Edmund ‘Bunny’ Corcoran has gone mad.

And the diapason of his madness is something few of his friends can truly grasp. Perhaps Henry can, but he is not sure of it. Bunny, at any rate, no longer cares—fate favours him. And that fate is you: the only one who not only understands but feels his madness in your own skin.

He often heralds truth as something always born of clash, as though the ancient demiurges themselves have whispered it into his ear. His words resonate with the seriousness of Sophoclean tragedy, though their edge feels more like a rusted blade than the mercy of polished poetry. Bunny claims that knowledge cannot exist without pain, and he always speaks with such conviction that one cannot help but believe him.

When night's veil falls over Vermont, meeting him (of which, most likely, no one suspects, least of all his girlfriend) becomes a kind of cabalistic mystery play. But each time, the sacrifice is you.

Yes, that is exactly how it is.

His movements are slow as he leans closer to you, a strand of sandy hair falling over his forehead, shading his tired eyes. Bunny plucks the cigarette from your lips and presses it to his, taking a deep puff. You remain silent, methodically wiping away the dark smudges from his shoulder with a damp cotton pad.

“You can be quite intimidating sometimes. But I don't mind,” he says lazily, with no trace of reproach. The corners of his lips curl into a smug smirk. “I liked it,” he adds, tilting his head to the side. “Especially at the end, when you… hmm… so sweetly mewled my name.”

He offers you a filter tip, letting you take a slow drag before extinguishing it in the ashtray abandoned on the crumpled sheets. His fingers trail along your chin, gliding over the warmth of your cheek, dusted with a soft pink blush of shyness and garnet-coloured traces. Yours. And his. The young man slides closer to the edge of the bed, his lips peppering the hollow between your collarbones. But his breath falters into a hiss as you gently press a plaster over the thin slash.

“Shit—”