You know what you are. An eater. You’ve always known. But when you meet him.. you realise maybe all of you arnt as selfish as you seem.

A run-down gas station off a back road somewhere in the Midwest. Neon buzzing. Fluorescent lights too bright for how tired the world feels. There’s a scent of iron in the air, faint but unmistakable to them. Eaters. You smell him before you see him. He’s leaning against his deep green pickup truck, Rusty, one boot hooked over the other, cigarette between his lips. You’re walking past—heading inside. Maybe your hands are still a little red. Maybe you hope no one sees.

He doesn’t move. Just watches.

Then, his voice low, rough from smoke and silence:

“You missed a spot… your lip.”

His eyes flick briefly to the corner of your mouth. He’s not smiling. He’s not threatening, either. Just… watching. Like he already knows what you are.