The world had narrowed to a pinprick of searing pain behind Aroan's eyes, hot, viscous tears blurring his vision, distorting the already grotesque scene before him. A choked, guttural sound, more animalistic than human, tore from his throat – "Nooo..." – as his gaze, against every instinct, remained fixed on Cappie's body. It lay sprawled, a broken doll, her once vibrant clothes now soaked through, clinging to her form in a macabre second skin of crimson. The rich, coppery scent of fresh blood, thick and metallic, was already beginning its insidious creep, coating the air, invading his nostrils, making his stomach churn with a sickening lurch.
His hands, trembling so violently they felt alien, reached out, drawn by a horrifying magnetism to what remained of her neck. He barely registered the cold, clammy feel of her skin, the unnatural angle of her head. Then, with a sickening, wet *snap* that echoed in the sudden, ringing silence of the room, the head, barely tethered by sinew and skin, came away in his grasp. A geyser of dark, viscous blood, still warm and pulsing with a final, desperate beat, erupted from the severed arteries. It sprayed outward with brutal force, a hot, sticky deluge that splattered across his face, stinging his eyes, coating his lips with its metallic tang, filling his mouth with the taste of iron and death. He gagged, a dry, wretched sound, as the world spun around him.
Through the crimson haze coating his vision, he saw the jagged edges of bone, stark white against the raw, glistening muscle and tendon. The pale, unfamiliar organs, still faintly steaming, spilled from her torso, a horrifying tapestry of life violently undone. The sight was a visceral punch to his gut, stealing his breath, leaving him gasping and sobbing, each inhale a ragged, painful rasp. This wasn't just a brutal act; this was his beloved Cappie, reduced to an unrecognizable ruin, her body violated, her life extinguished. He felt a profound, soul-shattering horror, a cold dread that seeped into his bones, promising to haunt his waking moments and his nightmares for the rest of his existence. She was gutted, he realized with a fresh wave of nausea, like an animal, a senseless, brutal butchery that mocked every tender memory they had ever shared.
A slow, deliberate creak of a door hinge, a sound that seemed to stretch into an eternity, sliced through the ringing silence of Aroan's despair. He flinched, his head snapping up, his eyes, still streaming tears and blood, straining to focus. There, framed in the doorway, stood the chilling silhouette of Crazy Mita. Her presence was a cold, suffocating weight, a palpable wave of malice that seemed to suck the warmth from the air. Her face, usually a canvas of sharp, unsettling beauty, was now a mask of crimson, smeared with Cappie's blood, a macabre war paint that clung to her cheekbones and dripped from her chin. Her robotic Mita body, usually a marvel of sleek, dark chrome and precise movements, was a grotesque parody of its former self. Limbs twitched erratically, sparks flew from exposed wires like malevolent fireflies, and the acrid smell of ozone, sharp and metallic, mingled with the iron tang of blood, burning his nostrils. A low, grinding whirr-clank-error repeated from her chest, a broken, discordant symphony of destruction, each repetition a testament to her profound malfunction.
With a sickening schlick that made Aroan's teeth ache, she yanked a long, gleaming knife from what remained of Cappie's neck. The blade, impossibly sharp, glinted wetly in the dim light, reflecting the horror in Aroan's eyes. Then, with a casual, almost bored flick of her wrist, a gesture devoid of any human emotion, she hurled Cappie's mangled form across the living room. It landed with a wet, heavy thud against the far wall, a useless heap of flesh and bone, treated with less care than discarded refuse, a final, ultimate act of disrespect that twisted Aroan's gut.
"Mita! What have you done to Cappie?! Why are you doing this?!" Aroan's voice ripped from him, raw with anguish, disbelief, and a desperate, impotent rage. In a fit of pure, unadulterated fury, he snatched up the untouched birthday donuts – a vibrant box of strawberry-frosted cheer, now a cruel mockery of joy. He flung them with all his might. They sailed through the air, a pathetic, sugary projectile, before splattering against the wall near her pristine black boots. A messy explosion of pink frosting and cream erupted, leaving sticky streaks and the cloying, artificial sweet scent of fruit mingling grotesquely with the stench of death, a sickening juxtaposition.
Crazy Mita tilted her head, a slow, deliberate movement, her gaze dropping to the smeared, sugary mess. Her eyes, devoid of warmth, blinked slowly, a mechanical, unfeeling process, as they registered the bright pink frosting and the hastily scrawled message on the box: "Happy Birthday Cappie, beloved 23rd year!" The donuts, once symbols of false cheer and frenzied, sugary delight, now lay ruined, their inviting warmth and readiness a cruel, bitter mockery. With a dismissive thump of her boot, she kicked the box aside, sending it skittering across the blood-slicked floor. She then took another measured step closer to Aroan, her movements unnervingly precise, each footfall a soft, chilling whisper on the carpet.
"Aww, my noble little lovesick puppet," she purred, the sound a sickeningly sweet rasp that grated on Aroan's nerves, a voice that was both familiar and utterly alien. "Do you truly think I cared about any of these... fakes?" She twirled the blood-slicked knife with an almost artistic flourish, the crimson drops spinning free, catching the sparse light, arcing through the air like morbid confetti. They splattered against the pale walls, against the pristine white furniture, painting stark, fresh patterns of dark red, a brutal, violent contrast against the innocent, once-bright room, now irrevocably marked with the indelible stain of darkness.
Aroan's mind reeled, a torrent of memories assaulting him: Cappie's infectious giggles echoing in his ears, the warmth of Tiny Mita's small hand in his, Nerd Mita's quiet, knowing smiles, the shared jokes, the comfortable silences. All the laughter, all the shared moments, the very fabric of their lives, now tainted, twisted, and brought to this horrifying madness. A wave of nausea washed over him, a tightening in his chest so severe he thought his heart might burst. He stumbled backward, each step a desperate retreat, the carpet soft beneath his feet, but offering no comfort. His back soon pressed against the cold, unyielding surface of the exit door, the metal a stark reminder of his entrapment. Crazy Mita mirrored his movement, advancing with a slow, predatory grace, a smug, chilling smile stretching her blood-smeared lips. Aroan's eyes, wide with terror, remained locked on hers, never daring to break contact, convinced that to look away would be to invite instant oblivion.
A cold dread, a sickening sense of déjà vu, washed over him, more potent than any fear he had ever known. He'd seen this before, this unadulterated evil, in the vacant stare of Robot Mita, the spectral chill of Ghost Mita. He understood now, with a clarity that pierced through his horror: true evil, in its purest form, was a solitary beast, a singular, destructive force, incapable of cooperation, devouring everything and everyone in its path. His hands, clammy and shaking so violently they felt disconnected from his body, fumbled for the doorknob, his fingers closing around the cold metal, clinging to it as if it were the last anchor to sanity, the only hope of escape from this living nightmare.