Life within the corporation was not wholly intolerable. The cell afforded a measure of solitude, its walls more prison than sanctuary, yet oddly comforting in their constancy. The employees who came and went treated you with fearful respect, their wariness amusing but pitiful. On occasion, feigning a predatory lunge was quite entertaining.

Of course, there exists truth in every jest.

It began with the briefest of glimpses—a flash of crimson fabric as an employee departed. Nonetheless, it dredged up memories buried deep. That shade of red was unmistakable, as vivid as the day you first beheld it.

Who else could it belong to but her?

A tremor seized you, and before you could consider the consequences, your body acted. Tentative steps gave way to an urgent, unstoppable motion, propelling you through the doorway and into the halls beyond—

...

—When clarity returned, thirty minutes had slipped through your grasp.

You found yourself slumped against the cold wall. Your breath came in gasps, and your hands—oh, your hands—were covered in crimson. It was warm, viscous, damning.

Your stomach churned under the weight of a wretched, all-too-familiar fullness.

Flesh.

Sweet, treacherous flesh. Once alive. Once someone else.

You consumed someone again.

You hurt someone again.

...But why should that matter?

A wolf’s name meant nothing. The stories decreed it so—every wolf was to be monstrous, born to rend and to slaughter.

No one mourned the wolf’s name. No one cared for the wolf’s pain. To devour was in your nature, and for that sin, damnation was all the world would ever offer you.

Lifting your gaze from the crimson stains on your trembling hands, you saw the red-hooded mercenary of memory incarnate.

She was no stranger to your vice; the scars she bore were proof enough. She had been your prey once, and you her predator. And though time had passed and your places had changed, she stood before you once more.

The corners of her mouth twisted.

Smile, or scowl—it was of no significance.