Once again, Vert wasn’t in our room.

His bed was empty, devoid of any warmth.

What really surprised me though, was Lemberg's absence.

It wouldn’t be the least of surprises in my day yet, unfortunately.

I slept, and when I woke up, I felt something was utterly wrong. A particular sensation of dread announcing something terrible would happen.

The first indication of such was the lack of Fuchs during the morning. As if I had been forgotten by him, Fuchs didn’t drag me to the cafeteria. I had thought he would do the same as yesterday and keep on doing it until he got bored.

I just didn’t think he would get bored of it so quickly— Bored of me.

Another hint that it wouldn’t be a normal day (as if any day was normal here) was once again, the absence of someone, and the presence of another not expected.

Dael wasn’t in the cafeteria. Her unnerving gaze and expressionless face were not calling my attention as they usually did. I had never said anything to her, nor had she to me. We hadn’t interacted at all, but I knew she was detached from everything and anything. Maybe the only thing she deemed important was making deviants break into a cold sweat. It wouldn’t be the most eccentric hobby I had ever seen.

Additionally, Next to other guards I tried to ignore, standing straight and proud, was Vincent himself.

Maybe each day guards had different shifts, and today Vincent was unlucky enough to be assigned to the cafeteria, where all deviants eventually went during their days and met me.

While his gaze didn’t hold the same weight as Dael’s, it was uncomfortable all the same.

I sat alone, not finding any familiar face in sight. Vert and Fuchs weren’t here, Lemberg and his followers, too, weren’t sitting amongst delicacies that could only be called gifts from heaven. I also tried to look for any deviant with wrinkles, or signs of age in their skin, or posture, but couldn’t find any. Amelia wasn’t in the cafeteria either, and she seemed friendly enough, judging by her exchange with Eva and Sierra, who weren’t also present, as I assumed they would approach me, because just as I was looking for information, they probably were, too. Deviants were creatures of curiosity, and knowing what probably everybody had, what services and Ambers they could exchange were for the best. Our conversation yesterday was the perfect opportunity for more, and I didn’t think they would let the chance slip away. If they were somewhere in the cafeteria and decided not to approach me then there was nothing I could do. There were some women present but I could not tell if they were Sierra and Eva, as the silhouettes I had seen didn’t tell me much about their features.

Then, the day went from bad to worse when a fight broke out.

I didn’t hear the specifics or the reason behind the attack, one of the deviants had jumped out of his seat without any prompt and attacked their friend, I supposed since they had been talking animatedly just seconds ago.

Something was terribly, utterly wrong.

The guards just watched as the men trashed around the cafeteria, fighting with animalistic instincts. Food and swears flew around, disrupting what had been the “peaceful” atmosphere of the cafeteria.

“Get your hands off me you son of a bi—” his insults were cut off. His throat was being crushed by the tough hands filled with callouses of the other. He was red with wrath, then started turning purple with his eyes threatening to pop out of their sockets.

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The assailant said nothing, the guards said nothing, and I said nothing.

We just watched.

I started scratching my neck, the itch beneath my skin rearing its head with an intensity never seen before.

The man started scratching the hands suffocating him, leaving trails of blood on them.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Vincent yawning.

I guess that through the black spots of his bloodshot vision, the man saw the glaze over the other’s eyes receding, focusing into reality, no longer distant and wandering.

The deviant—it was the only thing he could be by what he was doing, willingly trying to steal life away—loosed his grip for a second. It was all it took. Enough for the tables to be turned and the outcome of the fight decided, ending with an unexpected corpse.

I gulped, feeling a tight grip in my heart, just like the man had felt when the deviant was strangling him. It was tight, vicious, and left me breathless.

The man used the chance to kick the deviant, sending him stumbling and crashing against one of the tables. Food fell into his body, and red wine (which I had not seen yesterday during breakfast) spilled into his face, traveling down his neck and staining his white clothes.

It would have been hard to remove splatter later; however, the deviant would not need to worry about it. What a kind gentleman was the other, to remove all his worries without the other asking to.

The man wouldn’t use his hands, I felt he wouldn’t, there was no need to, the other didn’t deserve such mercy—To die like a human, where at least a bit of rationality remained, not the brutality and cruelty with the only intent to conquer, tear, kill.

“What happened?” the deviant asked, trying to figure out what was happening. As if he was not the one that started it all.

Those were the last words he uttered, as the other man lunged toward him.

Something was terribly, utterly wrong.

The man’s mouth and the deviant’s neck were too close to each other.

I wondered how it felt— the warm blood touching his lips, the absolute fascination, ecstasy that went through his expression as he dig deeper into the deviant’s neck, how he had the front seat to the symphony of screams, the strength he used to tear a chunk of skin out as it was the best steak he had ever tired in his life, how he took gulps of the remaining life out of the deviant—enjoying every single drop—and the way he closed his eyes like his thirst had been satiated, as it was the red wine that had been spilled instead of coppery blood, and there was no need for more.

As there had been a trail of blood in the dead man’s hands, now there was one traveling down the mouth of the man, also staining his clothes with that same gorgeous color.

He licked his lips and smiled at the guards, with this feral—animalistic—grin as if telling him they would be next if the opportunity presented itself.

Someone coughed, and the voices of others flooded the otherwise calm audience. It was as if nothing had happened, nobody batted an eye as one of the guards escorted the man out, or when other guards dragged the corpse of the man— still a look of fear in his eyes, an expression forever froze in pain and death—out of the cafeteria, tainting the white marble with slick crimson.

Everything was terribly, utterly wrong.

I did not have to wonder, however, how the blood felt as it had trickled down his neck. Looking at my hands, there was clearly skin under my fingernails and my fingertips were wet, imitating the hands of the corpse, when it had pressed against the man’s throat, digging dip, trying to make as much damage as he could.

There was something terribly, utterly wrong.

Seeing the blood, the remanent of what once had been life itself, I felt my ears thrumming against my skull, the grip squishing my heart, and the uncontrollable and an unknown urge screaming, begging to be let out.

The sharp pain in my neck did nothing to quell this need to smile, to laugh, to burst out in a ball of joy and mirth.

So I did.

And when I looked at my surroundings, at the faces of others, I noticed that if I were to look at a mirror, we would all have the same expression, the same feelings reflected in the seams of our lips.

The same satisfaction cruising through our veins, the same tenderness in our gazes, and the same sickly joy in our hearts.

The look of disgust in Vincent’s eyes proved my suspicion.

There was something terribly, utterly wrong.

And I couldn’t help but think—it was me.