Yao slid his hand across the wet hood of the car, delighted by the feel of rain droplets on his fingers as he stepped onto the pavement. The night air was damp with the smell of rain, its scent fresh and clean as Yao inhaled it. He hopped to the front gate, dodging puddles on the way, and waited for Ivan.

'You're in a hurry, myshka.' Ivan locked the car and leisurely made his way to the gate, black bag slung over his shoulder.

Yao only smiled at this, wanting to tell Ivan what he had in mind for today, but deciding that it was best as a surprise anyway. Today, surely today, Yao would create a sight that Ivan would marvel at.

The two opened the gate and walked up the steps of the brick house, quiet as the rest of the neighbourhood was. Ivan knelt down and worked the keyhole with a pin, the door creaking open within minutes. The house was pitch black inside, faint sounds of footsteps echoing in the upstairs rooms as Yao and Ivan entered. Ivan gently shut the door behind him and they waited.

Light spilled down the stairs from the upstairs hallway, the silhouette of a man wearily walking down the steps. Unarmed and drowsy - it was almost too easy. Ivan knocked his head into the wall, the man passing out and falling limply onto the floor. Almost automatically, Yao knelt down and began to tie the man up. Ivan continued up the stairs, his footsteps heavy and slow. There was no need to rush.

Yao dragged the man into the living room space. He pulled the curtains back and hoped the moonlight was strong enough tonight. Looking out through the large window, a waning moon glowed back at him. Not full, as he would have liked, but bright enough.

Yao rummaged through Ivan's black bag, left by the door, and fished out duct tape. It was one of his suggestions to Ivan. So much easier to use than old rags, which could be spat back out or bloodied. It could be used to hold things in place, something that may come in handy at one point or another, Yao supposed. He tore off a piece of the tape and placed it across the man's mouth. Deciding that having the man's hands tied behind his back was rather troublesome for what Yao had in mind, he fumbled in the dark to reach what he presumed was the kitchen. He grabbed a chair and dragged it into the living room. He untied the man's hands and propped him up onto the chair, wrapping duct tape generously around him so that he was stuck fast to the chair. The man's arms were held down, feet tied down, but wrists free. This, Yao would need.

'Are the children locked up?' Yao called out, hearing Ivan's footsteps behind him

'Da. The wife, too.' Ivan spoke, taking a seat on the couch. 'Do you want to ask your question now?'

Yao pushed the chair up against the window, not wanting the man to knock himself over in a panic. He peeked outside to check. A garden view, lined by large trees for privacy. Which was good, because privacy was most definitely needed. Yao turned to Ivan.

'Yeah…' Yao considered for a moment before asking, something preferably light. He didn't want to upset Ivan tonight. '…Have you ever had pets?'

Ivan smiled gently, acknowledging that Yao had once again, avoided the tough questions. 'Not really. Unless you count imaginary cats.'

'Imaginary cats?' Yao felt a small smile creep up on his lips.

Ivan nodded. 'In Bragin, Katyusha and I used to pretend we had a whole family of animals. We had cats and dogs. Sheep, even. To Katyusha it was always a game. She knew it was all in our heads. But for me… it was different. I used to actually believe it. I really thought I had an invisible cat called… called…' Ivan faltered slightly, his gaze flickering slightly in the dim light of the moon.

'Called what?'

A pause. Silence, before it was broken by Ivan's nervous laughter. When the chuckle died out, a soft smile was left on Ivan's lips. 'Myshka. I called her myshka because she was like a mouse. Always scared and running away.'

'Is that what you think of me?' Yao chuckled, face warming up as he asked this. The man in the chair was starting to moan as he slipped out of unconsciousness, but Yao paid no attention, eyes stuck on Ivan and his ghostly pale face in the moonlight.

'At first.' Ivan leant back into the couch. 'Your eyes were so wide, so cautious of everything.' His smile widened slightly, almost drowsily. 'You were scared of me.'

Yao wanted to protest, perhaps for the sake of his pride, but instead he only found the next question leaving his lips. 'And now?' He asked, despite the burning feeling in his chest, on his face. He hoped that in the dimly lit room, Ivan would not be able to see this.

'Now… you're different.' Ivan's head lolled to the side sleepily. 'But you're still afraid of something, I think. I'm not sure what though…'

The man in the chair was now yelling beneath the tape, writhing and shifting in the chair. Yao whipped around and felt a small sigh escape him. He wanted to get started with today's creation, but he so badly wanted to hear more of Ivan's voice, to hear him reminiscence of those July days like they were treasured memories. It was a moment Yao wanted more of, to sink into. But there was work to be done.

He set the duct tape on the coffee table, pulling out a tiny box from his pocket. He had brought it with him just for today, and looked forward to using it all afternoon. He took off the lid, revealing shimmering needles in the container. Shimmering and beautiful… but not as beautiful as they would be when stung into flesh. Yao delicately picked a needle up, holding it up to the moonlight whilst he considered. What would have to bleed first? Where shall the first thorn twist and grow?

Best to go from the feet up. Yao thought, kneeling down on the floor. The man shook and struggled in the chair, not being able to quite see what was happening until he felt it. Yao pressed the needle into right into the foot's tendon, pushing it in slowly. The man shrieked, feet shaking and writhing as the needle pushed his foot. A bit of an overreaction, Yao thought, but it was to be expected. The first draw of blood was always the hardest. After this…

Who am I kidding?

It would only get more painful from here. The man was wasting his breath, but it didn't matter. Blood mattered. Flesh, in its torn form, mattered. Screams were merely the added aesthetic. Music, for Yao to work to.

He picked up another needle and pressed it into the man's other foot, into the tendon again. More screams, more muffled pleas, but the work had to be done. A needle into the calf, up the length of the soft meat that hung from the bones of his legs, lined by silver thorns and pricks. Crimson, oozing out from every needle and making little dots of red across the man's legs. Moans and sobs of agony. When the legs and feet had been covered, Yao stood up on his knees, propping his elbows onto the man's lap as he began to work onto the arms.

He worked his way down the arms, saving wrists for last. He did not want him bleeding out too soon, after all. The box of needles was starting to empty, Yao using them more prudently in an effort to leave enough for the neck and eyes. He stung the length of the man's arms with the silver needles, watching a little rose bloom with every prick. Bursting and expanding into their form, petals of searing pain scattering themselves on the man's trembling flesh.

(It hurts so much, doesn't it?)

Yao wondered if the man really understood, if it was really the pain that Yao intended for him to feel. It was a pain that was not meant for words, nor pictures. It was a pain only to be felt, and Yao wanted this man to experience it. In a strange way, Yao wanted to feel it himself, so he could know that it was the same. That the pain really existed in this world, and not just in his nightmares.

Grabbing the man's hand, he stabbed a needle beneath the nail of his index finger. Shrieks rang out loudly, hand writhing and trembling madly. Yao smiled slightly.

That's better.

Yao did the same with the rest of his fingers, twisting the needles into every nailbed, sometimes a little more slowly, to draw a little extra blood, a little more of those charming shrieks. When Yao had run out of fingers to stab, he stung the skin of the man's wrists with needles. He toyed with different angles, placing some needles so they stuck straight out, others diagonally so that they seemed to grow out of the skin. He stood up and stepped back to admire his handiwork, pleased when he saw that the needles glimmered on the bloodied flesh like brilliant thorns.

Taking the last of the needles, he hovered them above the man's face, indecisive of how he wanted them exactly. He picked out one needle, jamming into the man's neck. A couple more, to complete the look. Fat crimson droplets trickled down as the man cried, and with one final needle, a spurt of blood burst. It sprayed and splattered hot blood everywhere, coating the window, Yao's hand as he shielded his eyes. Yao pulled the needle out and pressed his hand to the pinprick of a wound that had caused such a mess. He put pressure on it and cursed himself for not being careful enough. The man would surely bleed out and die soon – too soon. And Yao had not even gotten to use his knife yet.

'Need help there, myshka?' Ivan's voice rang out sweetly, amusement lacing his words.

'No, I'm fine.' Yao growled, frustrated with how the man's head was starting to limp now, eyelids fluttering closed. Anger boiling up at him, he stabbed the man's eye with the needle, desperate for those final shrieks of unbearable pain. He picked up another needle and aimed for other eye, but the man squeezed it shut. Yao pried the eyelid open, pressing the needle into the whites of his eye slowly. Broken and strained screams, loud even through the duct tape. Blood, almost black in the moonlight, streaming down the man's face. Pulse, ebbing away beneath Yao's grip.

A blanket of silence fell, the man motionless in the chair. Yao stumbled back and exhaled sharply, perhaps recovery from his outburst. He was usually calm, collected when doing this kind of thing. For a moment, however, it had been like that hot July night, when Yao felt his hate surge through a knife and into the scar faced man's throat. He stood there and composed himself, catching his breath until it evened out.

'You okay there?'

'Yeah.' Yao panted. 'I'm fine.' He pulled the knife out of his pocket and approached the dead man. There was still work to be done. 'Just a little more and I'll be finished.'

He brought the knife up to the man's face, flicking the knife this way and that. He drew it beneath the skin carefully, not tearing it away completely. Nothing was to be removed, only transformed. He let loose pieces of flesh dangle, poised like lovely layers of flower petals. He did this until the man's whole face was nothing but a dark, bloodied flower. But even so, it was not enough. Yao needed more, more of that blank canvas.

He knelt down to the man's calves, removing the needles from them and tearing away a slice of flesh. He cut it so that it was thin, as fine as it could get, and pinned it around the man's face, cradling it with leafy and bloody skin. At long last, the man had truly bloomed into a beautiful rose. Not quite red, as Yao might have wanted it to be, but such a deep crimson red that it was black in the moonlight. Even so, it was breath-taking.

'Let me see.' A hand gripped Yao's shoulder. Yao stepped to the side, watching Ivan's expression as he looked at the transformed man in the chair. Yao's eyes were fixed onto Ivan's, waiting for a spark, for the lilac irises to brighten in excitement. Yao wanted to see some kind of recognition of the rose that had bloomed before him.

'Yao…' Ivan murmured, his face paler than it had already been. His eyes were distant, unreadable.

'You like it?' Yao asked, taking a step closer to see Ivan's face better, curiosity burning in him.

Ivan stumbled to the corner of the room, away from the window. Yao heard coughing, retching, and hurried to Ivan.

'Ivan! What – Are you okay?' Yao's hand reached instinctively for Ivan, resting it on his back as Ivan vomited. Yao felt concern sprout uneasily in his chest, causing a strange ache as his mind raced through possibilities. Was Ivan sick? Poisoned? Surely he couldn't be sickened by the sight of the bloodied man. The blood wasn't even all that visible in this dark room. It looked black, dark like the depths of a lake at night.

'I'm…' Ivan heaved, panting as his hands were shakily pressed onto his knees. 'I'm fine… mysh-' Ivan dry heaved, no longer expelling anything onto the floor. Yao said nothing, his hand rubbing Ivan's back hesitantly and hoping this was nothing more than a fever.

'Please…' Ivan croaked out, still hunched over. 'Don't touch me.'

Yao lifted his hand gently. 'S-Sorry. I'll… I'll get something to clean up.' He hurried out of the room, stumbling into the hallway and looking for a bathroom. He felt around for a light switch and turned it on, spotting a small bathroom and grabbing a couple of towels from it. When he returned to the living room, Ivan was crouched on the floor, his back to the wall and face turned away from the rose man.

Yao approached Ivan and handed him a towel, feeling guilty in the sense that perhaps the rose man really had upset Ivan. In what way, Yao did not know. He wiped away at the vomit on the floor, thinking to burn the towels afterwards. He left them piled up on the floor, and went to the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water. He offered it to Ivan and sat next to him on the floor.

'Sorry.' Ivan said after taking a sip of the water, hand trembling as he set the glass down on the floor.

'It's fine.' Yao glanced towards Ivan, trying to read past the distant expression on Ivan's face, a mask so well worn that it hid any pain beneath it. 'Did I go too far?' Yao found himself asking, not exactly thinking the question through before speaking.

Ivan hesitated to answer, mouth opening to speak, only to close again. A small breath escaped his lips. 'It's not your fault. I just… remembered something.'

Yao stayed quiet for a moment, the next question reluctantly asked. 'What did you remember?'

Ivan's brows knitted together for a second, pain flickering in his eyes. 'Nothing you want to hear.'

Yao wondered if it was to do with the scar on his neck, or Ivan's first kill. Whatever it was, it was part of the dark history that Ivan refused to share. Yao wanted to hear it, out of his own selfish morbid curiosity. But he also wanted to know, to share that painful memory so that Ivan wouldn't have to suffer it alone.

He was afraid to reach his hand out, to try to comfort Ivan in some way, although he wanted to. Yao could only sit there in the dark and wait, listening to Ivan's quiet breaths and wishing to hear his voice again. Ivan was right next to him, and yet somehow, Ivan couldn't be further away from Yao.

.

Arthur stared pensively into the empty square on the floor, a piece of carpet having been carefully cut out where a vomit stain had been found. It was a rather hopeful assumption that it belonged to one of the killers – they would have to wait for the lab results to come back to confirm that - but nevertheless Arthur was intrigued by it. This, Alfred could very well see from the other side of the room, standing by the bloodied man in the chair.

'You done staring at it?' Alfred spoke, the stench of the corpse filling his nostrils. He would have liked to wear his mask, but could only leave it hanging off his neck with Arthur. Somehow, he felt the Englishman wouldn't hear him through the mask – more so intentionally than out of genuine hard of hearing. 'You haven't even looked at the body.'

'Oh, I know…' Arthur mumbled absent-mindedly, eyes slowly tearing off the floor and meeting Alfred. 'But sometimes it's the little things that matter. Isn't that right, James?' Arthur smiled dryly.

Alfred said nothing, having given up on correcting him. He had also given up on getting him to conduct the investigation the orderly way in which Alfred and Kiku normally did. This man, he only followed his strange whims, cane pointing to whatever caught his eye first and leading him to it. So Alfred only stood there and returned to examining the body, noting what had bled out first, which cut was the fatal wound, whether there was any hope of finding fingerprints.

'Where is Detective Honda anyway?' Arthur's voice asked from behind Alfred. 'I'm sure you would have preferred to have him here instead.' Alfred bit his lip, slightly embarrassed of the fact that this man was so quick to spot these things, to pluck them out of Alfred's head so effortlessly.

'He's interviewing the children with Ms. Sterling.' Alfred knelt down to get a closer look at the man's legs, taking note that the back of his calves were stripped of their skin.

'Ah, yes… Ms. Sterling. She's got a rather lovely neck, don't you think?'

Alfred turned around, looking at Arthur questioningly.

'Oh, come on, James.' Arthur spun the cane once, twice, as he approached, before it slipped out of his hands and fell to the floor. 'Bugger.' He muttered and picked the cane up, his smug smile a little forced as he looked back to Alfred. 'Don't tell me you didn't take notice of her pretty little throat.'

Alfred scoffed. 'She doesn't even show her neck.' He said, remembering the turtlenecks and shirts - buttoned up to the very top – that Linda wore. Pencil line skirts and heels, but her neck always concealed.

'Hm, yes…' Arthur paced around the dead man in the chair. 'You know something's good when someone's hiding it.'

Alfred glared at Arthur, confused to some extent, but for the most part, exasperated. Nothing made sense, nothing was normal with anything this man said. He spoke in his own language, and mocked others for not understanding him.

Alfred sighed, getting up from the floor. 'Could you just… get on with the profiling or…?' He gestured to the corpse. 'Whatever it is you do?'

Arthur's eyes glimmered slightly, smiling at what was most likely his own inner monologue. He cleared his throat and turned to the man in the chair. 'Well. I don't really have much to say other than that he makes a very fine rose. Very, very lovely.' Arthur whipped around to Alfred and pointed his cane (rather rudely) at him. 'But what I'm interested in,' The cane shifted to the corner of the room. 'Is that vomit stain.'

Alfred pushed the cane down with a withheld sigh of frustration. 'We don't even know who it belongs to.'

'I think we do, James.'

Alfred tilted his head in irritation, watching as Arthur took a slow step forward.

'Do you really think this family would be so sloppy as to leave remains of vomit on the floor? They're not animals, you know. Rose Man's wife surely has a Hoover lying around somewhere, ready to clean up a mess like that.'

Another step, slender hands fiddling with the cane, perhaps itching to spin it around again but too aware of the delicate surroundings.

'I can tell you right now, James, that one of our killers got terribly sick last night. We can assume he had flu or a stomach bug… but that would be boring, wouldn't it?'

A final step towards Alfred, the space between them having become small enough so that Arthur had to tilt his head up to look Alfred in the eye. Alfred half-expected him to fluster at their height difference, of having to look up at someone, but he saw no hesitation nor embarrassment in the green irises of his. The cane tapped the carpeted floor with a muffled thud.

'For some reason,' Arthur continued, his voice softening. 'One of our killers just couldn't handle it. Got queasy. Fell ill at the sight of blood…' A wry smile crept on his lips. 'Strange, isn't it?'

Alfred felt the need to back away, to retrieve the personal space that he didn't realise he valued. So close… too close. Arthur's eyes seemed to delve into the mind of another, and Alfred couldn't help but fear that the man would delve into his mind next.

'You tell me.' Alfred said. 'You're supposed to understand this guy, aren't you? So you tell me if it's strange.'

Green eyes flickered, lingering on every facial twitch on Alfred's face, searching for an answer Alfred didn't know himself. 'I'd say it's rather peculiar.' Arthur's words were almost mumbled, quiet so that only Alfred could hear them. 'Perhaps he got nervous…' Arthur tilted his head slightly. 'Love can do that.'

Alfred furrowed his brows, wondering just how long the Englishman intended on keeping this distance that was anything but comfortable. 'Wh- How did you come to that conclusion?'

'Roses, James.' Arthur said. 'Men with flowers spilling out of their heads. Don't tell me that doesn't strike you as romantic in any way.'

'That's not romantic, that's sick.'

Arthur smiled. 'That's why I'm helping you with this case, James. Because I can understand these monsters,' He drawled the words out mockingly. 'And you can't. But you want to know my little secret?'

Alfred said nothing, watching as Arthur leaned in. 'I only understand them because I am one of them. I just haven't lost control yet.'

There was brief pause, of processing these words perhaps, before Arthur's chuckle pierced through the air. He stepped away from Alfred and walked to the front door, leaving Alfred standing there.

'Until the next body arrives…!' Were Arthur's final words before the door shut.

Even as the door had closed, Alfred's legs were still rooted fast to the floor, his head turned to the empty space that Arthur had left.

He wasn't sure what to make of him, this strange man. Once again, Alfred thought of a wolf in sheep's clothing, trying to blend in with the crowd and yet at the same time not wanting to. The wolf would not bite, somehow Alfred knew this, but it would certainly toy with its prey. Temptation, dangling loosely in front of those emerald green eyes. But Alfred had to wonder if there ever was a breaking point, a point at which the wolf could not contain himself any more.

This, to Alfred, was a terrifying thought.

.

Bad child…

Ivan panted as he ran, breaths heaving in and out of him so violently that he thought his lungs would burst. Bare feet, stung by glass shards and rusty nails that lay on the floor of the dark corridor. Barred windows spilling the white moonlight onto his back as he ran, a spotlight watching him.

A bad child…

Ivan pushed the double doors open, stumbling into the main reception, pitch black dark at this time of night. On a Sunday especially, Ivan knew no one would be here. They were always busy around this time, busy in the rooms of patients. Busy exchanging and trading for the frail little bodies that were to be used, eaten up in the way Ivan had suffered for so, so long.

But you're still a bad child…

His eyes spotting the streetlights through the main glass doors, he ran to it - only for someone to yank his arm back. Ivan cried, and tried to pry the bony hand off.

'Shut up.' A young girl's voice hissed, her nails digging in to Ivan's skin, not quite realising that it was coated with blood. The horrible, black blood…

'Natalya?' Ivan asked, the panic in his chest subsiding slightly.

'Where are you going?' The girl asked harshly. 'You're leaving me, aren't you?'

'N-Natalya, pozhaluista…' Ivan whimpered. 'I need to leave.' Hearing the heavy footsteps of nurses in the nearby hallway, Ivan felt his heart throb nervously. They would punish him, surely, for what he did.

'That's fine.' Natalya hissed. 'But we're leaving together.' Her nails pierced into his skin a little more sharply as he pulled him to the glass doors. Ivan watched as the moon lit up her form, frail and bruised like his. But even so, she thrust her elbow into the glass with such force that it broke. Shards left trails of red on her arm, but she continued on until there was a big enough hole for them to crawl through.

'You first.' She barked, her head snapping back to the double doors behind them as they opened. 'Quick!' She hissed.

Ivan crawled through, wincing as pointed edges scraped his raw wounds. Night air hit him, its iciness enveloping him and stinging him. He looked around, dizziness settling in as an expanse of roads and buildings were stretched out in front of him. Almost automatically, he ran, sore feet pounding against the rough pavement.

'Wait!' Natalya shrieked, but Ivan continued to run. He did not look back, did not check to see if she had made it out too, or if the nurses had caught her. Guilt festered in him, but the shame of the blood on his hands and nightgown burnt his heart even more.

A terrible child…

He gulped in the cold night air as he ran across the empty streets, past the flickering streetlights, the empty houses that watched silently. He ran and ran until his legs wobbled and ached, until he stumbled and fell to the ground. A cry of pain escaped him, struggling to get back up. He fell to the ground again as muscles screamed in agony, tears overflowing onto the pavement. Ivan sat there and let himself cry.

Like the horrible child that you are…

Blood smeared onto the ground beneath him, mixing with his tears and running between the cracks in the concrete pavement. The metallic taste of it in his mouth – of his own blood, of someone else's blood. But it all tasted the same, hurt the same. It did not matter whose it was, it still stung Ivan's skin as he shook and trembled on the ground, sobs echoing brokenly in the street.

'Hey…' A whisper from the dark alleyway. Ivan turned his head towards the voice. 'Come here.'

In the dim light of the street lamp, a man's weathered face was partially illuminated. He was sitting with his back against the alleyway wall. Shadows cloaked him, hid the rest of his body as he croaked in a raspy voice. 'Stop crying and come here, kid.'

Ivan got up on his knees, hands shaking as he propped himself up. He did not approach the man, only stared as he was immobilised with fear.

'I'm not gonna hurt you. Just come here for a second.'

Ivan shook his head, sniffles still escaping him.

'Look, kid. I can see the blood. I know.' The man said, eyeing the smears of blood on the ground beneath Ivan. 'That's gotta hurt. So come here and I'll share with you.' He lifted up a small box in his hands. 'It'll make the pain go away for a bit. Trust me, I would know.' The man smiled weakly.

Ivan slowly stood up on his wobbly legs, finding the man's smile reassuring in some way. He looked sick, tired. Dark circles beneath his eyes, and scraggly hair framing his sallow face. Swallowing back his apprehension, Ivan approached the man. Everything hurt so much, and Ivan really wondered if there was such a thing that could alleviate pain like this. If something could numb the feeling of that horrible skin of his, of the ugly flesh on his throat that itched and burned with every passing day.

'That's it. Sit here.' The man gestured to the space next to him, littered with plastic bottles and cigarette butts. 'Sorry about the mess.' He brushed the litter away, making space for Ivan.

When Ivan had taken a seat beside the man, the man put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, a brilliant flame bursting out of the darkness with a spark. Smoke billowed out of the man's mouth, the smell of it rotten and rancid. Ivan gagged, and the man chuckled. 'You get used to the smell.' He said, and offered Ivan a cigarette. 'Now you try.'

Ivan gently took it, holding it awkwardly in his hands. 'Put it to your mouth so I can light it, kid.' The man said, holding the lighter up. It was red, gleaming in the slivers of light from the streetlamp. Ivan reached for it, wanting to hold the flame in his own hands, to feel the warmth on his skin. The man pulled it away, but Ivan reached further, grabbing it out of his hands and scurrying away.

'Hey!' The man hissed. 'That's dangerous, kid. Give it back!'

Ivan stood with his back to the wall opposite of the man, wondering why he hadn't stood up and chased after him. He eyed him for a moment, wondering if perhaps the man was broken in some way.

'Come on, kid. Don't mess with that. You're gonna hurt yourself.' The man's brows knit in concern, although his voice was laced with irritation. He struggled to push himself up, only to fall back onto the ground. 'Look, it's all I have. I need that lighter, kid. Give it back.'

Ivan opened the lid of the lighter, recalling how the man had spun the little wheel to ignite that hypnotising flame. He pressed his thumb against the wheel, snapping it down onto the little red button beside it. Flame grew out of the lighter, swaying and flickering in the darkness of the alleyway. Ivan inhaled in excitement, bringing it close to his chest and savouring its warmth, the beautiful sound of it burning in the night air. It was so bright, so warm…

'Hey, don't hold it so close!'

Ivan wanted more of it, wanted to feel the flame on his skin. To burn away, scorch the tainted and rotten flesh. Ivan felt for his neck, unwounded and unscathed, but nonetheless stinging with the bite of the monsters that fed on him. Marked, so that Ivan was forever theirs. This… this would need to go.

He brought the flame to his throat, holding it to the pale and trembling skin. He closed his eyes and let the flame lick at him, searing pain burning through his throat. He gripped the lighter more tightly, screaming in agony, but wanting that ugly mark to disappear so badly.

Because you're an ugly, ugly child…

He heard the man yell, shouting meaningless words to Ivan. The smell of burning flesh rose in the air, the stench of diseased flesh evaporating away. It hurt -

It hurts so much.

But it hurt just like everything else, and so no tears fell from his eyes. He was used to pain, used to being torn apart and consumed. Already injured, already scarred and wounded.

Already gone.

There was nothing left of him. Only burning, singing flesh, crumpling onto the ground and falling into the darkness. Only a fallen and grotesque beast, slipping away into fiery slumber. Stripped of its shell, of the husk that was once a terrified little boy. The boy had been long gone, left in the snow on that day in Bragin.

Ivan was no more than a funeral pyre for that boy, laying on the cold pavement and waiting. Ivan lay there, and let the dark night swallow him whole.