He didn't misunderstand .
No, no. He understood perfectly.
The way he scrambled back, hands slipping against the slick, bloodied deck, boots dragging in desperate, frantic kicks—that was all the proof I needed. His breath ca fast, uneven, each gasp a ragged choke of disbelief and terror. His mouth opened like he wanted to speak, to demand, to threaten, but no words ca. No commands. No insults. Nothing but the wet, shallow rattle of a man trying—and failing—to swallow down the fear clogging his throat.
Fear had finally sunk its teeth into him. Deep.
And his crew?
Oh, they had already given up on him.
They were far, far away now, a shaking, trembling wall of bodies pressed against whatever corners of the ship felt the safest—as if there was a safe place left. They were no longer a crew but a herd of prey, huddling together, clinging to the desperate hope that fear alone might make them invisible. That if they just didn't move, just didn't breathe too loud, just didn't make a sound, maybe—just maybe—I would forget about them.
Their eyes told everything.
It wasn't just fear I saw there.
It was desperation. It was instinct.
Their hands quivered on their weapons—blades, pistols, makeshift clubs—all pointed at yet held with a grip that scread hesitation. They were so unsure. So looked at , so at their captain, as if waiting for a sign, an order, a shred of confidence that they could hold onto. But there was none. Because he, their great tyrant, their unshakable leader, was on the ground. Crawling. And they had never seen him crawl before.
Were they afraid of ? Or of what I ant? Of what I might be?
Looks like I'm not the only mad one on these waters.
And oh, how fun that is.
A giggle slipped past my lips.
Light. Breathless. Wrong.
It crawled through the silence, slithering into their ears like sothing alive. Sothing they couldn't shake off. Sothing that stuck.
One step forward.
The crew lurched back.
Another giggle—another retreat.
Step. Giggle. Step. Giggle.
Like a dance.
Like a waltz of horror played on a stage of rotting wood and blood-soaked steel.
But they weren't my prize.
He was.
Their tyrant.
Their leader.
Dessert after the main course.
I turned my full attention to him, my body casting a shadow over his crawling, scrambling form. He had stopped trying to speak now, stopped trying to reach for a weapon. His fingers clawed at the wood beneath him, nails scraping against the soaked deck as if he could tear his way through it, carve out an escape where none existed.
He wasn't even trying to stand.
Oh, no. He knew.
He knew sothing his crew didn't.
Knew sothing more.
The way he moved—not like a man who had just seen sothing horrifying.
But like a man who had seen this before.
Like a man who had read about this. Whispered stories in hushed tones. Watched in horror as sothing just like this played out before his very eyes—long ago.
And now, here it was.
Crawling toward him in the flesh.
He moved the way a man moves from a bear.
Slow. Careful. Praying.
Hoping if he didn't make any sudden moves, if he didn't anger the beast, it wouldn't attack.
Wouldn't hunt.
Wouldn't finish what it started.
Too bad.
Too bad for him.
Because this wasn't so black bear, timid and hesitant.
This was a polar bear.
And I?
I was starving.
I let my fingers glide over his skin, slow and deliberate. Rough. Tight. Dense. A body built from war and labor, from years of strain and survival. A body that should have been untouchable.
And yet—here I was.
My fingers traced the curve of his chin, lifting it ever so gently. I barely applied any force. I didn't need to. He moved anyway.
A man like him should have crushed . Should have broken .
If I threw a punch, my own bones would shatter before his flesh ever did. If he so much as wrapped a single hand around my throat, he could snap like a rotting twig. Pulverize into nothing but a ball of useless, pulped at.
But he didn't.
He only stared.
And he trembled.
The whites of his eyes glowed under the sickly light, wide and wet with the terror he refused to voice. I could hear his breath—a ragged, unstable, dying thing. He exhaled too fast, inhaled too shallow, a man not accustod to fear clawing at his lungs.
Oh, but I could do worse.
Killing him would be impossible. A blade would struggle against his skin, and my strength—ha! laughable in comparison.
But I didn't need to kill him.
I only needed to show him sothing worse than death.
Slowly, I raised my hand—the one still wrapped in dripping, sickly, congealing blood. The cocooned flesh, encased in a layer of red so thick, it barely looked human anymore.
It pulsed.
It breathed.
And it was still healing.
I brought it to my nose, inhaling deeply.
The blood had already dried in so places, flaking like dead skin. But the scent? The scent was alive. Thick, tallic—a whisper of sothing deeper than flesh.
I exhaled with a sigh, letting my lips part as I dragged my tongue over the surface.
His breath hitched.
He did not move.
Did not dare to move.
A droplet of sweat ran down his temple, down the bridge of his nose, hanging from his lip like a pearl before falling—a single, quivering drop against the silence.
I smiled.
And then—
I brought the blade down.
HACK.
A single, brutal strike against my own hand.
His body jolted.
But he didn't move.
HACK.
Again. Deeper this ti.
His breath ca out in silent, fractured gasps.
HACK.
And oh, the sll.
It changed.
At first, it was just copper, familiar and sharp, clinging to the back of the throat.
Then—iron. A heavy, bitter tang that made the air dense, suffocating.
Then—salt. Thick, oceanic, like seawater drawn fresh from a wound.
And then—
Sothing else.
Sothing richer.
Riper.
Sothing that didn't just sll like blood.
Sothing that slled alive.
The mont my fingers tore through the cocoon, prying free a pulsing, twitching, still-healing strip of flesh—
The scent changed.
And he knew it.
The mont it hit him, his face twisted—his lips quivered, stomach convulsing in sothing close to nausea. His body knew what it was before his mind did. His instincts scread at him, told him to run, to retch, to get away from whatever this was.
Because this wasn't just human blood.
It was sothing more.
Sothing wrong.
Sothing not ant to exist.
And as I lifted the still-bleeding chunk to my lips, as I let my teeth graze its surface—
I saw it.
The mont his mind finally caught up.
The mont he truly, fully understood.
And in his trembling eyes, I found sothing much more than what I was looking for.
Not just Fear.
Horror.
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