"What a beautiful meat."
The words slithered from his tongue, slow, savoring each syllable like a lingering aftertaste. His voice was thick, wet, as if he were already chewing the thought in his mind. Then—a step forward. Just enough for the moonlight to drag across his face.
Amatsu knew that face.
The alley. That night.
A girl, her dress torn, her body struggling beneath the weight pressing her into the dirt. Her muffled screams swallowed by the press of a palm, nails digging into her cheeks. The sound of flesh against flesh. A low, rasping breath, savoring her helplessness.
Amatsu had walked past.
Had ignored it.
Had let it happen.
And now, this thing stood in front of him.
The bastard's grin widened, jagged teeth glinting between cracked lips. The grin of something that didn't just eat flesh but enjoyed the process of breaking it down. His kagune—four jagged, saw-bladed appendages—twitched, clicking against each other like eager, waiting jaws.
Click. Click. Click.
"Ahhh," he murmured, tilting his head. His tongue flicked over his teeth, tasting the air. "You remember, don't you?"
The bastard grinned wider, a twitching, jagged thing stretched too far over rotting gums. His kagune clicked again, eager, shivering in the stale air.
"I've been watching," he crooned. "Following."
The word sat heavy in the air.
Green hair girl expression didn't change, but Amatsu felt something subtle shift in her posture—an adjustment, a calculation.
The guy gaze dragged over the girl, slow and crawling, like filthy hands stroking over bare skin. His breath hitched, trembled, a sick little quiver beneath the weight of his hunger.
"Beautiful legs," he whispered again, almost reverent. "Beautiful face."
Then, lower. Rougher. Hungrier.
"I wonder how you moan?"
His teeth clicked together, gnashing, his throat working like he was already swallowing her down. His fingers twitched, reaching, stopping, shaking. He was trembling. Excitement? Starvation? The lines blurred.
"Soft meat," he murmured.
Then again, breathier, more desperate. "Soft meat. Soft meat. Soft meat."
She still hadn't moved.
Her tiny frame was cast in the flickering glow of the shattered house, bathed in rot and ruin. A doll, a phantom, a thing too small to hold the weight of the horrors closing in on her.
But her eyes—
Wide, bright, unblinking. Watching.
The pervert took another step, his breath coming out in short, shuddering pants. "Little things like" he rasped "you always scream sweetly.."
The moment stretched, unbearably thin.
The wind rattled the ruined house, shoving its way through broken slats. A house that had long since stopped being a home. The walls moaned under their weight. The floor groaned, a warning. One step too hard, and they'd all go crashing through.
Amatsu didn't care about the girl next to him.
Didn't care about the words spilling from this bastard's mouth, the sick thrill he was chasing, the game he thought he was playing.
There was one truth here:
Kill, or be killed.
The man's gaze flicked lazily between them. Amatsu saw the way his pupils expanded, taking them in, weighing, assessing—not as people, but as something else.
A butcher deciding where to make the first cut.
A slow, deliberate lick of his lips.
"The quiet ones always break the best."
His knees bent slightly, his weight shifting, the coil before the pounce. A predator savoring the moment before the kill.
Then—he moved.
The first attack was a blur of steel.
No warning. No hesitation. Just movement—too fast, too sudden.
The man's kagune lashed out, the jagged blades ripping through the air with a sound like shrieked metal dragged across bone. The impact was instant—a storm of splinters exploding as the walls shattered, debris flying like shrapnel.
Amatsu barely twisted away.
Instinct screamed.
Too fast. Too strong.
And then—pain.
A white-hot slash burned across his ribs before he even registered the hit. Blood sprayed, pattering the rotting floorboards in uneven drops. His breath caught—shallow, sharp. His fingers tensed.
The guy laughed. A raw, grating sound.
"Is that all?" His grin widened, jagged teeth gleaming through cracked lips. Mocking. Daring. Expecting.
"You're just like the others—"
Amatsu didn't listen.
Didn't need to.
His kagune twitched. Bloated. Hungry.
The weight in his gut coiled, surged, demanded.
He lunged—and the Famine Serpent snapped forward.
A blur of motion, a fleshy, writhing tendril ending in a gnashing maw.
But the man was faster.
A blade whipped toward Amatsu's face—razor-edged, lethal.
He barely dodged.
The edge missed by a breath. Less than a breath.
Wood cracked beneath his feet. Splinters dug into his soles. Too close. Every inhale burned, the taste of iron thick on his tongue.
This wasn't a fight.
It was slaughter.
And then—girl moved.
She wasn't standing still anymore.
Not running.
Not dodging.
Moving.
Sharp. Precise. In control.
The guy's blade shot forward—a perfect killing stroke.
She sidestepped.
Effortless. Too smooth. Too practiced.
Like she already knew.
His kagune whipped past her face, missing by a hair.
Before he could react, she twisted—her body snapping into motion.
A sharp kick to his knee.
A sickening crack.
He staggered.
"You talk too much."
His face twisted.
Anger. Confusion. Hunger.
And Amatsu saw his opening.
The Famine Serpent uncoiled.
The tendril lurched forward, bloated, glistening, alive.
The thing in front of them turned—too late.
Teeth clamped down.
Deep.
Flesh shredded instantly.
Rotating fangs tore into his shoulder—burrowing through muscle, scraping against bone.
The scream that left him was garbled—a wet, choking gurgle.
His free arm lashed out, wild, desperate.
A blade flashed toward Amatsu's throat—
she moved first.
A sharp twist—her body ducking under the attack.
Hands snapping forward.
Tripping him.
He fell.
His body thrashed. A wild, convulsive jerk, arms clawing at the slick, pulsing tendril wrapped around him. Futile. The Famine Serpent's maw had him, its rotating fangs grinding deeper, slicing through flesh, nerves, Rc pathways.
"W-Wait—!" he gasped, his voice a raw, broken thing. "Stop—STOP!"
His kagune lashed out, a desperate swing, but his strikes skidded off the monstrous tendril's glistening, hardened flesh. No effect. His breath hitched, turned ragged. No way out.
His eyes snapped to Amatsu—bloodied, shadowed, watching.
"You—" His chest heaved. His arms trembled. "You don't have to do this—! I-I get it, you're strong, you won—so just—just let me go!"
His own Rc cells burned, drained, sucked into the churning abyss of the Serpent's maw. He felt it happening. Not just his body breaking—something deeper.
His lips trembled.
"Please."
A choked, humiliating word. He barely recognized his own voice. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. He had to make it stop.
"P-Please, I—" His hands clutched at the writhing tendril crushing him, nails digging into the damp, pulsing flesh. It felt alive—felt like it was feeding.
His ribs buckled. His vision swam.
"I-I can help you," he sobbed, his voice spiraling into hysteria. "I-I know things—I—I can get you food, stronger enemies—I-I'll serve you, I'll—"
His body jerked as the teeth bit deeper, splitting apart the Rc pathways in his spine.
His legs went numb.
His breath hitched—froze. No, no, no—
He couldn't feel his legs.
"W-Wait, please, just—just let me go!" He coughed, blood dribbling past his lips. "I-I don't wan—"
His voice cracked.
His body convulsed.
Something inside him unraveled.
"I don't want to dieee!"
The Famine Serpent's maw gave a slow, sickening twist.
His voice vanished into a gurgle.
His vision dimmed, turned black at the edges, the walls melting into shadow, into nothing.
A hollow, wordless scream left his lips. Not pain. Not even terror.
Just the final, sinking realization that he was disappearing.
Not just dying.
Being erased.
Then—
Nothing.
Just the wet, grinding sound of flesh being devoured.
And Amatsu stood there, silent.
The hunger, deep in his bones, still growled.
Except for the sound of Amatsu's breathing.
His kagune wanted more.
The hunger coiled in his gut, a writhing sickness.
The feeling of consumption. Of becoming.
It gnawed at his ribs.
The Famine Serpent swelled, greedy, pulsing, grotesquely satisfied.
Amatsu shuddered, hands gripping his sides.
His vision swam.
Not from exhaustion.
From something deeper. More primal.
The lines of himself and the hunger blurred.
Twisted.
Indistinguishable.
Eto watched.
Not afraid.
Not disgusted.
Just… watching.
The wet sound of flesh peeling apart still clung to the air, the floorboards still dark with fresh blood. But she didn't flinch. Didn't shrink away from the sight of the body—what was left of it.
Amatsu looked at her.
She had moved like that.
Fought like that.
Helped him kill.
No hesitation. No fear.
But a while ago—just a while ago—he had found her curled up, a starving little girl with tangled green hair, whispering to ghosts.
Was that even real?
Had she been hiding this from the start?
The weight of it settled in his ribs.
This wasn't just some helpless kid.
She had played the part well, though. Too well.
Sitting there, small, fragile, lost. A girl waiting to die.
But that was a lie, wasn't it?
Or part of the truth, buried beneath something else.
She wasn't weak.
She wasn't afraid.
And now, standing in the aftermath of a corpse, she was looking at him the same way he was looking at her—like she was seeing something new.
The hunger still gnawed at him.
His body still burned.
His ribs ached with the strain of staying still, of not lunging, of not feeding more.
But she just stood there.
Unshaken.
Her small hands at her sides, her clothes flecked with blood that wasn't hers.
The moonlight touched her face, traced the quiet curve of her lips.
A breath.
A beat.
Then—
"Eto."
A pause.
A shift—small, but there.
A hint of something in her gaze.
innocence.
Not fragility.
Something else.
Then—a smile.
Small. Quiet. Knowing.
"My name is Eto."
The wind moved through the broken house, sighing through splintered beams.
Outside, the night stretched on, vast and unfeeling.
Somewhere, distant, the world still turned.
But here, in this rotting husk of a home, in the aftermath of hunger and blood, Amatsu stared at the girl before him.
And she stared back.
The starving child in the ruins was gone.
Had she ever really been there?
—
Then, suddenly—
A stumble.
A tiny yelp.
Eto swayed forward, feet slipping on the blood-slicked floorboards. Her arms flailed for a second before she caught herself, blinking down at her own feet like she'd just now noticed them.
She let out a soft, sheepish laugh. "Oops."
The sound didn't belong here.
Not in this ruined house, not in the cold weight of fresh death, not between them. It was too light, too normal, the kind of noise someone would make after tripping over a rock—not after helping tear someone apart.
She dusted off her dress, smearing blood across the fabric without seeming to care. Then, as if suddenly remembering something important, she turned back to him, tilting her head.
"Eto..."
"Ah. You said my name." Her lips pursed, like she was rolling the thought around in her head. "That's the first time, isn't it?"
Amatsu didn't respond.
Didn't know how to.
Eto beamed. Beamed.
Like he had just done something good.
Like this wasn't a corpse-ridden house, like he wasn't standing there shaking, fighting the hunger sinking claws into his ribs.
Then—
She swayed again. Almost tripping over the splintered remains of a wooden beam.
A tiny, startled "wah!" left her lips as she wobbled, just barely catching herself before she went down.
She blinked, wide-eyed, like the ground had betrayed her.
Then—laughter. Small, breathy, giggling.
Amatsu just stared.
Her smile was still there, still soft, but something in her eyes—something quiet, unreadable—never left.
She clasped her hands behind her back, rocking on her heels. Then—casually, like it was just another question—
"Are you full now?"
His breath hitched.
His ribs still ached with the weight of the hunger, the gnawing sickness of it, the way it wanted, wanted, wanted.
Eto tilted her head. "Hey," she said, soft, curious. "What's your name?"
Amatsu stared at her.
Something about the way she asked—it wasn't normal. Most people asked a name like it mattered. Like it meant something. But she said it like she already knew it didn't. Like she just wanted to hear him say it.
He swallowed. His throat was dry.
"Amatsu."
Eto blinked. Then—
She smiled. A small thing, lips curling, eyes glinting like she had just uncovered a secret.
"Amatsu," she repeated, rolling the name over her tongue, like she was tasting it. "Hmm. That suits you."
His jaw clenched. He wasn't sure why.
Eto took a step closer, then another, moving without hesitation, like the blood-slicked floor didn't exist, like the corpse—what was left of it—wasn't staining the room with rot.
Then she did something that made his breath freeze.
She reached out.
Small fingers, cold from the night air, brushing against his wrist.
Not firm, not demanding. Just… there. Light. Barely a touch. Like she was testing something.
He didn't move.
Couldn't.
She tilted her head again, peering up at him with eyes too sharp, too knowing, too bright with something he couldn't place.
"You feel warm," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "But your hands are shaking."
Amatsu exhaled slowly. He didn't know if it was from exhaustion or the remnants of hunger still gnawing at his ribs.
Eto hummed, rocking back on her heels. Then, as if deciding something, she nodded.
"Okay," she said simply.
"Okay?" he repeated, voice rough.
Her lips curled again. "Mhm. I've decided."