The hunger was a physical thing.
A black hole in his gut, pulling at his edges. But the pang... felt like a compass.
It was a thin, silver thread of need, pulling him left, past a stall selling what looked like charred rat-on-a-stick.
Zane moved. Of course, he didn't have a choice.
His legs, clumsy in this new, weak body, stumbled over the cracked cobblestones.
The city of Nuln was a complete shithole.
The smog was so thick that one could chew it. It tasted like pennies and piss.
The buildings were rusted metal sheets and black, slimy brick, leaning on each other like drunks.
The people were worse.
They were just shadows, hunched against the acid drizzle, faces grey with grime and despair.
Zane ignored them. He was a shadow now too, after all. A hunting shadow but one nonetheless.
The pangs of hunger grew stronger.
He was close.
He turned into a narrow, dark alley. The reek of sickness and death slammed into him, so thick it made his eyes water.
There.
Huddled against a dumpster, under a sheet of soaked cardboard, was a woman. No, a girl. Maybe sixteen.
Her face was pale and waxy. Black-purple sores—the plague—covered her lips and neck.
Her breathing at this point, was just a wet, shallow rattle.
Zane stopped, 10 feet away.
His old self—the Zane from the cubicle was screaming. 'Help her! Comfort her! Get her water! Don't let her die alone!'
But the hunger... the hunger was a predator. It crouched in his belly, and it purred.
"I'm... I'm supposed to..." he whispered.
What did Mortis say? Nudge them along. Get them to give up that 'hope'.
He took a step forward. "Hey. It's... it's okay. It's over soon. Just... let go."
His voice was a pathetic croak.
The girl's eyes, cloudy with fever, didn't even register him. She just let out a long, final sigh. A shudder.
And then, she was still.
Zane flinched. He waited for the click. The dial tone.
Instead, he saw it.
A thin, barely-visible wisp of something—a grey-blue mist—rose from the girl's chest.
Before he could even think, the black hole in his gut inhaled it.
The mist shot across the alley and streamed into his mouth, his nose. It tasted...
It tasted like relief.
Like the first drag of a cigarette after a 12-hour shift. Like a shot of whiskey warming his veins.
It was a wave of pure, negative energy. Her fear. Her pain.
Herdespair.
And it was the best fucking thing he'd ever felt.
The hunger vanished almost instantly.
Replaced by a warm, crackling power that settled deep in his bones.
His vision sharpened. The acid rain didn't feel as cold anymore.
He had... fed.
He stared at the girl. She looked the same. Just a body. An empty, discarded shell.
Zane stumbled back, wiping his mouth.
"I... I just ate her..." he whispered.
A voice, dry and bored, echoed in his skull. Mortis.
"Asset 449-B successfully claimed. Essence quality: Poor. Barely a snack. Keep trying, intern. And don't fuck it up."
"Fuck you!" he said between heavy breaths but Mortis just laughed.
Suddenly, the annoying voice was gone.
Zane leaned against the alley wall, breathing hard.
"Poor quality..." he repeated.
Of course. She was sick. Resigned. There was no fight in her despair.
It was just... an ending he exploited.
He felt the high, that warm buzz, already starting to fade. The hunger was sated, but the addiction was just born.
He needed more though.
He needed... better.
He couldn't just sit in alleys waiting for plague victims to die. That was poor quality according to his new boos. Starvation rations.
He needed... active despair.
"Okay," he muttered, pushing himself off the wall. "New job. New rules. I'm not a healer. I'm a reaper. I'm a... a farmer."
He had to reverse his training. He had to find the hopeless. And he had to push them.
He needed to be the worst fucking hotline operator in history.
He found the "Leap of No Hope" an hour later.
The name wasn't subtle. It was a massive, rusted iron bridge crossing a deep chasm. At the bottom, a river of bubbling, green-black chemical sludge flowed from the Grinders district.
The smell was weapons-grade.
And on the railing, a man was standing.
Zane's new senses hummed. The "Essence" on this guy was thick. He was radiating despair like a fucking bonfire.
He was a merchant, based on his soaked, ruined silken clothes. He was weeping.
Jackpot.
Zane took a breath. "Okay, Zane. You can do this. Be the 'Fuck-It-Line'. Mortis is watching."
He walked up, his boots quiet in the drizzle. He stood next to the man making sure not to touch him. He just looked down at the green sludge.
"Looks like shit, doesn't it?" Zane said, his voice flat.
The merchant jumped, startled. He was a fat, middle-aged man with a face like a wet tragedy.
"Who... who the hell are you?" he sobbed.
"Nobody," Zane said. "Just a guy watching the sludge. Contemplating the... 'pointlessness.' You, too, huh?"
"Pointlessness..." the merchant choked. "It's... it's all gone. My wife... she ran off with a guild-captain. Took the kids. Wiped the accounts. The... the loan sharks... they're coming tomorrow. It's... it's over."
Zane nodded slowly. He felt the hunger in his gut stir. Yes. Good. More.
"Yeah, sounds like it," Zane said, his voice cold. "It's over."
The merchant stared at him. "What... what did you say?"
Zane turned to him. This was it. The "nudge."
"I said, it sounds like it's fucking over," Zane repeated. "You're right. She's gone. The money's gone. The sharks are coming. It's pointless."
He was trying to validate the man's despair. To push him over the edge.
"It's all just sludge," Zane said, gesturing to the chasm. "Your life? Sludge. My life? Sludge. What's the point in fighting it? It's the one, true thing in this whole godforsaken city."
He tried to sound profound. Like an actual reaper.
"Just... give up," Zane urged, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Let go. It's the only real choice you have left. Peace."
He waited. He was practically salivating. He could feel the "Essence" peaking. Jump, you bastard. JUMP.
The merchant stared at him. His sobbing stopped.
His eyes narrowed.
Then, he did something Zane didn't expect.
He laughed.
It wasn't a sad laugh. It was a wild, barking, furious laugh.
"You..." the merchant wheezed, pointing a shaking finger at Zane. "You absolute... foul-mouthed... fucking bastard!"
Zane blinked. "...I am?"
This was not going to plan.
"You're RIGHT!" the merchant bellowed, slamming his fist on the railing. "You're goddamn RIGHT!"
"I... I am?"
"This is pointless!" the merchant roared, his face turning a vibrant, angry red. "This city is pointless! The debt is pointless! The sharks are pointless! It's all just a fucking game!"
"Right!" Zane said, desperate. "A pointless game! So... you quit! You jump!"
"Jump?" the merchant looked at him like he was insane. "FUCK YOU! Why would I jump? If the debt is pointless, I'm just going to walk away!"
"Walk... away?"
"Yes! I'm leaving this shithole! I'll go south! They want the money? Let them fucking try and find me! My wife left me? GOOD! She was a high-maintenance bitch! The money's gone? I'LL MAKE MORE!"
The man was... he was... hopeful.
He was energized.
"I'm... I'm starting over!" the merchant declared. He suddenly grabbed Zane and slapped him hard on the back, nearly knocking him over.
"You... you're a genius!" the merchant cried, tears of joy in his eyes now. "A twisted, gutter-born fucking genius! You saved my life!"
Zane just stared, his mouth open.
The merchant turned, his back straight for the first time. He strode off the bridge, whistling.
"I'm alive! I'm ALIVE!" he shouted back at the city.
Zane was left alone on the bridge.
The acid rain sizzled.
Pang.
His stomach roared.
The warm buzz from the plague girl was long gone. The black hole was back, bigger than before.
He had... he had healed him.
With reverse psychology.
He had failed his hotline call with Mark, and he had failed his reaper "call" with this merchant.
"What..." Zane whispered, his voice cracking. "...the actual fuck?"
He stared at his hands.
"I'm the worst fucking reaper in history."
He was starving. His new job sucked.
And he was terrible at it.