Zane sat on the floor of the four-by-four box with his back against the flimsy door.
The hunger wasn't a hole anymore. Now, It had become a vortex.
It was a physical, shredding agony, twisting his intestines into knots.
The feast of those four souls had been a terrible mistake. It hadn't "sated" the beast at all—it had woken it up. It had shown it what real food tasted like.
And now, it was starving.
<...lost it all... lost it... ...the cough... it's in my bones... I'm done... ...just one more hit... I swear... I swear...>
The Whispers of Despair from the flophouse tenants below were a deafening, psychic scream. They weren't just "voices" anymore. They were "flavours." Scents.
He could smell the despair in the Sump-Pit. It was thick, oily, and... and delicious.
The hunger wanted it.
"Fuck..." Zane groaned, pressing his fists into his stomach.
He was a junkie, locked in a room, and the walls were made of heroin.
He was too weak to go back out though. The Nails were hunting him, and he couldn't just find another gang fight.
That was a miracle, a one-time freebie.
If he was going to survive, he had to make his own food.
He was a reaper. His job was to "guide" souls.
He'd spent five years guiding them away from the edge.
What if... what if he just... pushed?
He was in a building full of people who were already halfway off the cliff. All they needed was a nudge.
Zane's skin crawled. The 'HopeLine' part of his brain recoiled in horror.
The hunger roared in approval.
This was the job. This was what Mortis wanted.
Zane focused, pushing past the dozens of Whispers. He needed a target. One he could get to.
He found it.
<...five days... five fucking days late... the Nails... they're gonna take the other eye... they're gonna... gods...>
The innkeeper. He was right downstairs, and he was terrified. A primal taste for the predator.
Zane's mouth watered.
He got to his feet, his knees shaking. He slid the heavy bolt-pin from the door, the click sounding deafeningly loud in the tiny hall.
He crept down the rotten stairs, every step a creaking nightmare.
The common room was darker than before. The cheap lamps were turned down. Most of the tenants were unconscious, slumped over tables or in dark corners.
But the old innkeeper was awake.
He was sitting on a stool behind his plank-bar, his one good eye wide with terror. He was counting a small, pathetic pile of coins under the light of a single, guttering candle.
Zane's Whispers skill zeroed in on him.
<...not enough... not... not enough... they're coming... they're coming at midnight... not enough... oh gods... what do I...>
Zane stepped out of the shadows.
The old man yelped, fumbling to cover his coins. "Wh-what? You again?"
Zane leaned against the bar. He tried to look... ominous. He tried to sound like Mortis. Cold. Final.
"They're coming for you, aren't they?" Zane said. His voice was a harsh croak.
The innkeeper's one eye widened. "I... I don't know what you're..."
"The Rusted-Nails," Zane pressed. "You're late on your 'protection' money. And they're coming to... collect."
The old man's face went white. The despair rolled off him in waves, so thick Zane could almost see it.
<...he knows... how does he know...>
"It's hopeless, isn't it?" Zane whispered, leaning closer. He was doing it. He was being the reaper. "You'll never have enough."
"I... I..."
"Even if you pay them this time, they'll just come back. Again. And again. There's no way out of the Sump."
The old man started to shake. His despair was spiking. It was perfect.
<...no way out... he's right... no way out...>
"They're going to take your other eye," Zane said, his words cold and flat. "They're going to leave you blind... begging in the gutter... to die of rot."
He had him. The old man's terror was so sharp, so pure, it was making Zane's head swim. The hunger ached for it.
"But..." Zane said, lowering his voice to a comforting whisper. "There... there's an easier way."
He nodded toward a grimy, heavy-bladed cleaver hanging on the wall behind the bar. The one the innkeeper used to hack up the gutter-meat.
"A quick way. Before they get here. No pain. No... more pain. Just... an end to it."
He was pushing. He was performing a successful reaping.
The old man stared at the cleaver. His breathing was shallow. He was on the edge.
<...an end... just... an end...>
YES! The hunger screamed. DO IT!
The old man's hand slowly reached up toward the cleaver.
And then... he stopped.
His hand froze.
He looked back at the coins on the bar. He looked at Zane.
A new thought hit Zane's mind, so "sudden and sharp" it was like a slap.
<...wait... he's right. He's... right. Staying here... that's the "easy" way... that's the... the stupid way...>
Zane's stomach dropped. "No... wait..."
The old man's one eye suddenly lit up, not with despair, but with a manic, terrifying hope.
"Fuck..." the old man whispered. "Fuck you. You're right. It is hopeless... if I stay here."
The flavour of the man's despair... it was changing. It was going sour. Turning... healthy.
Zane's stupid luck of helping people didn't even require him to try. Is this a flaw?
Right now, it felt like a curse.
"No, that's not what I meant," Zane said, his voice rising in panic. "I meant the cleaver..."
"The Cross-Ways!" the old man hissed, his good eye wide and wild. "It's... it's a ten-coin pass... just to get through the gate... I never had it..."
He frantically shoved the coins into his pocket.
"But... the five you gave me... plus the six I had... it's eleven!"
<...I can... I can leave! I can get out! Fuck the Nails! Fuck this shithole! I can *LIVE*!>
The man's despair vanished. It was replaced by a "repulsive," vibrant, glowing hope.
He looked at Zane, his face a mask of sudden, ecstatic clarity.
"Thank you," the old man breathed. "Gods... thank you, stranger. You... you saved me."
PANG.
The hunger, denied its meal, slammed into Zane's gut with the force of a physical blow.
He doubled over, gasping, as the old man grabbed a stale loaf of bread, shoved it into his tunic, and ran out from behind the bar.
"I'm out! I'm out!" the innkeeper shrieked, laughing like a madman.
He threw open the front door of the Sump-Pit and ran, sprinting with his new-found hope, into the rainy, pre-dawn darkness.
Zane was left alone in the empty common room.
The hunger was shredding him.
He had tried to reap. He had tried to push his client to suicide.
And he had accidentally, comically, inspiringly... talked him out of it.
He was the worst fucking reaper in history.
He collapsed to the floor, his body convulsing in agony. He was starving. He'd just wasted his only client.
He was back to square one.
No... he was worse.
The beast was eating him alive. And he had just proven... he didn't know how to feed it.