Hunger.
HungerHungerHungereateateat—
A voice? No. Not a voice. A weight, a pulse, a sensation gnawing at the walls of his mind. It slithered through his thoughts, burrowed into the gaps between his ribs, curled around his spine like a second nervous system. It wasn't speaking. It wasn't separate.
It was him.
Eat. Devour. More.
No.
Full. You're full. No, starving.
A lie. Both were lies.
Always empty. Never enough.
The words layered over each other, tangled, frayed. Whispered and screamed in the same breath. His mind felt like a chewed-up thing, torn into strands, stretched too thin. The thoughts weren't his alone anymore. They spoke in overlapping rhythms—some fast, rabid, twitching at the edges of meaning, others slow, dragging, pulling him under.
He blinked, and the world flickered.
His body—stronger than before. His cells—swollen with stolen life. His veins—pulsing dark with the remnants of others. He had fed. He had consumed. His kagune had done what it was meant to do, what it had to do.
So why did he still feel like this?
Hunger.
It didn't rise. It didn't return. Because it had never left.
His fingers trembled. His breath felt shallow. The whisper curled tighter, pressing against the back of his skull, pressing against his teeth, like it wanted to force its way out—
Eat. Eat. EATEATEAT—
He staggered, grinding his teeth, pressing his nails into his palms.
No. Not yet.
The hunger recoiled—then laughed. A jittering, broken thing, half static, half madness.
Think you control it? It's controlling you.
Not enough. Never enough. Nevernevernever—
Shut up.
He always undertsand.
His kagune—his power—was not just flesh, not just a weapon. It was not an extension of himself, because it had never been separate. It was him. A law written into the marrow of his being, a hunger that stretched through every nerve, every cell, every breath. Every time he used it, it changed him. Remade him. Strengthened him. His body became sharper, his movements faster, his cells multiplied and thrived on what was taken. He was growing. He was evolving. He was becoming more.
But so was the hunger.
It did not rage. It did not beg. It did not scream.
It only existed.
You are built on what you take. You are shaped by what you devour.
He sucked in a breath. His body was steady, unshaken. But something inside him wasn't.
The hunger had no voice. No mouth. No shape. But it was grinning.
And somehow, he knew—
It would never stop.
And he had not realized. Not at first.
Because when he moved, when he fought, when he devoured, there had been no room for thought. When his kagune had wrapped around those three starving ghouls, when it had tightened, crushed, consumed—the hunger had eased. Their flesh had melted away, their screams had sunk into silence, their bodies had been reduced to fuel. And in that moment, that single fleeting moment—
Relief.
But now, in the stillness, he felt it again.
Hunger.
It had only been delayed. The pit inside him had not closed. It had only stretched wider.
His fingers trembled. Not from fear. Not from exhaustion. His veins pulsed, thick with stolen life, his body stronger than before—yet somehow, it did not feel like his.
I am built on what I have taken.
I am shaped by what I have devoured.
But was that not the way of all things?
Every human, every ghoul, every living thing—was it not the same?
They gained, they took, they reached, they consumed. Strength, knowledge, power, wealth. And yet—
It was never enough.
There was no end to desire. No end to hunger. No end to the endless, gnawing need to have more.
My power is like my regret. Like my ambition.
It grants me strength, but leaves behind something else.
Something hollow.
Something that will never be enough.
Eto watched.
She did not flinch. Did not speak. Did not seem disturbed by the way Amatsu stood there, trembling—not from fear, not from pain, but from something deeper, something carved into the marrow of his being.
Her small hands clutched a book, fingers resting lightly against its worn cover. Her legs kicked idly, tapping against the concrete. There was no fear in her eyes. No disgust. Just quiet curiosity, like a child watching raindrops race down a window.
The silence stretched. Then, softly—
"Why are you still not full?"
Her voice was light, almost playful.
Amatsu blinked. His body still pulsed with stolen warmth, his veins thick with what had once belonged to others. His strength had grown. His cells had thrived. He had fed. Devoured. Taken.
He should be full.
And yet—
His nails dug into his palm, skin splitting, but no pain followed. Only the quiet hum of something deeper, something waiting. Something endless.
"It's okay," he muttered.
A lie.
He exhaled, steadying himself. The hunger did not rage. Did not scream. It simply existed. A second heartbeat. A whisper beneath his breath. A grin without a face.
He just needed to get used to it.
That's all.
Then she blinked up at him.
"Why are you here?"
A simple question. But her tone wasn't accusing. Just curious.
Amatsu said nothing.
Eto tilted her head. "Is it because of Noroi?"
His fingers twitched slightly against his knee. A pause. Then, a slow nod.
She hummed softly, like she was chewing on the thought. Then, after a moment—
"When's he coming back?"
Amatsu's expression didn't shift. "I don't know."
Eto frowned. "That's not very helpful."
She puffed out her cheeks in exaggerated frustration before flopping onto her stomach, arms stretched out lazily. Her small fingers drummed against the wooden floor. "You're strong for your age, though."
She peeked up at him from her awkward sprawl. "How many ghouls have you eaten?"
Amatsu didn't hesitate. "Four. Including the one from earlier."
Eto pushed herself up onto her elbows. "Four?!" Her mouth hung open for a second before she grinned. "That's a lot! You must eat a loooot."
Amatsu didn't respond. Eating wasn't an accomplishment. It was survival.
"How old are you?" she asked next, rolling onto her back.
"Ten."
Her reaction was immediate.
"EH?! TEN?!"
She flailed so hard she nearly tipped over, arms flapping as she caught herself. "That's super young! Kagune don't even awaken that early!"
Amatsu didn't react, but he saw the flicker in her eyes. That moment where her surprise wasn't just surprise—it was recognition.
Because she wasn't normal either.
She hugged her knees, resting her chin on them. "Do you know if there's a world outside of here?"
This time, he didn't hesitate. "Yeah."
Her expression shifted, something brighter in her eyes. "Really? Do you think we'll be able to go to the surface someday?"
His voice was steady. "Everything is possible."
For a moment, she just stared at him. Then, she grinned.
"Hehe, I like that answer."
Without another word, she crawled over to a corner of the room and curled up on the floor.
"I'm sleepy now. Night night."
Amatsu watched her.
She had fallen asleep just like that. Not caring about the creaking of the old house, the fact that he was still sitting there, awake.
Not caring that danger didn't disappear just because she closed her eyes.
…He stayed awake. Listening. Watching. Waiting.
Too quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that meant peace—the kind that meant something was watching. Waiting.
The walls creaked, shifting under their own weight. Wind whistled through cracks in the boarded windows, a thin, reedy sound, like something breathing just beyond the wood. The air smelled stale—dust, rot, old blood.
Something had died here before.
Something would die here again.
Survival wasn't just hard. It was impossible.
He didn't need to go outside to know that.
The alleys were a graveyard. The weak were stripped apart, their bones left to stain the walls. The strong were hunted down, dragged into the dark when they were least expecting it. Even the air here felt hungry, pressing against his skin like it wanted to seep inside.
Amatsu wasn't stupid. The moment he stepped out, he would be prey.
He had seen what happened to those who wandered without power. They didn't just die. They were erased.
Even inside this house, safety was an illusion.
His eyes flicked to Eto.
She was small, curled up on the wooden floor, her breathing soft and even. Her fingers twitched, gripping the edge of her book, as if it might slip away in her sleep. She looked fragile.
But Amatsu wasn't fooled.
She was stronger than him.
He had seen it in the way she moved—casual, fluid.
If they fought, she would win. Even if he used his kagune.
It wouldn't even take effort—a few sweeps, a few well-placed strikes, and he'd be dead.
That meant something.
She had survived here.
She belonged here.
His fingers curled slightly. That thought—it felt heavier than it should have.
He watched her sleep, her arms wrapped around the book, holding it close like something precious.
How hard had her life been to make her this strong?
How much had she lost?
How much had she eaten?
He exhaled.
None of that mattered.
Right now, the only thing that mattered was securing the house.
It wouldn't stop the stronger ones. If a ghoul like Eto wanted to break in, they would.
But the hungry ones?
Hunger weakened them. It made their kagune sluggish—or unusable.
That was his only advantage.
He moved carefully, searching for anything to block the doors and windows—broken furniture, loose boards, anything that would hold.
A shattered table, splintered at the legs. A rusted metal shelf, bent and useless but heavy enough to press against the door. Loose bricks from the crumbling walls.
It took time. Too long. His muscles ached, his fingers raw from dragging and lifting whatever he could find. His body protested, bones aching in a way they shouldn't have at his age. But he ignored it. Pain was a distraction. He didn't have the luxury of feeling it.
Finally, when there was nothing left to secure, he turned back toward Eto.
She was still asleep.
Muttering softly. Words he couldn't hear.
The book in her arms—she clung to it like it was more important than anything.
Amatsu watched her.
And for the first time in a while, he wasn't sure if he should feel relieved or uneasy.
---
How long had he been sitting here?
The cold gnawed at his skin, seeping through his clothes, his bones. His breath curled in the air before him, thin, fragile—a ghost of warmth swallowed by the dark.
What does it really take to succeed?
The thought settled like a stone in his gut, its edges raw, gnawing.
Confidence? Some wore it like armor, unshaken, untouched, as if fear had never even brushed against them. Power? It bent others to its will, hollowing them out, carving a path through the weak like a blade through soft flesh. Perseverance? The ability to endure—to crawl forward even when the weight of the world sat heavy on your ribs, pressing, pressing, pressing.
He closed his eyes. Listened.
Silence.
A silence that stretched and yawned, deep and unbroken. The kind that made you feel like you were the only thing left alive.
It wasn't just about strength. It wasn't just about talent. He had neither.
He had hunger.
A dull ache coiled in his belly, low, insistent. It slithered through his veins, curled around his ribs, nested in his thoughts. His fingers twitched against the wooden floor. Even now, even here, it whispered to him.
Soft.
Insatiable.
A gnawing that never stopped.
At first, it had been simple. A goal born of instinct, of desperation. To never feel hunger again.
But that had been a lie. A child's wish.
The hunger was not something to be escaped. It had been carved into him, stitched into his marrow. It pulsed beneath his skin, breathing, watching, waiting.
It was not a curse to be shed. Not a sickness to be cured.
It was him.
A sharp exhale. His grip tightened against the floor.
Could he accept that?
The thought of running away scraped at him like teeth. It had always been easier to shrink, retreat, fold into himself like brittle paper. To let the weight of fear and failure drag him under.
But if he ran now, if he slipped into the comfort of stagnation, wasn't that the same as dying?
Ghosts of weakness filled his past.
Days wasted in helplessness.
Moments where he had let himself be consumed by doubt.
An existence of waiting. Of doing nothing. Of being nothing.
If he stayed in this room, in this ruin of what had been—
He would rot here.
His gaze flickered to the far corner of the room.
Eto.
She lay curled into herself, small, breathing, living. The slow, steady rise and fall of her chest the only proof that she had survived.
She had endured.
Alone.
Without guidance.
Without protection.
She had clawed her way through a world that devoured the weak.
His fingers curled into a fist.
She had pushed forward.
Could he?
A slow breath. His chest rose. Fell.
He had already made his choice.
The hunger would always be with him. The pain. The need. But it would no longer control him.
He moved.
The shift from stillness was slow, stiff, as if the weight of the past still clung to him, reluctant to let go. His muscles ached from disuse. His limbs felt heavy, dragged down by invisible chains.
He ignored it.
One step.
Then another.
The door stood before him.
A threshold.
A wall.
A test.
His fingers brushed against it. Pushed.
It did not yield.
Objects piled against it, a barricade of old weight and forgotten things.
One last resistance.
His Kagune stirred.
A shift in the air, a sickening pulse beneath his skin. Flesh unraveled from his back, thick and sinuous, wet with hunger. The tendril slithered free, coiling, flexing, tasting the air. The mouth at its end yawned open, rows of jagged fangs catching the dim light, rotating in slow, hungry anticipation.
A low, wet sound slithered from its depths.
It did not hesitate.
With a sickening lurch, it lashed forward.
Wood shattered. Splinters sprayed. The weight of the past, broken.
The door wrenched open, revealing a world beyond—cold, unfamiliar, waiting.
Amatsu stepped forward.
The door shut behind him with a dull, final thud.
There was no turning back.
His breath steadied.
The Kagune curled behind him, its weight familiar. A part of him. No longer something to fear. No longer something to deny.
"I will hunt. I will train. I don't need anyone to show me how. I'll carve my own path. I'll pursue my goal until it is no longer just words but reality."
The hunger would remain.
The pain would remain.
But he would endure.
Through suffering.
Through madness.
Through hunger.
He would grow.
And he would never look back.