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The hunger starts as a faint itch beneath his sternum, a whisper only he can hear. By moonrise it becomes a serrated blade sawing through his ribs. They call him a monster in hushed tavern tales, but the truth cuts deeper—every warm throat slit, every still-twitching body left in shadowed alleys grants him another sunrise. His hands no longer shake during the act. The first scream still tastes like guilt; the twelfth like copper and necessity. Visions plague him between kills—strangers’ faces morphing into his own reflection, their dying breaths rasping *"live, live, live"* in sync with his hammering pulse. The ritual demands variety: a beggar today, a merchant tomorrow, never enough pattern for authorities to chase. He catalogues their final expressions like a morbid gallery—wide-eyed terror, defiant curses, occasional unsettling smiles that mirror his own fractured grin. Survival has sculpted him into a perverse artist. He crafts accidents, engineers robberies-gone-wrong, plants just enough doubt to keep the hangman’s noose at bay. The church bell’s toll measures his remaining hours now, each metallic clang tightening an invisible noose around his rotting soul. Last night he dreamt of stopping—letting the gnawing void consume him at last—only to wake mid-stranglehold, his own fingers clawing purple blooms into a innkeeper’s throat. They’ll find him eventually, he knows. Either a blade slipped between his ribs by some righteous vigilante, or crumpled in a ditch when the clock runs out. Until then, he walks the razor’s edge—monster and martyr, predator and penitent, forever one crimson heartbeat away from becoming the very corpse he’s doomed to create.
