A/N: For a long time, I've been such a big fan of Tokyo Ghoul (literally since it first started getting fantraslated after my friend introduced it to me.) I'm such a damn nut for this shit, I even bought a Kaneki Ken body-pillow. Yeah, punks, laugh it up—you damn well know he's waifu material, don't try and deny. However! I failed as a fan when :Re began to come out and I've just never caught up since that point. Hoping this fic will inspire me to do just that.

Hook—Line—& Sinking

You can never get that smell out of your head; the smell of death reeking in the air like a stagnant cloud hanging in the sky on the bleakest day of the year and the darkest hour.

It sticks with you. It permeates through the smells you try to replace it with. Try as hard as you might, attempts to chance it will only backfire—the cheap cotton candy perfume will take on a new sickly sweet tinge and the bitterness will be hard to swallow. Sticking, drenching, consuming.

It's strange, that the oddest things can force you into recalling the moment it first entered into your sinuses.

I can remember it very well.

I was five when I watched my father kill an old woman, the very one who had walked me home just days before when he was late to pick me up from school. The very one with hair like the top of a q-tip, her face just a mere flaky white base for the cotton that her white hair reminded me of. I hadn't really known her, but my father did. He knew that—and he would explain this to me the moment I could conceive the understanding of what a mercy kill was. She had cancer in her pancreas.

Death, my father made sure I knew, was painless to her.

As ghouls, we have to take in what we must to survive. It just so happens I got the side of the coin that meant I was to be the predator to the humans I inevitably found friendships in. (That I inevitably found enemies in.) If that was all it was, it might have all been easier.

But I think, even now, that the truth of the matter is more complicated.

I am not a predator. More than anything, I have always been suited to something different.

My brother has always called me bait.

"Are you sure you can walk me home?" I ask softly, gazing into dark eyes. I have to remind myself that it is all an act. A charade with which would soon end. Tilting my head just so, looking through my lashes and angling my mouth in the way I practiced—an expression that rarely failed to do what I wanted.

His smile looks like dust from a chalkboard. (Something to be wiped away in an instant.)

"Of course. I'll worry if not," he murmurs and I have to pull away from him for a moment.

He is also an impressive actor.

To pretend to be so kind and yet so cruel on the inside...

I'm sure our similarities don't stop there.

"Risana-chan."

I pause at his sudden use of my name and meet his gaze with questions unasked.

"My, you really are so cute," he whispers, reaching a hand out to touch me. His fingers, cold as they are, cascade down my cheekbone and trail down toward to the base of my chin. I swallow, nonplussed as I attempt to keep my thoughts from showing on my face.

Perhaps I am doing too good of a job.

Withholding a sigh, I capture his hand in mine.

"My father will be expecting me," I lie and as smoothly as I can, I latch our fingers together and begin to walk towards the direction I'd promised to meet my brother at. His fingers are warm in my palm and the beat of his pulse against my wrist is enough to get me salivating. I don't shun the thought—anything that takes the hesitation from me is something I gladly accept.

Nevertheless, I don't allow myself to meet his gaze and return his humanity. For now, he is as I have been hunting him for; a meal.

Something to eat tonight and fill my stomach with for the first time in weeks.

"There's a shortcut down this way," I murmur, my voice a soft whisper as I shift the both of us toward the alleyway. The sound of the crowded streets grows distant the farther we travel in and I'm reminded of different sounds that I had nights previous. Cries for distant help and dispassionate grunts—he really was so intolerable being kept alive.

I bow my head and don't dare look up.

If I do, he will most assuredly be met with the look of tell-tale hungry eyes, and the jig will be up.

I swallow, trying not to focus my thoughts on his smell. I can imagine already the scent of lightly seared flesh cut off the shoulder and the thought reminds me of the flavor I have been missing. Tangy warmth, tickled by the aroma of coffee beans.

"Risana—."

"Aniki," I interrupt, impatient. I shift my head, flashing my eyes around in hopes of spotting him. "How much longer are you going to take?"

"What are you talking about?" the meal asks, blinking at me just in time to notice my gaze.

My eyes are drawn to his throat most of all. Ahh, after all these years it never does stop being a favorite of mine to nibble on. I lick my lips in recollection of past meals.

"Ah, ah, good things come to girls who wait," Joji murmurs close behind me, appearing as quietly as he always has. I don't turn to face him, eyes still captive by the sight of prey cowering in fear. It puts a bad taste in my mouth but the thrill is still undeniable—he may be scum but he is still in good-shape for eating.

I breathe out in anticipation.

"Honestly," Joji sounds distinctly jokingly annoyed, "you're the more dangerous out of us and you still get me to do all the dirty work."

"You enjoy it," I remind him, tuning out the begging voice that gets cut off as Joji extends a hand to shut it up. His eyes scream for him instead but I don't look too closely—I don't allow the gut feeling of pity to take hold in the pit of my stomach. Nor do I allow the tears welling at my eyes to fall.

"And one day, I hope to see you loving it just as much," he whispers, voice cold and as sharp as any knife I'd felt against my skin.

"Hurry," I beg, not wanting to see him alive any longer.

"Of course—you're not the only one of us starving."