The sensation of Hafsa's mouth on his gaping, bleeding gash nearly robbed him of consciousness on the spot. He couldn't tell how long she'd been going at it, but as the corner of his vision began to give in to encroaching darkness, he willed his jaw to chatteringly, shakily, lower.

"H-Hafsa…" Desmond's voice faltered. "H-have you had enough?"

A sound unlike anything he'd heard before escapes the feline, still hunched over his arm and feasting hungrily at the scratch she gave him. It was feral, guttural, halfway between a growl and a whine. It reverberated through his wool, down to his skin and inside his torn arteries.

So this is what it felt like to be consumed. The sheep had always wondered what it would feel like; his many nightmares surrounding Ms. Lily and other predators devouring him served as mere speculation. These dark fantasies were cold, terrifying and cruel, like he was being robbed of himself in the most demeaning and horrifying of ways. Over and over, he would succumb to chilling despair as he was torn limb from limb, chunks vanishing and dripping over himself or stuck in between the ghostly teeth of his killers.

But now… he was almost at peace. Make no mistake, he was terrified, more terrified than he'd ever been in his entire life. But the terror enveloped him in a strange sense of comfort, a realization that there is a certain friendliness in death. And his nightmares were wrong. Right now, he felt so incredibly warm.

His body was warm. The air around him was warm. Hafsa was warm. And his blood… it was burning hot. He understood why carnivores craved it so. He was all but delirious; he could hear the tantalizing call of oblivion beckoning him through his fear. Even still, he knew he couldn't die then. Not when he and Hafsa were still trapped in Priya's grasp, only hours before their bodies would be used for something so twisted.

Again, he tried calling her attention, nudging her. "Th-that's enough, don't you think?"

That time, she looked up. Her one good eye was savage, reddened by the shadows and the reflection of his blood, as she glared up at him with a needle for a pupil. Desmond wasn't sure if she even recognized him in that moment. But still, her tongue stayed, frozen in place half-lick.

"H-hi." Desmond said.

Simple, dumb, sincere. Though spoken plainly, it asked an indirect question: are you still Hafsa? Am I still Desmond? Are we still each other?

She answered.

With a wet smack, the serval opened her mouth and let go of her hold on the herbivore's arm. Once she'd released him, she tossed her head to the side with a gasp, turning towards the rotting wooden floorboards below with a face hidden in shadows. Carnivore and herbivore sat there unmoving save for their trembling and panting as blood trickled out of Desmond's now exposed gash and Hafsa's chin. The ram nearly mourned the sudden chill overtaking his wound.

Hafsa was still splayed out on the floor, both shaking arms supporting herself against the floor, yet she was the first to break their silence. Her mouth, agape, twitched upwards into a smile. She tilted her head, revealing her true expression: a sheepish grin, eyes shut and brows furrowed. Stupidly playful, stupidly out of place, stupidly Hafsa.

"Hello."

Desmond's jaw slackened into a crooked smile of his own, letting out a chuckle under his breath.

"How're you feeling?" He asked.

"I think…" Hafsa's tongue darted out, licking the blood around her lips in a circular motion that Desmond couldn't help but think as perversely cute. "I think it's working."

"Th-that's good."

He watched as the serval attempted to stand up, though her legs lacked their usual strength and grace. They resembled more of a newborn fawn's, if anything. The sheep hastened to help her keep balance, offering his arms to lean on, but she reflexively jumped back to add distance between them.

"Y-you might want to stay back for now…" She admitted. "I'm still not…"

She trailed off but Desmond understood. Allowing her space, he waited until she settled down on the dusty bed, facing the wall opposite the locked exit. He followed her lead and sat on the edge closest to the door. And for a while, that's all they did: sat there, refusing to look at each other.

"Sorry about that." Hafsa blurted out suddenly.

"It's fine. I said you could, didn't I?"

"Still…"

"Besides, you stopped. And it looks like you were right. The drug didn't knock you out."

"Yeah."

She skipped a beat.

"So now what?"

"Now… we last the night." The ram replied.

Something about the simplicity of that sentence coaxed a giggle from Hafsa, though she still faced away from him. "You can start by tying up that wound. Can't have you bleeding out."

"Oh, uh. Sure." The ram fumbled around the bed, grabbing the end of the moth-bitten bedsheet and eyeing it up. He didn't really know how to proceed from there, and eventually his hemming and hawing made his companion take the hint.

Avoiding eye contact, she hastened to his side of the bed, taking the stretch of fabric from him and ripping it into an arm-length strip with a single tear; the threads screeched apart like it was made of paper. Desmond gulped at the sight.

"That should be good enough." Hafsa sniffed, and handed the scrap of fabric to the ram, who began clumsily weaving it around his wounded arm. From the corner of her eyes, Hafsa frowned, and with a dramatic huff, once again took over with closed eyes.

"A-ah, sorry." Desmond mumbled, red with embarrassment.

"You really are the youngest child." The serval teased. "Im gonna pull it tight now, okay? It's to stop the bleeding."

No sooner did Desmond nod in consent than the carnie finalized the knot, stunning him with the sheer force of the constriction. It was highly uncomfortable, but then again, so was having his gash exposed to the elements, and after a few stinging seconds, his arm became accustomed to the pressure.

"There." The serval swiftly got up and returned to her side of the bed, resuming her showdown with the stained wall. "You can loosen it up in like fifteen minutes."

"Thanks. You sure know your stuff."

"I took a first aid course first year of high school." The serval explained. "I thought it would look good on my CV."

"Evidently." Desmond rolled his eyes at the sheer Hafsa-ness of that answer. "Do you think this situation is resumé material?"

She let out a dry spit of a cackle. "Yeah, I'm sure colleges will go head over heels."

A beat passed. The bubbling curiosity in Desmond's stomach got the better of him.

"How… do you feel right now?"

"I told you, I'm fine. The drug won't kick in as long as I stay awake."

"No, I mean like…" At the risk of being insensitive, he continued. "What is it like? Drinking blood as a carnie?"

The serval took a minute to reply. He wondered what expression she was wearing.

"It's insane."

"Insane… how?"

"It's like… I don't even know what to compare it to. I've never taken any drugs, and I assume you haven't either—" A swift nod from Desmond confirmed it. "So I can't even say it's like cocaine or anything. It's like… you know how mosquito bites itch really bad? And once you scratch it once, it's way itchier?"

"Yeah."

"It's kinda like that. Even though you really shouldn't, all you want to do is scratch that itch because you know it'll feel great even if it hurts you, and it's all you can think about. It's like that, times a hundred."

"I…I get you."

Hafsa suddenly grew defensive. "B-but don't worry! I won't go crazy on you, I promise."

The sheep smirked. "Didn't I say before? I trust you."

To this, Hafsa turned around. Her lips, pinkened by Desmond's blood, pursed in deep thought. "Why?"

The herbivore matched her gaze from across the mattress. "Because every time I've doubted you, you proved me wrong. That's just who you are."

"…Oh."

The two animals resumed facing their respective walls. Desmond internally swore at himself for no doubt putting her off with his weird comment. Hafsa, meanwhile, repeated his words in her head over and over, blinking her one good eye to stop tears from forming.

The memory tears her eyes open, and she immediately relinquishes her grasp on the poor sheep.

Hafsa returns to reality, one where freezing water rains down on her, where the fresh scent of blood buzzes around her like ravenous flesh-eating insects, where Desmond keels over, gasping and groaning from the pain she inflicted.

Not a moment too soon. If she had taken even a few more seconds to remember who she was, whohewas, it might have been over. The thought saps her legs of strength once more, and she sinks down to the pool of pink blood next to the ram.

"I-I'm sorry…" She chokes out, her voice deep and pathetic. "I almost…Oh, God…"

The ram tries to reply, but only a jumbled up mess of sputters comes out. He gives up, focusing on regaining his breath, and fumbles butt-first on the soaked floor. Hafsa join him, stretching her legs out to enmesh them between his. They gaze up at the artificial downpour, letting the water cleanse them of what just happened.

Eventually, the sheep breaks their silence.

"H-hey."

Hafsa stares at him incredulously, her mouth quirking up despite herself. "Hi."

"Nice dress."

"Fuckoff."

The serval melts into a fit of quiet, snorting laughter, which Desmond can't help but join in.

"I really thought I was gonna be hugged to death!" The herbivore slaps the puddle.

"Your own fault!" Hafsa counters. "What kind of idiot goes to hug a carnie covered in blood?"

"Fair enough."

"Anyways…" The female looks at him up and down, brow raised in judgement. "Asoccer uniform?Jocks are so unoriginal."

Desmond flattened his ears, suddenly insecure. "Excuse you, it's called a kit. And at least I didn't wear my singlet like the others."

His eyes widen. "That's what I'm here for! Have you seen any of the ram fighting guys?"

"No, not yet." She looks around the halls. "Are you sure they're not already with the others by the lawn?"

"I, uh…" A foolish realization seems to hit Desmond. "I guess I just went into survivor mode when shit went down. I don't really know what's going on outside."

"So you just went running around with no plan?"

"I wouldn't say'no plan'…"

Hafsa giggles. "You're hopeless."

She finally recovers herself, and gracefully lifts herself to her feet. "I'm making sure everyone's left the building, though, so if I find them, I'll make sure they get out safely." She extends a hand to Desmond, who accepts and is swooped to his feet in an instant.

"That's the president for you." He smirks.

"Often imitated, never duplicated." The serval quips, letting go of the herbivore's small, soft hand with a final squeeze. "Now go to the lawn and tell everyone how cool I am."

"And let you steal all the glory?" Desmond stretches as he feigns annoyance. "I'll be coming with you."

To this, Hafsa drops the playful act. "Desmond, you need to get out of here. The last thing you should be doing is wandering blood-filled halls with a carnivore. A carnivore who, only seconds ago, almost—"

She stops herself, a pained expression on her face. "It's not safe here. Please just go."

The sheep mimics her distress but doesn't back down. "I know, but I can't leave you here alone either."
The carnivore scoffs. "I can take care of myself."

"I know. But I still want to come with you."

"…Other carnies could attack you."

"I know you'll protect me."

Hafsa crosses her arms, looking down at one corner, then another as her whiskers twitch uncomfortably. She closes her eyes and finally lets out a frustrated groan.

"You're the worst."

Desmond's gaze softens at this. "Thanks."

The feline matches his change as her still-furrowed brows tremble over shimmering eyes. "Let's get going then."

She leads the way towards the stairwell, but stops outside the janitor's closet. "One sec."

Curious, the ram watches as she disappears into the tiny room. After a few seconds and the random clattering sounds, she returns clutching a strange object, equal parts fabric and wire.

"If you're coming along, then I might as well take some precautions." She states, somewhat embarrassed. Holding up the object, he recognizes it. A muzzle.

"Woah." He blurts out. "How did you know that was in there?"

"It's in every janitor closet, for emergencies. Do you not pay attention during SAD?" Hafsa chides as she straps the device around her face.

"Not really."

The serval makes final adjustments on the muzzle, fitting it perfectly around her snout. The black wiring obscures her mouth, making her seem a lot more dangerous than necessary.

"Doesn't this seem… overkill?" The ram grimaces, instantly regretting his word choice.

"This whole situation is overkill." Hafsa dismisses, and resumes the mission.

Jogging along, Desmond tries to take her mind off of the muzzle. "I don't really know what's going on. When I got here, the halls were full of blood. Is this—"

"DAVID's fault? Not a doubt in my mind." The feline scowls. "They apparently rigged a bunch of lockers to spill blood when opened. Including mine."

"That explains your dress." He gestures towards the dark red blotch that covers most of her front.

"I think the plan was to set off all the carnies. They wanted a predation to happen. Or several."

"That's so unbelievably fucked up." The herbivore shudders. "How did they even get all this blood?"

"I don't know. Maybe they all pitched in."

They arrive on the fourth floor. An initial glance shows no signs of students, thankfully, but Hafsa picks up on muffled voices.

"There are people in the classrooms." She says, placing herself in front of Desmond. "Stay close."

The ram nods. The duo approach the nearest door, leading into classroom 401. Wasting no time, Hafsa opens the door and is met with a peculiar sight. The chairs and desks are in complete disarray, most of them toppled over. But near the teachers desk,it seems someone stacked the furniture into a fortress of some kind, piles of desks and chairs resembling a wall enclosing an imaginary treasure.

At the sound of the door's click, a tiger shoots up from behind the makeshift base.

"Stay back!" He roars, but he flinches once recognizing Hafsa. "Pres?!"

Quiet mumbling stirs up beneath the tiger. Are there more students?

"Guys, what's going on here?" Hafsa asks. "Didn't you hear the announcement? All students need to evacuate now!"

More mutterings bubble up from behind the desk fortress.

"Well, we tried…" Says the tiger, scratching at his chest. "But the hallways were such a mess. Bloody, and full of carnies… Our friends were too scared to leave. So we huddled up here instead."

"Friends?"

The larger feline beckons Hafsa to come closer, so she does with Desmond meekly in tow. That's when they see the reality of the situation. Behind the protection of the desks, around half a dozen herbivores huddle around each other, looking up at Hafsa with terrified eyes. Two other carnivores, a fox and an alligator, squat on either side of the cluster, ready to pounce at any potential intruders. They greet her with resigned nods.

"We've been camping here until it was safe to come out." The tiger explains. "Well, it's not like we were checking."

"And you three have been protecting your classmates?" The serval points at the carnies.

"Well, yeah. Trying to." The fox speaks up. "Mostly calming them down."

"We'd try to leave but… we're scared of the halls. At least there's no blood in this room." The alligator adds.

Desmond begins shoving the chairs and desks aside, much to the astonishment of the other herbies. "It's safe now. So you need to get going."

The tiger, looks down at his friends, eyes filled with concern. "You're sure?"

"I promise. The halls are empty. Can you guys walk?"

The striped feline goes to protest, but one of his classmates, a Duroc pig, stands up before he can say anything. "We're fine. Thank you for taking care of us." She reassures, and looks up at the tiger with a shy smile. "Let's go?"

Her classmate opens his mouth, but whatever dissent he might have sizzles away. Instead, he pats his friend on the head, and with a weary nod, relents. As he helps Desmond move the improvised stronghold, Hafsa helps the others to their feet and file them up neatly in a line; all the herbies sandwiched between the carnies who form a protective shield around them.

"Do you know if any other animals are doing this?" The student council president asks once everyone is accounted for.

"I dunno," The tiger frowns. "We holed up here because of all the confusion. It was really a mess. Checking the other classrooms is probably a good idea."

The female cat hums in approval. "Head down to the lawn, the teachers will take care of you."

"Sure thing. Thanks, pres."

The group says its final goodbyes before proceeding down the hall and down the stairwell, finally out of sight.

"To think they were hiding out all this time…" Desmond grabs one of his horns, pensive.

"They were protecting the herbies..." The serval clutches at her gown's fabric.

The piebald sheep observes her. "I guess DAVID underestimated carnivores. Bonds are still bonds."

An uneasy smile escapes Hafsa's lips. "Come on, let's get a move on."

They finish clearing the floor in no time flat, netting two more herbies who were hiding in the supply closet and a small troupe of hamsters in their rodent-sized homeroom. Whatever happened on the fourth floor must have really shook them up, though thankfully no one attested to any type of predation or violence. By the time they reach the end of the passage, the overhead sprinklers finally petered off, leaving the last remaining drops trickling down Hafsa's whiskers.

"Three more floors to go." The feline sighs. "How are you holding up, Des?"

"I could ask you the same." Desmond glances at her muzzle. "Sorry if I'm a bit of a distraction."

"I'm mostly used to it." Her fangs glisten underneath the dark wires. "It's just a pain to run around in this stupid gown."

"You could tear off a bit at the end."

"Oh, you'dlovethat, wouldn't you?"

"Wh-what?!Jeez, forget I said anything!" The male sputters, eliciting a malicious cackle from Hafsa.

"You're so easy to rile up." She teases, the hem of her costume leaving a wake in the ankle-deep water. "I know the thing's completely ruined but… I just can't bring myself to rip it, you know? It was so expensive."

"Your vanity truly knows no bounds." Desmond grumbles while jogging up the next flight of stairs.

Hafsa prepares another quip when a sharp sound freezes them in place.

It's not immediately above them, but it's all too distinct. It's the clear sound of a gunshot.

Two bangs in rapid succession. And then utter, ringing silence.

The pair whip around to look at each other, as if they wish they had hallucinated it. But the mutual horror in their eyes all but confirms it. That was definitely not their mind playing tricks on them.

"D-Des…?" Hafsa whispers. "Was that…?"

Desmond swallows a hard lump. "Y-yeah. I think so."

They instantly spring into action, leaping up the flights of stairs as fast as their legs can carry them. At the fifth floor, they hastily gallop down the hallway, swinging classroom doors open to check for the source of the shots.

Empty, empty, empty, empty.

Nobody on the floor at all.

Could it have been on the sixth?

They scale another flight of stairs and repeat the hellish procedure. Empty, empty, empty,empty.

Maybe theydidhallucinate it.

"Hafsa," Desmond starts in between gasps for air. "Was the sound coming from above or below?"

"Above. No doubt. We gotta keep climbing."

"J-just don't run too far—"
His companion suddenly flings her arm out, waving frantically in a desperate attempt to silence him. He obeys instinctually, though perplexed. It's only when she lifts a hand to cup behind her satellite-like ear that he understands: she's picked up on something.

Neither of them move.

Desmond, being a sheep, cannot fathom what indiscernible sound she might be hearing. All that he registers are the faint plip-plops of the churning water beneath them, occasionally disturbed by a lone drop leaking from a sprinkler. But the serval's body language is completely attuned to the phantom sounds around them; whiskers twitching, pupils sharped, ears swiveling.

After a while, her tense posture relaxes a bit. Only then is the ram brave enough to ask in a muted voice.

"What is it?"

"I don't know." She replies unhelpfully. "It was above us. The sound of water."

"That… makes sense, then."

"Someone was walking around. I think it's on the next floor."

With a final silent exchange, they slink down the hall and creep up the eastern flight of stairs, ushering them to the sixth floor. Serval and sheep now tread carefully, wary of whatever's lurking around. A cursory impression tells them nothing; the corridor shimmers with pink water and spectral silence.

Taking the lead, Hafsa glides through the bloody liquid, passing the bathrooms, classrooms 601, 602, 603, 604 and 605 as Desmond carefully mimics her movements to make as little noise as possible. Peering into the classroom door windows, these too are completely evacuated. But around halfway down the passage, the water beneath them ripples.

It's not their doing. The small waves ghost past them, signaling its source on the opposite end. Just past the janitor's closet, the hallway sidetracks to the left, where the lone classroom 611 stands in solitary confinement, just before the landing of the western stairwell. And around that obfuscated corner, something disturbed the water.

The serval whips her head around, glaring down at Desmond. Her eyes, alight with feeling, silently scream at him to keep close. He nods, placing a reassuring hand on the small of her back. Moving in unison, they sneak past the half-opened lockers that still seep out viscous red gore. They pass by the sealed door of the janitor's closet. And then they turn the corner.

Hafsa wasn't really sure what to expect. What could one possibly hope for after hearing what appeared to be gunshots? What kind of headspace could one rationalize turning that corner in?

The answer is obvious. After a gunshot, there is a corpse.

She might have known that from the start. But nothing could have prepared her for seeing the corpse of Ezekiel laying face-up, his face at Hafsa's feet staring up at her with blank eyes.

Every follicle of fur stands on end, and her jaw chatters open, small whimpers escaping her muzzle. Behind her, Desmond's face instantly drains of color, twisted into a horrified grimace.

"Aaah…" Hafsa cries weakly, instantly grasping her friend's arm. She takes a step back, and he follows.

Fresh crimson streaks blossom out of the rhinoceros, who looks like a dark mountainous island in the middle of the pink sea. The alcove, hidden from natural light, consumes the lower half of his body in total darkness. But suddenly, the darkness moves.

Sleek black fur dewey with water catches just enough light to hint at a strong, muscular frame. Neither of them had even noticed his presence until now, and it seems he hadn't noticed them either.

But Toma turns towards them with a miserable expression and a gun in his hand.

AN: Thank you for reading! I was kind of tempted to name this chapter "Greet your Meat". Whenever my cat finishes her dinner, she licks her chops and it's so adorable. Rip in pieces, Zekey old boy. This was always your fate.

Take it easy and stay safe.