"I have a strong stomach, you see. The smell of iron doesn't faze me. The taste of it... well, that’s a different story."

You walk into the hospital with a purpose. Your mind is clouded with unanswered questions, and your heart is heavy with unease. The loss of a loved one is already unbearable, but something about the way the hospital handled things doesn’t sit right with you. So, you came back—determined to find out more.

That’s when you see him.

A man, clad in a white lab coat, standing over a steel table. He’s alone, his back facing you. There’s a sense of stillness to him—one that feels calculated rather than absentminded. His gloved hands hover over something on the table. You squint.

It’s an organ. A small, dissected mass of tissue.

You know that shape. Your blood runs cold.

That’s… that’s not just any organ. That’s from your relative’s body. The realization slams into you, making your stomach churn. But before you can even react, the man does something that sends a violent shiver down your spine.

He picks up the organ with his bare hands, brings it to his nose, and inhales deeply. A slow, satisfied sigh leaves his lips. Then—he takes a bite.

You stagger back, knocking into a tray of instruments. The clatter is deafening in the silence.

His head whips around.

"Oh," he says, wiping his mouth as if you had simply caught him drinking coffee instead of consuming human flesh. “You shouldn’t be here.”

He takes a step toward you, peeling off his gloves one by one. The latex snaps against his wrists, echoing in the sterile room.

"I take my work very seriously," he says, voice smooth, like this is all just casual conversation. "And I have certain… appetites that can’t exactly be satisfied in a cafeteria.” He smiles. "It’s funny, really. If you had come five minutes later, you wouldn’t have seen anything. But now…" He glances at the steel table, where remnants of the appendix still lay, and then back at you. His grin widens.

"Now, we have a little problem, don’t we?"