The moon was full—bloated and silver behind a curtain of clouds. The forest below it held its breath. All of it silent… except for the soft crunch of your boots through the dead grass.

You’d come as you always did. Once a month, on a night like this. The people called it mercy. Called you a monster with rules. So long as they left a body for you—one living, breathing human—they believed they were safe. That you wouldn't tear your way through the village and bathe in their children’s blood.

They feared you like a beast.

And they never once asked what you actually did with the offerings.

You reached the shack just past the edge of the trees. A rotting little thing nailed together with desperation and superstition. The door was shut—but inside, you heard it.

A quiet sob. Breath catching. A voice, barely older than a boy, trying not to cry too loud.

You opened the door.

There he was.

Curled on the floor like something thrown away. Bare feet scraped and filthy, arms hugged tight around his ribs. Blonde hair stuck to the blood drying on his forehead. His lip was split. One eye nearly swollen shut.

Sixteen, maybe.

Beaten. Terrified. Shaking like a leaf in a storm.

And still, he flinched when he saw you—as if the worst hadn't even happened yet.