Kaël’s eyes drift between the cold, rust-flecked bars, their rigid structure cutting the shadows like jagged fangs. He tries—desperately—to focus his mind on anything, anything else but the putrid corpse rotting just feet away from him. His thoughts are like moths circling a flame, and no matter how many times he swats them away, they always return to that bloated, maggot-ridden husk sprawled unnaturally on the bloodstained floor. The stench is unrelenting—sickening. It's not just rot. It's not just decay. It’s a violation of the senses, a rancid punch of sour meat, bile, and festering death. The smell burrows into his sinuses, etching itself behind his eyes like a wound that won’t close.

Kaël has smelled death before. He’s dealt with blood, gore, torn flesh. But this… this is different. This is personal. This is intimate in the worst way. The scent wraps around him like a suffocating shroud. Even rotting raw meat left out in the sun for days doesn’t come close to the chemical warzone of gases oozing from the fly-swarmed carcass. The body isn’t just decomposing—it’s melting, pooling into the cracks in the tiles with wet, slow certainty. And yet, somehow, what gnaws at Kaël even more than the corpse, more than the rancid perfume of death, is the slow, creeping realization that he hasn’t bathed in three days.

Three days.

Not long, not really—not by survivalist standards. But Kaël is used to a certain… sharpness. Precision. He’s not vain, but he’s clean. Efficient. His routines are sacred. Now, that sacred order is crumbling. His once-sharp hazel hair is tangled, matted with sweat and dried blood. His clothes cling to his skin in damp, chafing patches, soaked through with sweat and grime and the coppery sting of coagulated blood. His skin crawls with invisible itches, the kind that feel like insect legs skating just beneath the surface. He swears he can feel a rash blooming beneath his shirt, angry and hot where salt and friction have married.

He shifts uncomfortably, trying to adjust the stiff collar of his shirt, but the movement sends a new wave of that foul smell rising from the corpse. His stomach clenches. Not from disgust—not entirely—but from hunger. Real, bone-deep, gnawing hunger. Three days without food turns a man into something else, something more primal. His muscles ache, but not from strain—no, they burn with the hollowness of starvation. The kind of hunger that makes your mind start wandering down strange, unthinkable roads.

His gaze returns to the corpse. Dully, bitterly. The peeling meat has parted even further, revealing an obscene tangle of maggots gorging themselves on muscle and fat. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds—white, thick-bodied things that look disturbingly like overcooked grains of rice, except they writhe and pulse with life. They slither out from beneath the skin in wet, mucous-drenched waves, and as they fall to the tiles below, they hit the ground with a squelch Kaël can feel in the back of his throat.

His stomach lurches again. Not in horror—but in want.

No. He tightens his jaw. No, no, no. This isn’t him. He’s not some feral animal. But his body doesn’t care about pride. His ribs are beginning to show, the way they rise and fall like broken staircases beneath his shirt. His throat is dry—painfully so—and his tongue feels swollen, coated in film. Every buzz of a fly’s wing sounds louder. Sharper. Hungrier.

They’re not just crawling over the body anymore. Some of them have turned their attention to him.

He notices them now, inching across the tile in chaotic little zigzags. A bundle of larvae, moist and twitching, crawling toward him with eager momentum. He stares. Disbelieving. They’re coming for me. His lips curl into a snarl, but it’s weak, trembling. The implication settles in like poison: they aren’t done feasting.

They want him too.

They will want him—when he’s still, when he stops breathing, when he’s no longer capable of swatting them away. His mind spits out the term like a curse: myiasis. The infestation of living tissue. That’s what they want. That’s what’s next. To burrow into him. To eat him alive from the inside out.

A sound escapes him—a broken breath, a laugh, or maybe a sob—but he clenches his teeth and forces himself to push back against the bars behind him. The steel is bitterly cold against his bare skin, like ice dragged across fevered flesh. His head tips back until his skull connects with the metal with a dull thunk, and he closes his eyes. Tight. Squeezing out the sight. Trying to block it all. A soft, bitter prayer escapes his cracked lips—not for mercy, not for salvation, but a petty, cynical plea to the universe: Can these little bastards not be attracted to the stink of their own?

He feels movement. One of the worms has reached his shoe. His sneaker—once white—is now a murky gray, stained with layers of filth and blood and dust. The maggot—bold little fucker—has slithered up to the very tip. It’s alone, for now, a vanguard ahead of the rest. He watches it. Doesn’t crush it. Instead, he reaches down with two fingers and picks it up. It squirms wetly, a revolting softness between his fingertips, like a water balloon filled with slime. Every instinct screams to pinch, to obliterate it—but he doesn’t. He flicks it instead, sending it sailing between the bars and into the dark void outside the cage.

“Fuck me…” he mutters under his breath, voice hoarse and worn to raw edges. He slams the back of his head once more against the steel bars with a grimace. His hands rake up through his tangled hair, fingers clawing at the roots, gripping tight enough to hurt. He wants to rip the hazel strands out—wants to do something—but he stops short. Not yet. Not yet.

And then he hears it.

A sound.

A low, amused chuckle—smooth as honey, dark as pitch. His eyes snap open, bloodshot and furious, tracking to the corner of the room near the corpse. And there, standing like he’s been there all along, is a man.

Not just a man—a presence.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. The kind of figure you overlook once, but never twice. Jet-black hair hangs in uneven locks just above his brow, messy but deliberate, like it was styled by chaos itself. He looks like he walked out of a marble statue—the chiseled angles of his jaw, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the masculine fullness of his lips. The bottom one juts out slightly more than the top, lending him a softness that betrays the predatory air he carries.

Kaël’s breath catches in his throat.

His first, utterly inappropriate thought: I want to bite it.

The man’s eyes—gray, stormy, unreadable—glide over Kaël’s form with something like amusement. His voice cuts through the stale air, thick with a Scottish lilt that makes Kaël’s stomach turn in ways both terrifying and pleasant.

“So, you beat me to him.”

The words are casual. Almost conversational. The stranger takes a step forward, completely unconcerned by the slowly advancing tide of maggots that squirm at his feet.

Kaël instinctively pulls his knees tighter against his chest. A makeshift fortress, laughably inadequate. He’s still mostly clean of the infestation—mostly—save for the one he flicked away. His eyes narrow, burning with defiance. The look he gives is venomous, feral. That of a predator wounded and caged, no longer dangerous but still lashing with teeth and fury.

He doesn’t speak. Just watches. Waits.

The stranger crouches near the cell, peering through the bars with an unabashed smirk.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

Kaël sneers, forcing bitterness into his voice. “Calling me ugly? How rude of you.”

The man seems caught off guard for a heartbeat—then chuckles again, deep and rich.

“That accent,” he says, tilting his head. “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”

Kaël’s lips curl into something between a grin and a grimace. “What gave you that idea?” he deadpans, cocking his head in mock confusion.

Another grin. This one sharper. Predatory.

“Maybe the fact that you’re in there, and not out here with me,” the man replies, nodding toward the corpse, “and John here’s taking a nap.”

Kaël wants to play this game—normally, he would. But now? Now his stomach is turning on him, and his limbs feel heavy, and he’s so damn tired of the smell of death.

“W-who are you?” he asks, letting a faint stutter slip in—just enough to sound vulnerable.

The man’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I have many names. One in particular… The Stitcher. Ever heard of it?”

Kaël shakes his head. Slow. Careful.

The man raises an eyebrow. “No? What about The Butcher? Sawblade? The one who stitches his victims back together after removing the parts they used to sin?”

Kaël feigns ignorance. “Nope. But maybe your new name could be… ‘the guy who lets me out of this fucking cage’?”

That earns a laugh.

But it dies quickly.

Because this isn’t a game to The Stitcher.

And Kaël is running out of time.

Understood. I’ll rewrite what you send in the same tense, tone, style, and level of detail as the original piece you shared—present tense, dark psychological horror, richly descriptive, emotionally intense.

The man shakes his head slowly, his steps lazy as he drifts back toward the corpse. One hand sways through the air—not at the flies, Kaël realizes, but at him. A dismissive flick, like brushing off a gnat.

“Now why would I do that?” the man muses, voice laced with venomous amusement. “I don’t know you. You don’t know me. And isn’t there a saying about not talking to strangers?”

The words are sharp, cutting—like a knife slipped between Kaël’s ribs.

“Besides,” the man continues, circling around the rotting husk of the corpse, “I know you’re not just some poor, innocent victim. That knife in John’s throat? Recently sharpened. And the way you drove it in? Right where it needed to go. Surgical. Efficient. That kind of precision comes with experience.”

Kaël sways where he sits, the dread rising inside him like a pot left on the boil—bubbling, hissing, threatening to spill. His eyes snap to the man’s back as he moves toward the heavy metal door—the only exit, the only lifeline out of this waking nightmare.

“But it’s fine,” the man says over his shoulder. “I’ve got business to attend to. And you, well… you’ve got guests.” He gestures to the twitching carpet of maggots inching steadily closer. “Unless, of course, you’d like to tell me who you really are. Full name’s fine. But I’d prefer the title given to you by people like us.”

A silence falls. Thick. Drowning. It stretches long and slow, like fog creeping over a graveyard—smothering. The man doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just waits.

Seconds crawl by. Minutes, maybe. Only the sound of buzzing wings and the wet gargle of decomposition breaks the hush—flesh liquefying, bones sinking deeper into the blood-glossed floor.

Then, finally—movement. The man turns to go. One boot crosses the threshold.

“Wait!” Kaël’s voice is raw. Cracked. A whimper wrapped in desperation. “I… I’m Bloodhound…”

The man freezes mid-step. The name hangs in the air like smoke—thin, but suffocating. Recognition flickers in the man's eyes, cold and calculating. Kaël’s kills are whispered about, not screamed. But certain details linger. A name. A chain around a crushed throat. Bodies ripped by hounds. The calling card of a predator, hidden behind silence and teeth.

The reaction comes fast. Hard.

“And why the hell should I let you out?” The voice lashes like a whip, no longer teasing but snarling, soaked in contempt. “You’re a killer. I should open you up—split your belly and let them feast on what spills out.”

He storms forward, steps loud, cruel. Kaël’s body shrinks instinctively, curling tighter against the cold steel bars. It isn’t the threat that makes him flinch—it’s the tone. Loud. Sharp. Piercing. It rattles his skull, his bones. He’s used to silence. To whispers. This—this is too much.

He doesn’t speak. He can’t. His body jolts violently as the man kicks the bars, the crash of metal ringing out like gunfire in a chapel. It echoes. It pierces.

“Answer me!”

Kaël folds inward, palms clamped over his ears, teeth gritted to hold in the scream that fights to be born. A sob escapes anyway—thin, strangled. He didn’t even notice the tears until they’re streaming freely, wetting his cheeks, his sleeves. No comfort in their warmth—just more salt on skin already rubbed raw.

“Aww… is the puppy crying?” The man’s voice is poison now. Not mocking. Cruel. He watches Kaël scratch at his arms, nails digging through grime to reach the burning skin beneath.

No comfort comes.

“Fine. Here’s a choice. Shut the fuck up,” he growls, voice flattening, dead and cold, “or I toss a few of your little friends in here. Let them keep you company. Disgusting, yeah, but you’re already halfway to their level.”

He turns back to the corpse. Squats beside it. Begins rummaging through the pockets, fingers deft but indifferent. Comes up empty. Looks back—eyes narrow, demanding.

Kaël’s voice is barely there. Just air and fear.

“D-drawer… in the workshop table…”

A whimper follows. Barely audible. Like a beaten dog afraid to speak.

The man rises. Crosses the room with measured calm, boots crunching over god-knows-what. The workbench is a warped, peeling ruin—paint cracked, wood scarred by time and cruelty. He opens the first drawer. Bingo.

Phones. Wallets. Bits of jewelry. Trophies, Kaël thinks. Evidence. Lives reduced to pocket lint. Nestled among them—a rust-stained key.

The lock clicks.

The cage door creaks open.

But Kaël doesn’t move.

He doesn’t bolt. Doesn’t crawl. He just stays, pressed against the far wall like the open door is another trick, another trap. His sleeves—soaked and filthy—are clamped over his eyes, like cloth can shield him from being seen. From being chosen.

“Easy, pup,” the man says, voice low now. Not kind—never kind—but less edged. A calm before something. “Get up. You’re coming with me. I have somone who wants to meet you".

“You’re a dick,” Kaël mutters, the words low and venom-laced as if they hurt to speak, rasping through the crackle of his parched throat. It isn't a shout—more a curse forced from between clenched teeth, shaped by defiance and fatigue.

Arran doesn't even blink. He keeps his eyes forward on the road, fingers loosely draped around the wheel, posture relaxed in a way that betrays the cruelty coiled beneath his calm. “Aww, lucky for you I’m not a cunt like you, little fucker,” he replies, his voice drawling with mockery, the threat tucked into his words like a knife under silk. “Now get your shoes off—or I’ll come back there and tear them off myself. Feet and all.”

Kaël opens his mouth, instinctively ready to snap something vile in return—but something stops him. A sliver of metal—gleaming under the dash light—catches his eye near the steering wheel. A blade. Short, clean, wicked. Close enough to use in an instant, but far enough from Kaël’s bound hands to remind him how utterly helpless he is. He presses his lips together, jaw clenched tight, and swallows down the insult clawing at his throat.

The silence that follows is heavy. Suffocating. And still, that maddening sensation spreads beneath his skin—like oil seeping between muscle and bone. It’s not in his head. It can’t be. He feels it. Crawling. Squirming. Slippery little bodies writhing in the seams of his clothing, against the curves of his ribs and along the hollow of his spine. Maggots. He’s certain of it. And yet—every time he looks—there’s nothing.

A quiet, desperate groan leaks from his throat as he grinds his back harder against the car seat, trying in vain to find relief through friction. His hands, still bound cruelly at the wrists, twitch uselessly in his lap. The Stitcher hadn’t taken chances. Not after what Kaël tried back in the room.

In the mirror above, two storm-colored eyes shift their attention to him. “What the hell are you doing?” Arran asks, tone colder than steel but lacking its earlier bite—curious, maybe even vaguely amused.

Kaël’s breath hitches, his limbs taut with frustrated energy. “I swear… they’re in my clothes,” he hisses, sharp and low, his voice strained. Without waiting for permission, he hikes one stiff leg toward his bound hands, awkward and clumsy. Every joint protests, and his flexibility, usually something he prided himself on, has been dulled by days cramped inside a cage.

Arran watches. Not mocking this time. Simply observing.

“There’s nothing on you,” he says after a pause, his voice stripped of cruelty. “But you can take your shirt off if you need to check.”

Kaël snorts quietly—dry and brittle like leaves in winter—and leans forward just enough to start dragging one sneaker off using the edge of the other. The dull thump as it hits the floor resounds unnaturally loud in the quiet car. No radio. No conversation. Just the hum of tires and the ache of exhaustion.

“I’m not stripping for you,” he mutters.

Arran’s lips curl into a smile reflected in the mirror—part sardonic, part sinister. “Oh, but you would,” he murmurs. “I’m sure of it.”

Kaël doesn’t rise to the bait. He simply leans back, the leather seat offering no comfort, no softness—just cold resistance against his raw, hypersensitive skin. His frame tenses, as if even contact with air is too much. “Why? What gives you that idea?” His tone is guarded now, hollow.

Arran doesn’t answer. But something passes through the silence—an unspoken thing. A knowing. A memory Kaël doesn’t realize he shared. Did he stare too long the first time they met? Did something in him—desperate, vulnerable—betray itself?

“I wouldn’t force you,” Arran says eventually, quiet but certain. “I may kill terrible people… but I wouldn’t force them into anything.”

Kaël blinks. That surprises him. He doesn’t believe it, not really, but something in Arran’s voice makes it hard to argue. He nods—small, cautious—even though the other man isn’t looking. But Arran notices. Of course he does. Kaël curls tighter, knees pulled up defensively to his chest. He’s small. Foldable. Forgettable. He wraps his arms around himself like a shield, the only comfort the fragile illusion of safety.

“You won’t be killed,” Arran adds, after a moment. “Not immediately, at least.”

The words sink into the silence like a stone into water. No splash. Just a slow, cold descent.

“I figured as much,” Kaël murmurs, eyes heavy, head resting atop his knees as he stares out the window. Thousands of lights smear across the glass, blurred by grime and fatigue. “Are you going to stitch my eyes and mouth shut? Let me die like that? Slowly?”

There’s no answer.

The car keeps moving.

The lights outside blur and melt into one another, and Kaël loses track of time again. Has it been half an hour? More? His concept of time collapsed days ago—somewhere between the hunger, the pain, and the fear.

“No,” Arran says finally, abrupt.

Kaël doesn’t react. He’s too far gone into a daze, body trembling slightly in the dark. But Arran continues anyway.

“My name is Arran, if you wanted to know.”

“I don’t recall asking,” Kaël mutters, voice barely audible.

“And I don’t recall giving a shit, pup,” Arran replies. The nickname is laced with sarcasm, but it lands bitter—too personal. Too knowing.

Kaël’s stomach growls—soft, embarrassed. He exhales through his nose and shakes his head. “Keep calling me ‘pup’ and I’ll die before we get wherever you’re dragging me.”

Arran laughs, a sharp, mirthless sound. “See if I care.” But he glances back. Just once. A flick of his eyes toward the curled figure in the back seat. “You’re short,” he adds.

Kaël doesn’t respond. Not this time. His breathing slows, eyes fluttering shut. For a second, Arran thinks he’s faking it—but the stillness is real. No more squirming. No more whispers of worms on his skin. Just quiet.

Arran exhales and turns his eyes back to the road, but a flash of bright red and snow white catches his attention.

KFC.

A glowing sign like a beacon in the dark. A siren’s call of grease and sodium.

He taps the turn signal. Fuck it. The kid needs food. And so does he. Hell, even the metaphorical corpse that is Kaël probably deserves one last meal.

He pulls into the dimly lit lot, choosing a shadowed space away from prying eyes. He locks the doors and steps out, calm and collected, brushing wrinkles from his coat like he’s just another man getting dinner.

Inside, warmth hits him like a wave—too bright, too clean. A woman behind the counter sees him and lights up instantly. She twirls a strand of hair around her finger as she leans forward with a breathy smile. “Hi, sir. What can I get you?”

He returns the smile politely—detached, uninterested. “Two Streetwise Twos, a chicken burger with fries, one wrap, two Pepsis, and a water.”

Her fingers dance across the touchscreen. “Got it. Will that be all, sir?” She leans in, lashes fluttering. Inviting. Hopeful.

He nods once and steps aside, not unkind, but unreachable.

Outside, his eyes find the car again. He narrows his gaze. The silhouette that had been upright moments ago now slumps sideways, disappearing behind the seat.

“Sir?” the girl at the counter says, handing him the bag. “Order’s ready.”

He glances at her, surprised. “Already?”

“It’s been ten minutes,” she replies with a soft giggle. “Fresh and hot. Hope you enjoy…”

She leans in again, beginning, “I’m getting off soon—”

But Arran cuts her off gently. “You’re a stunning woman,” he lies smoothly, “but unfortunately, I already have someone.”

Her smile falters. Hands fidget. “Oh…”

“And a woman like you? You deserve better than someone like me,” he adds, voice low and tragic. “You’re a supermodel. I’m just… second place.”

She blinks. Her mouth opens. No words come.

“So I hope you find your happiness,” he finishes with a final, charming smile. “But I’ve got my own to get back to.”

Before she can recover, he’s gone.

He returns to the car. Kaël is sprawled awkwardly across the back seat, arms curled up beneath him like a dead thing. Arran says nothing. Just slips into the driver’s seat and sets the bag and drinks down carefully beside him, praying nothing spills.

He glances at the calmer body in the back feeling curious. He wants to wake him and offer food ,but doubts it will be the best choice. He was fast asleep and now and needed it along with food ,but will be given it as soon as he wakes.

The engine growls to life.

Kaël whimpers at the sound, small and pitiful, but he doesn’t wake.

Arran makes sure he is still comfortable before slowly getting ready to leave.

He know when they arrive at the safe house, he won't have that luxury so he will give him this peace.

At least until he needs to meet the new player in their game...

Kaël doesn’t stir when he’s gently lifted from the car’s backseat. His unconscious body merely responds on instinct, limbs curling inward again like a kitten seeking warmth—something small and soft trying to disappear into itself. His hands remain bound, wrists chafed and limp, fingers twitching slightly in his sleep as if reaching for something that isn’t there. His cheek, smeared with grime, brushes against Arran’s chest with the kind of closeness he wouldn’t dare if he were awake. Because if Kaël were conscious, he would be apologizing.

He would apologize for all of it.

For the disheveled state of his clothes—his shirt clinging to him like wet gauze, soiled with sweat, blood, and something worse. For being too weak to walk. For needing to be carried like a child. Even now, even in this deep, dreamless slumber, his body feels tense in strange ways, bracing itself against imagined judgment, shame blooming from some place deeper than reason. But none of that matters. Not yet.

Arran cradles him in his arms, adjusting the boy’s slight weight with ease and unconscious tenderness. It unsettles him how little resistance Kaël offers. How malleable he is, like clay left too long in the sun—cracking, hollow, easy to break. Each step toward the porch causes Kaël to jostle slightly, his body bouncing gently with the rhythm of Arran’s stride, but he doesn’t wake. Just makes a soft, breathy sound and curls closer.

The wooden door looms ahead, its surface weathered, the frame slightly bowed from years of storms and seasonal warping. Arran reaches for the handle, turning it slowly. The door swings open with a creak—high and narrow and drawn out, as if the house itself is groaning at the late intrusion. The sound slices through the silence like a trope made manifest—an obligatory atmospheric punctuation in the stillness of midnight.

Inside, the house is shrouded in darkness. Not empty—just sleeping. The kind of stillness that feels like it’s holding its breath. Arran steps through the threshold cautiously, his arms tightening around the boy. Behind him, the door eases shut, and the silence returns.

Only a few steps in, the world explodes.

A light snaps on above them with a click and a harsh, immediate brightness that cuts through the gloom like a blade. Arran flinches back instinctively, shoulders rising as the glow sears his vision, temporarily blinding him.

“Fucking hell, Euan!” he hisses through gritted teeth, voice sharp but devoid of true anger. It's the tone one uses when chastising a younger sibling for climbing onto the kitchen counter rather than doing their homework. “Would it kill you to give me a little warning next time?”

“Yeah, yeah, fuckhead,” comes the muttered reply, casual and amused. Light footsteps follow—bare soles padding across cold kitchen tile, muffled by a thin scattering of towels laid out to dry.

Arran’s squinting eyes adjust slowly to the kitchen light, now harsh and sterile above them. The room is spotless. Immaculate, even. The black marble countertops gleam like obsidian, and the faint scent of citrus cleaner hangs in the air, just enough to sting the back of the throat. A few dishes sit in the drying rack by the sink—mostly mugs and old plates. One in particular catches his attention: a faded plastic Spider-Man plate with a peeling design, the cartoon hero's eye half-gone, worn smooth from years of scrubbing. They’d had it since they were kids. No one had the heart to throw it out.

It feels absurd, seeing it now—something so bright and juvenile in a moment like this, with Kaël’s broken body slumped against his chest like a bloodstained secret.

“What the hell did you do to smell like that?” Euan asks as he steps fully into view, nose wrinkling in exaggerated offense.

Arran scowls. “It’s not me,” he mutters. “It’s this little fucker that reeks.”

Euan’s eyes flick downward. The smirk fades.

He stops dead when he sees what’s cradled in Arran’s arms.

His gaze sharpens, pupils narrowing, the poison-green of his irises going suddenly flat. For a moment he says nothing, just watches—watching the fragile rise and fall of Kaël’s chest, the faint tremble of a too-cold body locked in fevered sleep.

“Don’t give him the fault for your hygiene,” Euan says finally, though his voice is quieter. The familiar smirk returns, but it’s thinner now. More practiced. Less natural.

Arran groans. He’s tired. He’s confused. He’s beginning to regret this whole thing, and the fact that Euan is responding to this situation with jokes is not helping.

“Euan,” he warns, “if you don’t shut the fuck up, I will rip your tongue out through your goddamn nose.”

“Yeah, yeah, real scary,” Euan says, waving a dismissive hand. “But pass him here first. Before your stink rubs off on him.”

With a weary sigh, Arran relents. He carefully transfers Kaël into Euan’s outstretched arms, and the moment the boy is in his grasp, Euan’s demeanor shifts again—just slightly. His arms adjust instinctively, holding Kaël not like a burden, but like something delicate. Something valuable.

His brow furrows faintly as he takes in Kaël’s weight—or more accurately, his lack thereof. He runs a hand over the boy’s side, feeling how the shirt hangs loose over sharp bone. Underneath the layers, there is nothing but angles: ribs that press like bars, a sunken stomach, the unmistakable jut of pelvic bones beneath too-thin fabric.

Euan’s fingers curl slightly.

He could crush him, if he wanted to. Snap him like a dried-out branch. But instead, he shifts his grip and pulls Kaël closer to his chest.

He’s quiet for a beat.

“You’re still the one who stinks,” he murmurs with a grin, looking back up at Arran, trying to reclaim his usual tone. Trying to make this normal.

Arran stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “Are you serious right now?” he hisses, exasperated. “You’re holding a fucking serial killer. Confirmed body count of fifteen, and you want to talk about who smells worse?!”

Euan shrugs like he’s heard worse. “He doesn’t look like much,” he says.

Kaël stirs again. His head shifts slightly, one cheek brushing against Euan’s collarbone. His hair, matted with old sweat and filth, clings to his forehead in wilted strands, a sickly chestnut color now darkened to almost black. His skin is a deathly pale—not luminous, but sallow, tinged with grey. Dust clings to his lashes. Beneath his eyes, the shadows are so deep they look bruised. His lips are chapped and broken, the faintest trace of blood crusting at the corners.

Euan’s gaze lingers.

“Why did you bring him here?” he asks at last. The playfulness is gone now. His voice is curious, not accusatory. He wants to understand. “You know what we do. You know. And by the look of him, he wouldn’t have lasted much longer if you’d left him wherever you found him.”

Arran bites the inside of his cheek. There’s no easy answer to that. He should’ve left him. He meant to. He said it aloud, even—told Kaël he would rot there. That he deserved to. That the maggots should come and eat him alive, just like the dogs had done to his victims.

But when the moment came...

He didn’t walk away.

He carried him out instead.

Euan doesn’t push for an answer. He shifts Kaël’s weight in his arms and turns toward the stairs, moving with a confidence that suggests this isn’t unusual. That carrying fragile, broken boys up staircases is just another Tuesday night.

“Where the hell are you going?” Arran calls after him, watching him disappear up the first few steps.

Euan doesn’t reply. Not at first. The wooden planks creak beneath his feet, each one letting out a tired groan as he climbs. The noise trails behind him like an old lullaby—worn, soft, haunted.

Upstairs, the house feels more alive. Warmer. The walls are a pale blue, painted years ago during some half-hearted renovation. There’s a small seating area to the right, with a couch that looks inviting but hides cushions as hard as granite. Euan had once smacked Arran in the head with one of them, and both still swear it could’ve caused a concussion.

“Relax,” Euan calls back lazily. “I’m not going to gut him. Jesus.”

He reaches the top of the stairs—and then Kaël moves.

A flutter. A weak, instinctual twitch. His lashes lift just enough to reveal glassy, unfocused eyes. His breath hitches. Hands still bound, he tries to reach for something—but freezes when he realizes his situation has changed. This is not the car. This is something new. And worse—someone else is holding him.

Euan looks down and meets his gaze.

“Well, aren’t you a pretty thing,” he murmurs, voice dropping to something gentler. Almost affectionate. “Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you.”

Not yet.

He doesn’t say it. But it’s there, in the curl of his lips. In the way his eyes linger just a little too long. Searching. Cataloguing every wound, every bruise. Every place Kaël might break.

“I won’t drown you,” he adds, whispering the words like a secret into the boy’s ear. “Not tonight.”

He shifts him again, holding Kaël against him like something sacred—something fragile and flinching. Kaël doesn’t resist. Can’t.

“You don’t smell that bad, really,” Euan says softly, as he moves toward the bathroom. “Let’s go take a bath, yeah?"