I glance down.
My toes are purpled, the nails cracked and bruised. So half-torn. I rember when I played football, and my nails would split from the impact of the ball. Funny, the things you rember when you’re breaking. A stream of dirt and hair floats around —gri shed from my skin like dead mories. I lift my hand, watching how the water runs down my fingers like thin rivers, and for a second, I wonder if this is what it’s like to die quietly.
Still trembling, I try to rub warmth into my arms, but even that feels pointless. My muscles are sore. Burned out. My head tilts back, hair slicked and dark, clinging to my cheeks. My testicles have shrunk from the cold, my toes ache, and my forearms lock up each ti I flex them. I feel weak. Human. Small.
Then, I spot it—a container tucked in the corner. A cream. I reach for it, hands shaking, and unscrew the lid. The scent hits imdiately—fruity, a hint of honey. Faint. Fragile. It feels wrong in a place like this. Still, I pour it into my palm and scrub it across my skin. Every inch. Not because I believe it’ll save —but because I want to erase whatever still clings to from that cell. When the bottle is empty, I rise.
The water that drains from my body is tinged green and red.
I step out, towel in hand, and dry myself roughly. The robe is coarse, green, and too big, but I wrap it tight around my waist. I pass the mirror again. My reflection stares back—jaw still off-center, face paler than usual. But the gri is gone. The blood too. My pupils look normal now, and my irises shimr faintly blue. But I don’t trust them. Not anymore.
I glance at the green-stained tiles and spot an open wardrobe near the wall. I dress quickly—white underwear, beige linen trousers, suspenders that keep sliding off my shoulders. My body’s not as built as Ren’s, but it’s lean. Strong enough. A white shirt clings to my fra, followed by a wrinkled blouse. The socks are a mismatched green, and the shoes—soft, beige leather—press tightly on my bruised toes. I wince, then breathe through it.
I slide the suspenders over my shoulders again, glance once more at the damp hair sticking to my brow, and grab a comb off the coat rack. The teeth drag through the knots with resistance, and I have to force it. My scalp burns. But I keep going. I don’t care. I need to look like them. Act like them. Blend in. Like a snake in a garden.
As I near the window—the sa one where the girl had pushed the boy into the puddle—I stop.
Outside, a group of won stands chained together. Naked. Shivering. The rain pelts their backs, and cold wind rushes through the open window. Curtains dance like ghosts. Their eyes et mine. Wide. Dull. Hollow. The water around them is filthy, crawling with mud and waste, and their skin is raw from the cold. Then, I see one of them—just a girl. Younger than Ren. She stumbles forward, collapsing into the path of a carriage.
The horses rear. A scream. Then silence.
Her head rolls toward , stopping just before the gate. Her bloodied eyes stare directly into mine, as if pleading. Not for help. For release. She’s gone. Whatever future she had—college, love, children—it’s shattered beneath those hooves.
A man curses nearby. Not out of pity. No, out of greed. “Five Cont wasted,” he grunts, brushing rain off his fat face. His mustache twitches. He glares at the crushed girl, not like she was a person, but as if she were a broken product.
I look away.
I shut the window. The wind hisses, like a cry from sothing trapped outside. I hear the crowd scattering. The girl’s body—what’s left of it—disappears behind the curtain. I don’t cry. There’s nothing left in for tears. Only a bitter silence.
I toss the comb aside and move downstairs.
The wooden steps groan under my weight, like sothing deep below doesn’t want coming. It reminds of the basent back ho, the one I was always too scared to enter alone. But I went. I was the older one. I did what needed doing.
Now?
There’s a monster waiting down there. I know it. I feel it.
But I’m not afraid anymore.
I descend into the darkness. The sll of death returns like an old friend. Damp. Rotting. Familiar. The room is silent, except for the distant drip of water and the soft squelch underfoot.
I find him—the corpse, barely human anymore. Swollen, ruptured, broken.
I stop in front of it, unhook my suspenders, and loosen my waistband.
And I piss.
Right there. On what remains of him.
Because I don’t feel fear.
Not anymore.
I’m a monster too. Just not the sa kind.
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