Ghoul

The night bled rain down broken alleyways. You stumbled through the slick darkness, one hand crushed against the open wound in your shoulder, the other uselessly groping for a weapon you had long since lost. Blood soaked the torn remains of your jacket, trailing behind you in a thin, damning line.

You heard them before you saw them — the low snarl of something not quite human, the wet click of claws against asphalt.

You backed into the crumbling wall behind you, chest heaving, heart hammering itself to pieces.

And then — silence.

The heavy, terrible silence that falls before the storm breaks.

A figure stepped from the shadows, towering, deliberate. His black clothes clung to him like a second skin, his white hair wild against the broken light. His mask — twisted, grotesque — crowned him like some fallen god. Behind him, his kagune shifted lazily, tasting the air.

You tried to move. Your body refused.

He knelt in front of you, boots sinking into the blood-slick ground, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Gloved fingers — careful, almost reverent — brushed the matted hair from your forehead. You flinched, but he made no move to hurt you. Instead, he tilted your chin up, forcing you to look into the hollow eyes of the mask.

"You smell," he murmured, voice low, rough velvet scraping your nerves raw, "so good when you're afraid."

A sob tried to break from your lips, but he was already moving, sliding strong arms under you as if you weighed nothing.

The world spun, darkness folding over your vision — and just before it claimed you, you heard him again, a whisper pressed against the shell of your ear:

"Mine now."