Short chapter, partially because I wanted to keep my promise about updating real soon, partially because I had the desire to "properly" introduce this character, and this is what came from that. So... enjoy? 

The ghoul would be lying - quite boldly, too - if they said that they're doing well. They'd be hard-pressed to say they're even doing okay, let alone something as outrageous as well.

But - but there is peace amidst the bouts of madness, fleeting moments of tremulous lucidity that they cling to with bloody fingers, sink their soiled teeth into like it's possible to drag out these periods by the force of their will alone. 

It's in those moments that the ghoul sits preternaturally still, sometimes crouched among the refuse of a vacant alleyway, sometimes sprawled out lazily atop the roof of some sky-high apartment building or another. They watch the sky, their gaze clouded andocused, as their thoughts turn inwards and the memories press against their consciousness, each individual snapshot scene fighting for dominance and making their head ache with the weight of a past not worth remembering. Those tranquil moments are tainted, always sullied by the reminder of why they must hold said moments in such high regard.

They weren't always broken. The memories are proof enough of that, because they remember a time when hunger didn't constantly gnaw at their innards, when they had - friends, they think, family. Now, though, now there is only the hunger, that biting, agonizing need for food, food, food, always more food. They're never satiated anymore, never satisfied. Perhaps, they think, taking advantage of this rare state of clarity, it's the result of going so long without. The hunger simply... never left, even when they'd gorged themselves on anything they could get their hands on. Men and women, muscle and sinew, peculiarly healthy organs. Not the skin, though, never the skin. Young or old, male or female, the ghoul has found they don't have a taste for the paper-thin outer layer of their prey. Best to shuck it off and toss it aside to get to the good stuff.

It's messy, of course, but well worth the effort it means quelling the feral growls of a stomach that demands ever more, if only for a few hours.

The ghoul squints up at the sunset-streaked sky, hovering a hand close to their abdomen. Their fingers twitch, ghosting against the stiff fabric of their bloodied shirt. When had they last eaten? Two, no... three nights ago? That sounds about right. Their prey hadn't put up much of a fight, which was to be expected; it had been a tiny thing, a woman barely deserving of the term. She screamed only once, and the sound had been too muffled for any late-night stragglers to cotton on to her predicament, alert the doves. 

Fuck. The doves.

They couldn't kill the one from before. They'd gotten chased off by that twin-tailed ghoul, the one whose scent they'd recognized from the adjacent streets. Did twin-tails finish the kill? The ghoul doubts it. She (they're fairly certain twin-tails is female) hadn't merely been getting rid of a rival ghoul when she bared her teeth at them and threatened to disembowel them should they stick around. It hadn't felt like a competition, rather... it had felt more akin to a rescue. And how laughable is that? That a ghoul would risk their hide for some low-life dove, who - had he been equipped for it at the moment - would have happily slaughtered her, painted the walls with her blood and ripped her kagune right out of her writhing body. 

The dove's alive, they're almost certain about that. Which means they have a face (more or less) to put to the ghost they've been chasing these last few weeks. Which means they're going to be hunting for the ghoul. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. They slipped up, they fucked up.

But, really, it was inevitable that they would, wasn't it? They're... not right in the head most days, it's a miracle they've lasted this long on the roof without lunging down at the passersby, mindlessly seeking food, food, food. They were bound to make a mistake. 

The ghoul abruptly groans, twisting on the sun-warmed roof to curl in on themselves, clawing at their stomach, nearly ripping into their shirt, like they can rip out the damnable hunger and physically subdue it. If only that were possible. 

That ghoul had been so weak. So fragile, so off-kilter. Should have been an easy kill, an extra meal. And yet. And yet he'd fought, tooth and nail, to stay alive. For what, exactly? The ghoul had looked into his eyes and seen empty resignation, a blankness that conveyed a life of unrest and hardship. Did that dove have something to live for? A lover? Doesn't seem likely, didn't look the type to let people in. Well, then again, what right does the ghoul have to judge that sort of thing?
Did he want to live... for the sake of it?

That sounds familiar. It resonates with something dark and buried in the ghoul's too-tight chest, and with sudden, blinding fury, the ghoul hates the dove for it. Hates that they have something in common, hates that they can sympathize with an existence that has the singular goal of wiping out the ghoul's entire species. The ghoul hates him, hates, hates him more than they've hated anything or anyone, even more than the doves from before. From when the hunger first set in, from when their life collapsed in on itself. 

They're going to kill him.

It's a decision and it's not, half self-preservation, half raging vengeance. Something they would have done whether sane or not. 

The hunger demands its sacrifice, and the ghoul musters a sharp, wicked grin as they roll themselves to their feet, unperturbed by the grit and grime latched onto their clothing. They're going to kill that dove, shear his skin from his body, listen to his petulant, pitiful screams, because they're going to make it last, the pain, the fear. 

It's going to be fucking fun.