"Yeah. Yeah. I got it." The man's voice was a rough gravel, a sound honed by cheap cigarettes and bitter choices.
He held the flip-phone like a grenade, pressed tight to his ear. The woman on the other end, her voice a sharp, tinny screech, was already getting on his nerves.
"I know, goddamnit!" He spat back, his free hand chopping at the air like a knife.
It was a wasted effort. Her voice rose again, a sound so shrill the low-quality call couldn't muffle it.
He just grunted, his shoulders slumping. "Okay… Okay. My bad… My bad."
Then came the silence.
That chilling, sudden void that was worse than any shout. It was broken by a soft, sarcastic scoff, a sound that hit him harder than any physical blow.
She could always find the exact frequency of my shame, he thought, a bitter grin twisting his lips.
He sighed, the sound a slow gust of air, and looked up. The sky was a dead, empty canvas where the stars were supposed to be, a perfect mirror for the void in his gut.
The cold night air was a soft chill, a whisper that moved the stray, dangling strands of hair from beneath his cap. A useless gesture. There was no solace to be found there.
No... it's all for her.
Everything's all been for her...
The thought was a tired mantra, a weak shield against the truth. It was a promise he'd made to a ghost.
...That's if the Cabonari doesn't come for me first.
The thought was a jolt of pure panic, a cold shock that made his breath catch in a brief, shuddering second.
It was the same feeling he got when he saw a cockroach scuttling across a pristine table—an instinctive, primal revulsion to something that shouldn't be there.
He let it out, a soft, defeated breath.
"...Yeah, I'm sorry okay?" He drew his fingers up to his face, resting them just below his eyes.
"But…"
"How is…"
"How is she holding up?" The words were heavy with a different kind of sorrow.
"It's the least that I could know…" His voice cracked on the last word, a raw, exposed sound.
He slowly scratched the back of his neck, his eyes fixed on the empty sky.
"Just—"
The call disconnected with a hollow click, a final, unceremonious period to the sentence he'd never finish.
The phone became dead weight in his hand, a hunk of plastic and glass that had just delivered the final judgment.
A profound sorrow settled over him, the weight of it threatening to buckle his knees. His bloodshot eyes felt the familiar sting of hot, desperate tears.
No. I'll see her.
It's fine.
It'll all be fine.
The words were a lie that he repeated to himself and it would become the truth, a cheap parlor trick to keep himself from breaking.
He sniffed, a small, involuntary sound, and shrugged his shoulders as if shaking off the impossible weight.
His expression hardened into a desolate mask of grim resolve as he continued walking.
Just gotta round up everything here.
He walked out of the alley and onto a derelict street, stopping before an abandoned bodega. The window glass was nonexistent, the shutters behind them sealed tight. But the metal door showed a set of strange, claw-like tears at the bottom.
He slid his hands into the jagged holes and bent the metal outward. The groan of tortured steel echoed in the silent street.
With a final heave, he created an opening just big enough to slip through.
He huffed, his chest heaving, and closed the shutter back, the metal groaning into place. He put his hands on his waist and wiped a thin sheen of sweat from his forehead.
He turned, glancing up for a second before his gaze immediately dropped to the floor. In the middle of the rat-infested space, five people knelt in a neat, straight line, their mouths gagged with filthy cloth.
"HMMPH!" One of them, a woman in a torn office suit with a stream of blood trailing from her temple, thrashed against her restraints.
He watched her with a detached sort of wonder, like she was a character on a screen. The others remained still, their heads bowed in silent obedience.
He forced his expression into a grim, focused stare. He succeeded, but it didn't stop the heavy, leaden feeling in his chest.
How do they do it?
How and why do Beast art users live normally if this is what they feel?
He pushed the thought away.
It was a question he had no right to ask. He walked toward the woman and squatted before her, his dead, lifeless eyes staring into her terrified, pleading ones.
"I'm actually sorry for this…" His voice shook just a little bit. .
"Would've tried my best to have made it better for you."
He looked at the other captives. "All of you."
He then looked away, scratching behind his cap. "Its my first time doing… well… y'know. So its not my fault okay…"
The woman's struggles ceased. She just fell to the ground, her body wracked with silent sobs. Tears streamed from her eyes, rolling down her bruised cheeks and onto the grimy floor.
He just silently watched. Then he tilted his head, a quiet groan escaping his throat after feeling some sort of weight on his mind.
"Fine. I'll allow you some last words." He rolled his eyes, a theatrical gesture, and grabbed her shoulder.
He moved closer and whispered in her ear, his voice a low hiss. "But please… don't you even think about asking for help. Then I might be forced to actually… y'know."
The raw terror in her eyes was replaced with a vacant, hollow stare, the understanding of her fate now a silent, monstrous thing.
She did her best to not make eye contact, but that was a harder feat than it seemed. He removed the gag, and she gasped, a great, heaving breath as if she'd just been rescued from a desert.
He let go of her hair, and she almost fell face-first, but managed to steady herself. It was a minor reprieve, a tiny bit of mercy.
She licked her lips, her body still trembling. She slowly nodded, sniffing, and a single word escaped her.
"P-please…"
"What do you want with me…"
"Don't do this…" She slowly raised her head, her watery eyes meeting his.
She took in his harsh face, the rough texture of his skin, and the disheveled light brown hair under his cap.
The man stared at the ceiling, trying not to yield. He shook his head.
"I can't die here… I have children… Whose gonna look after them if I'm gone?" She pleaded, her voice nothing more than a broken whisper falling on deaf ears.
"I have responsibilities."
Don't we all.
He thought to himself. Her words hit him like a physical blow, a sudden rush of warmth and sorrow.
A memory, grainy and distorted like an old VHS tape, flickered to life in his mind. The images were black, but he could feel the warmth, a momentary flicker of light.
He could hear the joyous, gleeful laughter of a young girl. The memory was gone as quickly as it came. He lowered his gaze to the floor, sniffing hard, and placed his hands on his head, his fingers tangled in his hair.
Do it. Just do it.
If I don't, I'll never see her anymore…
Or she'll never see me again…
Or even be able to see anything.
His bloodshot eyes began to shudder.
Can't let that happen… Won't let that happen! So they'll just have to…
For her sake and mine.
He raised his head, glaring at the woman who was still crying and bowing, her body shaking with silent pleas.
The other captives, battered and tied, began to nod their heads, making muffled noises of hope. He took a heavy dose of air and clenched his fist. He then moved closer to her face.
And before she could say another word…
Her neck ruptured in a sudden, violent spray of blood. Her face contorted in a silent, final expression of horror as her soul seemed to fly away, leaving her body behind.
The other captives froze, watching in absolute horror. He was already gnawing at her neck, tearing away at her flesh with his teeth. He bit down and drew out an artery, his whole mouth and chest soaked in the warm, crimson fluid.
A look of some sort of grotesque satisfaction came over his face as he continued to eat her, moving from her neck to her shoulder, then down to her right arm.
Now covered in blood, he looked as if he had just finished a meal at a Michelin star restaurant. A single, silent tear rolled down his left cheek, mixing with the blood and streaking a clean path down his face.
He looked at the faces of the other captives, their expressions a mix of fear and revulsion. More tears began to stream from his eyes, mixing with the blood, blurring his vision, and washing away the painting of flesh and crimson.
He crawled toward them on all fours, his hands reaching out. "I had no choice." He cried, the words raw and broken.
"You'd all do the same if it were any of you…" His voice cracked, an awful, guttural sound.
The rough man's bloodshot eyes deepened in color, turning a horrifying crimson. His canines grew slightly longer and sharper, though still appearing mostly human.
But that actually felt kinda good…
No how can I?…
But it is too good…
Is this what Beast users have been enjoying ever since?
He hiccupped, trying to hold onto the strange, esoteric feeling of what he had just tasted, the feeling of his face going numb.
I… need… more.
His fingernails grew, becoming long, sharp claws.
Two of the captives began shuffling backward, but the other two were frozen in place, paralyzed by fear.
He crept closer, his senses now sharper. An instinctual urge, primal and terrifying, made him stop and look back.
A dark shadow fell over him, a deep, consuming blackness that blocked out the dim light of the bodega. The man's eyes widened, and his body fidgeted, a silent, frantic mix of anger, fear, and a terrifying recognition.
—The End of Chapter 1—