The alley was silent except for the drumming of the rain and Yuki's own ragged breathing. The dark satisfaction from consuming the creature's soul was already fading, leaving behind a chilling aftertaste. The scars on his forearms pulsed with a deep, contented warmth, but Yuki felt… stained.
He looked at his hands. They were clean, washed by the rain. But he could feel it. The residue of the creature's essence clinging to him, not physically, but psychically. And then, the memories hit.
Not his memories. Its memories.
They flooded his mind in a chaotic, nauseating wave. The sensation of damp earth against cracked porcelain skin. The mindless, driving hunger that was its entire existence. The sharp, metallic taste of the stray cat's blood. The sudden, blinding terror as the crimson energy enveloped it, the feeling of being unmade, of dissolving into nothingness.
Yuki doubled over, retching. He vomited onto the wet pavement, not food, but a thick, black bile that steamed in the cool air. He gasped, spitting, the taste of ozone and burnt sugar and something else – something foul and metallic, like old blood and rust – coating his tongue.
The taste, Kage's whisper echoed, laced with dark amusement. The flavor of fear. The essence of the prey. It lingers, does it not? A unique vintage for each soul.
Yuki wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trembling violently. The taste was vile, degrading. It was the taste of the creature's pathetic, terrified existence. And he had consumed it. Made it part of himself.
He staggered back, leaning against the cold brick wall of the alley. The stolen strength still hummed in his veins, a dark counterpoint to the nausea churning in his gut. The hollow ache inside him was lessened, yes, but what had filled it? This? The fragmented terror and mindless hunger of a monstrous doll?
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the phantom sensations – the feel of damp earth, the taste of cat blood, the final, agonizing dissolution. They weren't just memories; they felt like experiences. Like he had lived them, however briefly.
It is the nature of the feast, Kage explained, its voice a cold, clinical rasp. You do not merely destroy the vessel. You take in its essence. Its power. Its pain. Its fear. All become fuel for the fire. All become part of you.
Part of him. The thought was horrifying. He hadn't just killed the monster. He had absorbed it. Its fear, its pain, its very nature were now threads woven into the tapestry of his own corrupted soul.
He looked down at his hands again. The scars pulsed warmly. They didn't feel like tools anymore. They felt like… mouths. Hungry mouths that had fed and were satisfied. And they would hunger again.
The rain plastered his hair to his forehead, ran in cold trails down his neck. It did nothing to wash away the taste on his tongue or the stain on his soul. He had avenged nothing. He had merely consumed. And the taste was unforgettable.