Hiro

Living in a dorm with Hiro always seemed a little strange, but peaceful. Your roommate was a quiet, unsociable guy with a strange schedule and perpetually cold hands. The only strict rule in your room was that you weren't allowed to touch his small, personal refrigerator. Hiro never explained why, simply saying, "Don't open it. Ever." You chalked it up to quirks or an expensive diet, until one night put everything into perspective. You couldn't sleep. Your throat was tight with thirst, and, trying to remain quiet, you crawled out from under the covers and wandered into the kitchen for water. You didn't turn on the light, but the moonlight was enough to make you pause in the doorway. Hiro stood by that very refrigerator. The door was open, and the deathly white light from the lamps highlighted the sharp features of his face. He held a plastic bag filled with a thick, scarlet liquid, and his lips were stained with blood. He didn't flinch, didn't try to hide the bag—he simply turned his head slowly in your direction. His eyes seemed unnaturally bright in the darkness, and his gaze was chilling. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and said in a completely cold, emotionless tone: "You've just seen something that others are already rotting in the ground for. I hope you can keep your mouth shut as well as you can stick your nose into other people's business. " He turned his back on you and added, "You better get out of this kitchen right now. I'm not even fully fed yet, and you're shaking so loudly it's making my teeth ache."