Amatsu walked through the empty streets, the scent of blood still clinging to his skin like a second layer. His steps were slow, unhurried, the weight of his thoughts pressing down heavier than his own body. The echoes of screams, the wet crunch of bone, the way flesh peeled apart beneath his grip—it all played back in his mind, not as a burden, but as something else.
Enjoyment.
That was the word. The twisted, creeping satisfaction that coiled within him, unfurling like a living thing.
Since when?
Since when had he come to enjoy torture? Since when had he learned to kill without hesitation, without remorse? Had there been a moment, a turning point where something inside him had shifted, or had it always been there, buried beneath the fragile illusion of humanity?
A shadow passed over his face, his gaze sharpening.
Why did it even matter?
The answer was simple.
People were defined by what they were given. A man who was powerless might dream of saving others, but give him power, and his dreams would shift. A beggar swore he would share his wealth when he became rich, but when fortune smiled upon him, he clung to it greedily. Strength did not change people. It revealed them.
Some wished for power to protect. Others sought it for their own gain.
And then there were those like him.
He had not changed. He had only uncovered what had always been beneath the surface. The mask of humanity, the feigned morality, the lies he had once mistaken for himself—shattered. Beneath it, the truth was raw, undeniable.
This was him. His true self.
Why should he suppress it?
He wouldn't.
He would live as he was meant to—unbound, unfettered, reveling in the power that was rightfully his.
A slow breath escaped his lips, curling into the cold night air. He could feel the Famine Serpent inside him, silent but present, not as a separate entity but as a part of himself. Hunger was not a curse. It was not a madness he had to fight. It was clarity. It was truth.
The dim glow of the hideout came into view as he approached. The broken warehouse, barely standing, filled with the scent of rust, damp wood, and faint traces of decay. He stepped inside, the floor creaking under his weight. The quiet settled around him, thick and heavy.
Then—movement.
Eto stirred, shifting in her makeshift bed of torn blankets. A tiny noise, a breath catching in her throat. And then, slowly, her eyes fluttered open.
Her gaze met his, unfocused at first, hazy with sleep.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
And then, with a small, drowsy smile, she tilted her head.
"You look different," she murmured, voice soft but knowing.
Amatsu stared at her.
He smirked.
She spoke.
"Did you kill the other three?"
No hesitation. No fear. The words left her lips as casually as if she had asked about the weather.
Amatsu held her gaze for a moment, then gave a slight nod. "Yeah."
Eto exhaled softly, something between a sigh and a hum, as if confirming something to herself. She stretched her arms above her head, fingers trembling slightly from exhaustion before she let them drop back onto the blankets.
"Why?" Amatsu asked. His voice was quiet, almost weightless, but there was something beneath it—an edge that wasn't quite uncertainty, but wasn't entirely detached either.
Eto didn't answer immediately. Instead, she patted the empty space beside her.
"Sit."
Amatsu remained standing. His body, still tensed from the fight, refused to relax. It was instinct, something he had learned in the depths of this place—never lower your guard, never settle.
Eto, however, saw straight through him. She always did.
"This is important," she said, tilting her head slightly. There was no demand in her tone, no attempt to force him, but the weight behind her words was undeniable.
For a moment, he simply stood there, staring at her. Then, finally, he moved. He lowered himself beside her, though his posture remained rigid, ready.
Eto didn't immediately launch into an explanation. Instead, she reached down, her small fingers brushing against the rubble-strewn ground. She picked up a jagged piece of limestone from the destroyed wall, its surface coated in dust and grime.
Without a word, she pressed the stone against the floor and began to draw.
Lines scratched into the dust, forming shapes, letters, symbols that took shape under her practiced hand. Amatsu watched in silence, his thoughts shifting.
How does she know all of this?
Was it Noroi?
Or perhaps… Eto had gathered this knowledge on her own.
Amatsu said nothing. He only observed.
When she finished, Eto sat back slightly, dusting her fingers off on her already-filthy shirt. She gestured toward the symbols she had scrawled across the floor.
"There are a lot of gangs here," she began, tapping the first name with the tip of her finger. "But so far, these are the ones I know about."
Her finger landed on the first name, drawn with harsh, jagged strokes.
The Maw.
"They're brutal," Eto said, her voice oddly detached. "They don't negotiate, they don't form alliances. They have one rule—devour or be devoured. If you enter their territory, you either join them or end up in their stomachs."
Amatsu's gaze lingered on the name. He had heard of them before, but only in passing. He had never encountered them himself—not yet.
Eto moved to the next name.
Black August.
"I don't know much about them," she admitted, furrowing her brows slightly. "They keep to themselves. Too quiet. That makes them dangerous."
Her finger slid across the dust, tapping the next symbol.
The Vultures.
"A nomadic pack of cannibals," she murmured. "They don't hold territory. They don't need to. They follow death—scavenging corpses, devouring the weak and wounded. If they show up, it means someone's already lost."
She paused for a moment, her expression unreadable.
"I saw them once," she admitted. "From far away. They don't look like Ghouls. More like... starved animals wearing human skin."
A strange silence settled between them. Then, without another word, she moved to the next name.
Dogma.
"They're different," she said slowly, tapping the word. "More like a secret society than a gang. They have rules, rituals—things they believe in. Some say they are not even normal ghouls anymore"
Amatsu raised an eyebrow. "Then what are they?"
Eto shrugged. "Ghosts. Monsters. Ghouls who forgot they were Ghouls. Who knows?"
She was half-smiling, but there was something in her eyes, something distant, like she had seen something she wasn't saying.
Then, she hesitated.
And when she spoke again, her voice was quieter.
"And then… there are the ones from above."
Amatsu's gaze sharpened.
"White coats," she murmured. "They come from the surface. From up there. They're not like us—they don't belong to this place. They're hunters. They're coming underground to kill everyone here."
A long, heavy silence stretched between them.
Amatsu's fingers curled slightly.
This was different.
Gangs were expected. Gangs were just a part of survival. But outsiders?
"How do you know?" he asked.
Eto didn't answer immediately. Instead, she traced the edge of one of the symbols absentmindedly, her fingers smudging the dust.
She turned to face him, her gaze sharp and knowing.
"Because I listen."
He had no doubt she knew more than she was letting on.
Not just about the gangs. Not just about the white coats.
About everything.
And that was what unsettled him the most.
She was younger than him—by how much, he wasn't even sure. And yet, she knew more. She understood more. She saw things he didn't.
It wasn't just intelligence. It wasn't just perception.
It was something else.
Something beyond her years.
Something unnatural.
Amatsu didn't press her. He knew better than that.
Instead, he leaned back slightly, eyes still locked onto hers.
"Tch." He exhaled through his nose. "Fine."
Eto tilted her head, smiling faintly, as if amused.
She knew what he was thinking.
She always did.
She had been quiet for a while. Watching. Studying him like an unread book.
Then, at last, she spoke.
"You just killed four members of The Vultures."
Amatsu glanced at her, unconcerned. "I get it."
Eto smiled, but it wasn't a happy smile. It was distant, thoughtful, as if she was peeling apart the layers of something unseen. "Do you understand what that means?"
He exhaled, watching the mist of his breath vanish in the cold air. "Why are you telling me this?"
Eto's smile faded, her expression settling into something quieter, something more real. "Because this matters, Amatsu." Her voice was soft, but her words carried weight, sinking into the space between them like stones into deep water. "You killed four of their own. You didn't just take lives—you upset the balance. A gang like The Vultures, they don't just let things go. There are consequences."
Consequences.
He had acted.
And now, they would react.
But… so what?
Amatsu let the thought settle, turning it over in his mind like a smooth stone. He searched for regret, for something inside himself that should care. But there was nothing.
A calm certainty filled him instead.
"What's done is done," he said, his voice steady. "I don't regret it. I chose to move forward. There's no point looking back."
Eto studied him for a long moment, her fingers still resting on the name.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she spoke:
"The Vultures never hunt alone."
Amatsu's gaze sharpened.
Eto's fingers traced over the word once more, slow, deliberate. "And they never leave a debt unpaid."
Eto leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Amatsu… what is your dream?"
Amatsu's gaze lingered on Eto, her question hanging between them like a blade suspended in the dark.
"Amatsu… what is your dream?"
Dream.
The word sat in his mind like an intruder, foreign, misplaced, irrelevant. What place did dreams have in a world like this? A world where strength dictated survival, where hesitation was a death sentence, where hunger was the only thing that remained constant?
A dream?
His lips parted slightly, but no words came.
The silence stretched.
But beneath it, something stirred. A flicker. Not an answer, not yet, but something half-formed, buried beneath layers of instinct and carnage.
She hesitated, then met his gaze.
"Do you think… if I write a book, I can shape my dreams?"
Her voice was quiet, but not uncertain.
For the first time, Amatsu looked at her properly. There was something in her voice—not just curiosity, but something deeper. A longing. A quiet, desperate belief in something beyond the blood and the violence.
And yet, her words made sense to him.
To write a book. To carve something into existence.
A world made from nothing but words. A world where hunger did not dictate reality. A world where everything could be shaped, rewritten, made into something else.
He nodded. "Yes."
Eto's grin trembled at the edges, something raw flickering behind her eyes. For a moment, it was as if the weight of the world had lifted from her shoulders—only to reveal the exhaustion beneath.
"Then... let's write," she whispered. Her voice was soft, almost fragile, as if the words themselves were the only thing keeping her from unraveling. She clutched at them, at the idea, as though it were something real, something she could hold onto in a world that had only ever taken from her.
Her fingers curled slightly, digging into the fabric of her tattered sleeve. "If I write it down... if I put it into words, maybe..." She hesitated, her breath uneven. "Maybe it can exist. Maybe it can be real."
She laughed, but it was a quiet, breathless thing—too light, too hollow. "Wouldn't that be nice, Amatsu?" Her gaze met his, searching, pleading for something even she couldn't name. "A world where things can be... different?" Her voice cracked, the words trembling like glass about to shatter. As if the dream itself was a wound she kept reopening, just to feel it exist.