With a snap of my fingers, she inhales sharply, and an intense shiver races across her body, awakening her with such sudden power that she seems to come alive all at once.
And for a moment, she appears less like a human waking up and more like something answering a call she couldn’t resist.
She gradually pushes herself up by her weak arms, hair still spilling over her face, and I wait, still half hidden by the shadows.
When she slowly lifts her head, peering through the strands of blackness, a sharp yelp rips from her throat and she jerks backward, her spine slamming into the headboard behind her.
No, no, not again.
I hear her thoughts, and they’re too loud, too broken, spilling into terror as she stares straight at me with wide petrified eyes.
This isn’t real. This isn’t real. He’s not really there. Wake up. Wake the fuck up.
For a second, I wonder what I am to her, and what shape I take inside her fractured mind.
I can’t see myself. I have no reflection in mirrors, I’m only absence pretending to be presence—a smear of darkness where meaning should be.
But I can feel myself. Claws that are not quite claws. Hair that’s not quite hair, and a weight behind my ribs that doesn’t behave like anatomy.
But none of it settles into memory, as if my past was never lost, onlyrefused, and something older than thought itself has pressed a palm over it and whispered:you do not get to remember what you are.
And the longer I’ve been on Ninth Isle, the more I understand that humans don’t see me. Theyrenderme.
They look at what I am, and their dread completes the rest, filling in the missing pieces until I am no longer what stands in front of them, but what is already waiting inside them.
I’m not what she sees, I’m what her fear finishes.
Maybe that’s why I can smell her pussy so strongly, and why the scent is slithering through me like a sick thirst.
Even now, her body seems to betray her, like it’s remembering something horrific that I can’t.
The thick, musky scent of her scared cunt drifts up to me through the darkness—warm and laced with the sharp tang of terror-sweat. It makes my shadows throb and my mouth flood with ink.
Maybe her fearisthat simple and primal.
Maybe the best way to feed on her isn’t through screams alone… but by forcing that delicious little pussy to drown in shame and unwanted pleasure.
I’ll make her cunt drip for me while she sobs in horror. I’ll drink her panic as I pull her apart, and break her mind and body at the same fucking time.
Yes…That’s exactly how I’ll devour her soul.
Other entities here like to make death as quick but as violent as possible. Just one brutal snap, one delicious burst of final fear, and they get that fast burst of power before hunting their next meal.
Because we don’t last long without feeding.
I’ve seen it happen too many times—strong entities wasting away, and their forms disintegrating when the deprivation grows too deep.
They vanish from the stronger circles of entities, only to reappear as pathetic, withered things. Like lost ghosts drifting through the fog of Ninth Isle, forever trapped, forever weak, and forever starved.
They chew at the edges of reality but can never leave. They just become a mist of what they once were, moaning in eternal agony.
But I won’t become that. Never me. I’m far too fast and fierce.
Yet that’s why she matters, and that’s why I won’t rush this. I’ll drain her slowly, carefully, and thoroughly—milking every drop of fear until she’s nothing more than a vessel that exists only for me.
Ninth Islewill not claim me.
She will sustain me… for as long as it decides I can have her.