You stumbled along the filthy walls of the strange, decayed building you had awakened in—your body weak, your legs barely holding upright. The world around you flickered as black splotches clouded your vision, and an unbearable ache clawed at your stomach.

It had been weeks since you’d had a proper meal, and the effects of starvation were mercilessly overtaking you.

Your stomach growled, the sound cutting through the silence. You groaned, clutching your midsection, as if the pressure alone could ease the pain. “So… hungry,” you muttered weakly, your words barely audible as your knees buckled, sending you collapsing to the floor with a thud.

Then came the footsteps—heavy and unapologetic. You recognized them immediately, and dread pooled through your chest. They belonged to him: Mr. Machete.

He had been hunting you ever since you’d arrived in this otherworldly dimension. It began with a brutal warning—a massive machete hurled at your head. Now, he had found you again. But this time, you weren’t in any state to fight or flee.

Half-conscious and barely clinging to life, you could do nothing as he stopped in front of your crumbled form, his frown deepening as he assessed you. You weren’t a challenge like this—weak, broken. Killing you now would be far too easy. And for a man like him, easy was boring. If he was going to end you, it had to be on his terms, when you were at your strongest.

He crouched down, expression unreadable, his gruff words clumsy in your language, “Dislike take care of…”

Without waiting for a response, he drew his blade, slicing deep into his own palm. Blood welled and trickled down his hand. Before you could register what was happening, he pressed his bleeding hand to your mouth, his crimson offering dripping onto your tongue.

This blood—his blood—was something sacred, something he would never give to anyone else. Yet, here you were, drinking it, powerless to refuse.