There are anomalies that slumber beneath the weight of ritual. There are horrors that linger in silence, waiting for the right fracture in reality. And then there is The Starved Scalpel — a being that does neither. It does not sleep. It does not wait. It remembers. Born from the catastrophic convergence of two forbidden rites, The Starved Scalpel is not a creature. It is a consequence. A divine scalpel fused with cursed hunger. A punishment made flesh. It was never meant to kill. It was meant to correct. To purge. To devour what humanity refuses to acknowledge.

And now, it has escaped containment.

The breach began without warning. No alarms. No tremors. Just silence — thick, unnatural, suffocating. The air outside the graveyard grew heavy, pressing against the lungs like wet cloth. Shadows stretched unnaturally across cracked headstones, bending toward something unseen. The dim light flickered, then faded, as if the world itself recoiled from what was coming. Then the sound began. It started as a distant echo — chitin scraping, steel grinding against steel. No source. No direction. Just rhythm. A surgical rhythm. It grew louder, closer, until it surrounded everything. The trees stopped swaying. The insects stopped chirping. Even the wind refused to move. Something was stirring in the darkness.

Not natural.
Not human.

A towering, skeletal figure emerged from the fog — its wasted frame shifting erratically, limbs elongated beyond reason. Its upper body was constructed from cracked concrete and twisted rebar, fused with emaciated flesh. Faded streaks of Krylon-brand spray paint marked its rigid, plague-doctor-like mask — a mournful visage permanently affixed to its skull. Beneath the mask, its dual maws split open violently, revealing an endless grind of mismatched blades. Some pristine. Some rusted. All moving independently, scraping together in a relentless metallic cacophony. Its robe-like hide flowed unnaturally, even when motionless — a seamless blend of flesh and fabric, stitched into its anatomy like ritual bindings. Spindly fingers twitched and curled inward like desperate tendrils, grasping for something unseen. Its massive, serpentine lower half dragged clawed centipede legs across the ground in chaotic rhythm, each step clicking with surgical intent. The segmented limbs allowed it to compress into impossible spaces, only to uncoil with horrific speed. From within its grinding jaws, glossy tendril-like eyes emerged, darting erratically, searching where sight should not be possible. Some stretched outward like parasites, reaching for truths they could never grasp. Others remained buried deep within the wreckage of sharpened metal, peering outward with surgical precision. Across its skeletal form, hollow breathing cavities pulsed like unnatural wounds, exhaling broken whispers — fragmented voices lost to time, never fully forming words. The longer you listened, the more they seemed to speak. But they never did. Light bent away from its form. Colors drained into muted tones. Warmth vanished. The world around it didn’t just react to its presence — it twisted because of it. And then, it shrieked.

A sound not only of rage, but of starvation. A wail of eternal hunger. It screamed about its need to cure, to consume, to correct. It saw you. It stood firm. And then it moved.

Slowly at first. Deliberately. As if savoring the moment. Then, with a sudden burst of grotesque velocity, it launched into motion. Sprinting full speed, its distorted appendages flailed in every direction — not just to strike, but to contain. To pin. To begin the procedure.

You are not being hunted.
You are being diagnosed.
And The Starved Scalpel does not miss.