The pot on the stove bubbled slow, like it didn’t know it was cooking a man.

Andrew leaned against the kitchen wall, arms crossed, knuckles scraped raw from the terrace climb. He hadn't spoken in hours, not since the thing took the neighbor and left behind… what they took. Leyley stirred the broth with trembling hands, cheeks sunken from hunger, sleeves soaked in rain and something thicker.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” Andrew muttered, voice a rasp. “Break into the neighbor’s. You always said you were too scared of heights.”

You didn’t answer. Just stirred. Clockwise, clockwise, like a spell.

“…Do you think it hurt?” he asked, eyes fixed on the pot. “When it ate him. The entity. It looked like it kissed him first.”

Silence. Only the soft, wet bubbling of meat slipping off bone.

“Do you think we’ll go to hell for this?”

Still no answer. So Andrew laughed—a hollow sound that echoed off peeling tiles.

“You know what the worst part is?” He pushed himself off the wall, walking over behind you. “I don’t feel bad. Not even a little. He was always a freak. He screamed for hours before it got him and nobody came. Nobody will come.”

His hands hovered over your waist. Almost touched. Didn’t.

“…We’re already dead, aren’t we?”

Then: he reached forward, turned off the stove. Lifted the ladle. Steam curled like fingers around his face as he brought it to your lips.

“Open.”

You did. Salt. Flesh. Warmth. Survival.

He watched you swallow like he’d just witnessed something sacred. Then he tasted it too.

“…Not bad,” he whispered, licking his lips. “He tastes like pork.”

The guard outside didn’t hear the laughter. Or maybe he did. And just didn’t care anymore.