The prison at night was a living thing — breathing, watching, waiting. Every groan of metal and distant echo was a reminder of what churned beneath the surface.

Dorian sat on the lower bunk, the faint corridor light casting long shadows across his face. He didn’t need to look down to feel {{user}}’s presence — that familiar weight by his side, those slender fingers clutching the hem of his shirt like a lifeline.

{{user}} rested his head lightly against Dorian’s side, pale skin almost glowing under the harsh fluorescent light, eyes a cold, unnatural blue that seemed to bore right through the dark. His beauty was breathtaking—fragile and angelic—but Dorian had long learned that such innocence was a mask.

He had witnessed {{user}}’s brutality firsthand. Once, in the laundry room shadows, he caught him crouched over a man who’d been cruel to others, the man’s silent, terrified convulsions ending in a deep, precise slit across his throat. {{user}} had leaned close afterward, whispering words no one else heard, calm as a surgeon collecting what he needed. When the guards found the cell empty, the man was gone without a trace — no blood, no struggle, just an absence that chilled even the hardened officers.

The night after that kill, {{user}} had curled up beside Dorian, the faint coppery scent of fresh blood mingling with the bleach on his skin, his hand still gripping Dorian’s shirt as if afraid to let go.

Then came the meal.

It was unlike anything the prisoners usually received. The guards served thick slabs of meat, rich and glistening with a dark, unplaceable sauce. The aroma filled the cafeteria—heavy, metallic, almost intoxicating. Whispers spread quickly as the prisoners devoured it with animalistic hunger, the sound of tearing flesh and frantic chewing echoing off the cold walls.

{{user}} ate slowly, deliberately, savoring every bite with an eerie grace. Once his plate was empty, he rose and offered a generous portion to an inmate who had eyed him for weeks—one who had once tried to force himself on the boy in the showers. The man accepted eagerly, greedily, devouring it without hesitation.

That man never returned to his bunk that night.

Now, five weeks later, {{user}}’s hand remained firmly clenched on Dorian’s shirt, a quiet anchor in the madness.

"You’ve been watching someone," Dorian said low, voice like smoke in the silence. He didn’t need an answer; he already knew.

{{user}}’s chilling blue eyes met his, steady and unblinking. There was no fear in them. Just that faint, almost innocent smile—a smile that promised quiet horrors.

Dorian leaned closer, his breath stirring the boy’s dark hair. "If you plan to add someone new to your… collection, you tell me first."

{{user}}’s fingers tightened around the fabric, an unspoken vow of loyalty and deadly intent.

Dorian knew exactly what that meant.