separated a joint with a wet pop.
"Hey," she said, louder this time, stepping closer. "I'm asking you a question. Is it safe?"
He stood up, walked to the rebar, hung the meat, and went back to the carcass. He didn't even acknowledge that she had spoken.
Jyoti stared at his back. A slow, hot burn started in her chest.
It wasn't fear anymore. It was irritation.
She was used to being invisible. In the Pits, invisibility was her armor. She walked with her head down, shoulders hunched, blending into the grey walls so the gangs and the guards wouldn't see her. Being a ghost kept her alive. She had perfected the art of not being perceived.
But this was different.
She wasn't hiding. She was standing three feet away from him. She was talking to him. She had fought beside him. She had saved his life.
He wasn't failing to see her. He was choosing not to acknowledge her.
It made her feel small. It made her feel like a child tugging on a parent's sleeve, begging for attention. And she hated it. She hated him for making her feel like she didn't matter, like she was just background noise in his survival simulation. Like she was a tool that had served its purpose and could now be discarded.
I am not a ghost, she thought, glaring at his hunched shoulders. I am the reason you're not currently being digested by that thing. If I hadn't kicked that pin, you'd be paste.
She wanted to kick him. She wanted to scream. She wanted to grab him by his bloody collar and shake him until he looked at her. But she just stood there, watching him work, terrified that if she stopped talking, she really would disappear. That the silence would swallow her whole.
The boy stood up.
He wiped his hands on his shredded pants, leaving dark, wet streaks on the fabric. He turned to the rebar rack.
They waited. And waited.
For almost half an hour, the only sound in the cavern was the rhythmic drip-drip-drip of black sludge hitting the rusted floor plates. It was like a water torture clock counting down to dinner. The smell didn't get better; it just got more intimate.
The boy sat cross-legged, staring at the drying meat with the intensity of a monk meditating on the mysteries of the universe. He didn't move. He barely breathed.
Jyoti paced. She kicked a loose bolt. She sighed loudly. She sighed louder.
Nothing.
"So," she said, breaking the silence because if she didn't, her brain might actually eat itself. "Is there a specific shade of 'toxic waste' we're waiting for? Or is this just for ambiance?"
The boy didn't blink.
Jyoti gritted her teeth. She marched over and waved a hand in front of his face. "Hello? I asked you a question. Are you seriously going to eat that? It smells like a foot that's been rotting in a swamp for a decade."
The boy finally moved. He looked up at her, his expression utterly flat.
"I think it is edible," he said.
Jyoti stared at him. "You think?"
"I will eat it," he stated, as if discussing the weather. "For survival. If I do not die immediately, you may eat as well."
"Oh, how generous," Jyoti snapped, throwing her hands up. "I'm the control group. Fantastic. Truly, your chivalry knows no bounds."
The meat had finally stopped dripping. The strips of flesh were no longer slick; they were tacky. A deep, bruising purple-red that looked almost bruised.
He didn't check for parasites. He didn't smell it for rot. He didn't hesitate.
He reached out, grabbed a thick slab of the raw meat, and turned to her.
He held it out.
No words. No 'here you go.' No 'bon appétit.' No reassurance. Just a bloody hand offering a bloody prize.
Jyoti looked at it.
It wobbled slightly in his grip. It looked alien. It looked like something that should be buried deep underground, not eaten. The texture was wrong—too smooth, too soft.
"I..." she started, her voice trembling.
The boy didn't wait. He thrust it into her hand.
Her fingers closed around it reflexively. It was cold. Slimy. The texture made her skin crawl, sending a shudder through her entire body. It felt dead in a way that normal meat didn't.
He grabbed another piece for himself.
He didn't hesitate. He brought the raw strip to his mouth, bit down, and tore a chunk off.
Squelch.
Jyoti flinched at the sound. It was wet and thick.
He chewed. His face was blank. No grimace of disgust. No pleasure. Just the steady grinding of teeth against sustenance. He swallowed, the lump moving visibly down his thin throat.
Jyoti looked down at the slab in her hand.
Her conscience screamed. It's a monster. It feeds on death. It's filthy. You're a human being, not a scavenger. If you eat this, you lose something you can't get back. You cross a line.
The disgust rose in her throat, a tidal wave of bile that burned her esophagus.
Grrrrrrr.
The sound was loud. Violent.
It wasn't a beast. It was her stomach.
The pain hit her then—the hunger she had been suppressing with adrenaline and rage. It cramped her insides, bending her double. It was a hollow, gnawing agony that felt like a parasite eating her from the inside out. It drowned out every other thought in her head. It drowned out the disgust. It drowned out the fear.
Her body didn't care about ethics. It didn't care about hygiene. It didn't care about the source. It cared about glucose. It cared about protein. It cared about not dying for one more hour.
She watched the boy take another bite. He was alive. He was eating. He was surviving.
Jyoti looked at the meat. The reddish-black fibers seemed to pulse in the dim light.
Eat or die, the Pits whispered to her. There is no third option. Not down here.
Her hand trembled. Slowly, fighting every instinct she had left, she lifted the cold, wet slab to her mouth.