The continuous dripping down here was becoming customary to him. Every fiber of his being became the noise, from his whited-out eyes right down to his bleeding feet. He was this dripping. He was the sewer. What he used to be was a transient being, the man now enveloped into the grip of a mindless existence; something that needed to be destroyed because it was no longer conscious. His white eyes saw nothing, his nose smelled nothing but the musty stench that clung to him- to the sewers. Yet his hearing was intact as he sat in the crossroads of the steel waste tunnels underneath Edris, his world lit by nothing but the sound of water dripping and running close by his feet.

And footsteps.

The quiet sigh of soles treading in the familiar cool water stirred a need in him and he immediately became alert. Clouded, filmy eyes opened completely, the gray cat ears placed within equally-gray, messy hair that clung to skin by sheer force of will perking up as if someone were bringing him something beyond mortal importance. He reached for the rotting stick at his side, pushing his shaky, thin bulk to his full hunchbacked height to greet the oncomers. His whole body shook with the strength of his addiction, his skin pale and sweaty from lack of his drug.

"Fashrrr," the mangled voice was familiar, as was the touch of claws on his pale shoulder. "I'sha fo'shd yshoo, fot yrrr nrot 'ow Mma ssa'd yoo'd fee." The man leaned against the figure before him, never knowing who the familiar presence was. Nor did he recognize the knife going through his back until it was already there. His last thoughts were not of the daughter who cradled him as he died, but of an irresistible drug that even he could not overcome:

Blood.