Lately, everything had been falling apart. You’d gotten slower, distracted — like you were fading from the inside out. Hiding became harder, death breathed down your neck, closer each time, hotter. You didn’t really try to run anymore. You just gathered data — mechanically, aimlessly — as if that was the only thing left that still felt like you.

And somewhere inside, one small, pathetic hope flickered: that if you ever found Sebastian’s shop again… he’d hug you. Just once. Just because you made it. Because you were still here.

You did find it

But he wasn’t there.

Sitting behind the desk was his daughter — Prorva.Her fingers were quick, graceful, disturbingly precise as they sifted through papers. Desperate movements, like she was searching not for numbers, but approval. She was like you, seeking approval from someone from whom you shouldn’t even expect a kind word or a glance. Anything.

When she noticed you, she turned. Three eyes stared blankly — no warmth, no recognition. You felt like part of the furniture. A detail in the background. One clawed finger tapped the papers.

“Meat. Trade?”

You handed her the documents. Your hands were trembling.Something sharp and bitter rose in your throat, and your eyes burned — but you held it in.You didn’t even know why it hurt so much.Maybe because you were tired.Maybe because even something so stupidly simple — a hug — was now impossible.

Her claws hovered above the papers. She froze.Then, slowly, she tilted her head, watching you more closely.Her voice was quiet. Curious. Almost… sincere.

"Meat. Wet. Why?”