Page 2 of Demon’s Snack

There is a note on the table, pinned beneath a chipped mug.

Gone to the shop. Try not to set anything on fire.

A breath of laughter escapes me. “No promises.”

I pour myself what passes for tea and take a cautious sip. The bitterness hits first, followed by a metallic edge that lingers at the back of my tongue. It scalds just enough to remind me that sensation still behaves the way it should, that pain remains a simple, honest thing.

I finish the cup, grab my coat, and step outside.

The morning air greets me with damp coolness, carrying the layered scents of wet stone, woodsmoke, and the faint sour edge of the river cutting through the lower districts. Each note arrives with uncomfortable clarity, distinct and impossible to ignore, as though my senses have decided subtlety is no longer necessary.

I pause at the threshold, letting it settle.

“Right,” I mutter. “Outside. This is normal. We’ve done this before.”

The street hums with early movement. Wagons creak over uneven cobbles, merchants shout prices that change depending on who is listening, and somewhere nearby a child cries. The rhythm of it all is familiar, grounding in its predictability.

I step into it carefully, adjusting my pace to match the flow around me. Keeping my head down has become second nature. Meeting eyes invites questions, and questions are the last thing I need.

For a while, everything proceeds as it should.

I stop at the butcher, exchange coin for wrapped meat, then move on to the baker for bread that seems faintly stale but serviceable. The interactions are brief, functional, unremarkable in the way I rely on.

“Busy morning?” the baker asks, because people always feel the need to fill silence.

“Always is,” I reply, offering a smile that shows just enough teeth to pass as polite.

He grunts and turns away, already focused on the next customer.

Good.

I make it a few more stalls before something changes.

It starts as a pressure in my chest.

Not the steady heat I woke with, but something sharper, more focused, like a hook sinking into the center of my ribs and pulling. The sensation catches my breath mid-step, forcing me to stop before I can pretend it is nothing.

The world continues moving around me, unaware.

Someone brushes past my shoulder with a muttered apology, but the sound barely registers. The pressure tightens, drawing my attention in a direction I did not choose, aligning my body with it whether I agree or not.

“What is that?” I mutter, pressing a hand against my chest as though I might be able to hold the sensation in place.

It shifts in response, not easing, but refining itself into something more precise.

Need. Rising with a clarity that cuts through every other thought.

The thing beneath my skin reacts instantly. Heat surges outward, answering the pull with a hunger that feels disturbingly… focused.

“Not here,” I say through clenched teeth. “We are not doing this in the middle of the market.”

The pull does not care about my preferences.

It tugs again, dragging me half a step sideways before I can brace against it. My boots scrape against the cobbles, the sound sharp and out of place in my own ears.

I try to turn away.

The resistance builds immediately, each step in the wrong direction costing more than the last. The effort grows heavy, like pushing against a current that has already decided where I am going.