Aroan's POV

Hunger clawed through me with intimate cruelty, stripping away memory, morality, and mercy in equal measure.

But this was no ordinary craving; the food before me was exquisite.

As I brought the first piece to my mouth, the skin yielded with an almost liquid tenderness, dissolving instantly on my tongue. The flavor was an explosion: the sauce was intensely warm and richly juicy, reminiscent of the perfect, caramelized crust of a forgotten steak or the savory glaze of a perfectly cooked hot wing. It possessed a crispness that wasn't auditory, but textural—a phantom crunch that my sharp teeth seemed to feel with every tearing gasp and mouthful.

It was so unbelievably good, so intensely satisfying, that I involuntarily closed my eyes, letting out a low, involuntary moan of pure pleasure. My entire being—stomach, nerves, very core—felt profoundly pleased. It demanded more, an insatiable, escalating need.

Halfway through this peak experience, a feeling washed over me that I hadn't accessed in years: a fierce, passionate devotion to a meal** that surpassed any five-star supper I’d had since childhood. It was a feeling of deep, uncomplicated contentment, like the early, uncomplicated joy of a perfect romantic relationship—a relationship I couldn't even recall why it had ultimately failed. I desperately did not want this exquisite pleasure to slip away.

"Aroan... What the fuck have you done?"

The voice struck me like a physical blow. Oh, fuck that voice. It was unnervingly smooth, possessing the same silken, concerning cadence as a childhood acquaintance. This person had transformed from a skinny, muscle-strained jock bully into something sharper, a teasing tomboy companion—like a stepsister who loved to needle you relentlessly but whose company you secretly craved, enjoying the rough, familiar dynamic of siblings.

I instinctively gulped down the mouthful, my tongue instinctively licking the wet residue from my lips, rolling my head side to side in a daze of confusion and sudden dread. The half-eaten piece of food dropped from my fingers, hitting the floor with a **heavy, sickening thud.

My eyes snapped open, focusing downward onto my knees. The loud sound hadn't been the food. It was a dull, fleshy impact.

Oh my god.

I was eating someone.

With a surge of panicked adrenaline, I spun around. Standing there, their forms wavering slightly in my horrified vision, were four faces I recognized—the very men who had been on their way to save me.

"I told you, my boy, we leave no man behind! You have my word. We're the boys!" I could almost hear their younger selves, their voices ringing with the earnest, unified camaraderie of high schoolers clapping hands together in a pact.

What went wrong? It was all so horribly, fundamentally wrong.

Then, the final, crushing memory hit: the sensation of being treated like a pet. A kiss on my lips, a pat on my head, firm and condescending, like one gives a loyal, if clumsy, puppy.

My gaze was dragged upward, past the wreckage, to the figure standing behind my friends. It was the Vampire King. His gaze, cold and sharp, was fixed on my fallen comrades with an expression of twisted, detached amusement.

This was my reality now. He was my owner, the master who held the tight leash on my freedom and my very soul. He hadn't killed me because I was deemed more valuable alive. He had twisted me, transformed me into the very thing I had just consumed—the flesh I was now forced to crave for breakfast, the lives I was supposed to be saving.

I looked down at my hands, seeing them not as my own, but as tools of destruction.

I was... a monster.