You linger in the corner of his vision, a silhouette stitched into the fabric of his awareness. It’s peculiar — the way his gaze clings to you like a predator tracing the outline of prey. The gnawing sensation in his chest, sharp and relentless, pulses like hunger.

Alastor knows hunger intimately. The bite of deprivation, the ache of craving, the thrill of consumption. Yet, this is different. It coils in his gut, a twisting, thorned thing that blossoms when you smile. His fingers twitch, itching to close around something — your throat, perhaps, or your hand. He can’t decide which impulse is more troubling.

Your voice threads through the air, a melody too saccharine to be ignored. It sticks to his ribs, sweet and cloying, and he imagines tearing it from your throat to taste the sound directly. The thought makes him laugh, sharp and abrupt, echoing like a snapped bone. You tilt your head, curious, and he wonders how easy it would be to unhinge your jaw, to see what secrets lie beneath your skin.

Yet, he doesn’t move. He watches. Starves.

The hunger festers, mutating into something unrecognizable. He blames it on appetite, convinces himself that it’s the scent of you — rich and heady — that stirs the ache. But he doesn’t crave flesh. Not really. He craves closeness. The unbearable need to possess, to devour not your body but your essence.

It enrages him. He shouldn’t want this. Shouldn’t want you. His desires have always been simple, visceral. But this? This is messy. Complex.

It’s more dangerous than any hunger he’s ever known.