6 — The Encounter
Vincent was sated.
Finally, for fuck's sake. Fully, completely, obscenely sated. This
wasn't that hollow, superficial satiety he’d grown used to after
tearing out a monster's heart—that temporary fix that filled the
void for a fleeting moment only to let the hunger return, insidious
and scratching at his insides, barely an hour later. No. This was
different. This was deep. It felt as though every single cell of his
body had been individually fed and was now whispering a collective,
peaceful
[Hunger:
Dormant]
[Psyché: 65%]
[HP Stock: 127]
[Control: Optimal]
He sat perched atop
his jagged rock in his favorite Watchdog Man pose—knees
tucked high, heels balanced precariously on the edge of the stone,
hands resting flat on the cold, damp surface. His dirty white mask
was tilted slightly downward, the three featureless black holes
staring into the void with an intensity that might have passed for
Zen meditation, provided the observer ignored the fact that he was
simply psychically digesting a murder.
It was preemptive
self-defense. An advanced strategic concept, he rationalized.
Casual players don't get it. They think they can play this like a
theme-park MMO. They don't understand that in a true survival game,
it’s kill or be killed. I simply applied the first-strike doctrine.
Sun Tzu would approve.
Sun Tzu, in all
likelihood, would have been horrified by Vincent’s interpretation
of strategy. But since Vincent’s knowledge of
was limited to out-of-context quotes found on obscure subreddits, his
understanding was, shall we say, highly selective. In his mind, he
wasn't a monster; he was a high-tier player optimizing his survival
chances in a broken world.
He scanned the forest
with his newly heightened senses. Night vision had transformed the
oppressive, uniform grey of the world into a sharp landscape of
high-contrast shadows. But it was the olfaction that truly
changed his perception of reality. It wasn't just about smelling; it
was about seeing the chemical history of the air. He saw the
lingering trails of fear left by fleeing prey, the heavy metallic
scent of old blood, and the earthy, fungal musk of the trees. He
painted trails of color across the grey: Red for aggressive. Blue for
passive. Green for resources.
And Golden for— He
cut the thought off before it could finish. I’m not thinking
about that. It was an accident. A calculation error. It won't happen
again.
Of course, it would
happen again. But Vincent had become exceptionally good at lying to
himself.
Suddenly, a sound.
Faint, distant. Footsteps. Not the dragging, erratic gait of a
creature, but something more... coordinated. Human. The three holes
of the mask pivoted instantly toward the source. Night vision
focused. Olfaction activated automatically, seeking, identifying,
cataloging—
No. Not yet. I’m
sated. I don’t need to—
And then he saw him.
Another player. Level 5, according to the interface appearing faintly
above his head.
[Username:
Melodream] [Class: Troubadour-Sutler] [Level: 5]
A tall, lanky guy with
an oddly relaxed posture for someone in this grey hell. He wore a mix
of medieval bard attire and a heavy chef's apron—worn brown cloth,
pockets everywhere, a Celtic harp strapped to his back next to a
collection of copper pots that clinked softly with every step. In his
right hand, he held a jaw harp which he plucked distractedly,
producing an odd, almost hypnotic vibration.
And he was smiling. A
genuine, warm smile, completely out of place in this environment.
Vincent froze. Not out of fear, but confusion.
Who smiles in this
game? Who looks HAPPY here? Olfaction activated despite him, and
the trail appeared—Golden
[Hunger:
Dormant → Vigilant] [Control: 89%] [Inhibitors: Active]
No. I'm sated. I
don't need. I don't WANT to. He forced himself to look away,
breaking visual contact with that golden trail pulsing in sync with
the stranger’s heart.
Melodream stopped
about ten meters away, tilted his head slightly like a curious bird,
and called out in a surprisingly soft voice:
— Hey! Hello! You're
the first player I've crossed in... phew, three hours? Four? Time is
weird here, isn't it?
Vincent didn't answer.
He couldn't. His jaw was locked, his claws dug into the rock, his
whole body tense like a bow.
Stay calm. Stay in
control. You're Watchdog Man. You protect your territory. You don't
attack without reason. You're a hero, not a monster.
Melodream seemed to
interpret the silence as shyness or distrust—not as a desperate
internal struggle against cannibalistic urges—and he took a step
back, raising his hands in a peaceful gesture.
— Hey, hey, don't
panic! I'm peaceful. Support class, see? — He tapped the harp on
his back. — I buff, I heal, I cook. Not a fighter. Well,
technically I CAN fight, but it’s… not optimal, you know?
He laughed. A light,
guileless laugh that echoed strangely in the oppressive silence of
the forest. Vincent looked at him. Really looked at him this time.
Not as prey. Not as a threat. Just… a guy. A normal player who
looked like he hadn't completely lost his mind.
How? How can he
look so… normal?
— I… — His voice came out raspy, like
grinding stones, as if he hadn't spoken in days. — I don't eat…
food. I eat… hearts. Organs. That's how my build works.
Why am I telling
him this? Why am I explaining my build? He's going to run away
screaming and I'll be alone again and—
But Melodream didn't
run away. He just nodded thoughtfully, then smiled even wider.
—
Oh! An organic absorption build! That’s rare. Wìdjigò-Phase,
maybe? Either way, that must be tough to manage, right? The constant
Hunger, the Psyché dropping with every kill… You must feel a bit
isolated, I imagine.
Vincent stared at him,
completely destabilized. How… how does he know? How can he be
so… understanding?
— I… yeah. A little.
A little. What a
masterful understatement. I'm turning into a cannibalistic monster
and this guy treats me like I just have a cold.
Melodream stood up,
dusted off his pants, and approached slowly—not in a threatening
way, just… friendly. He stopped about three meters away, right at
the limit of what would have been a comfortable combat distance.
—
Listen, I know it's weird, but… you want to group up? Even
temporarily? I’m good at keeping people’s Psyché stable, and you
look like an excellent DPS. We could complement each other, you see?
[Group
Invitation Received] [Melodream wishes to form a group] [Accept? Yes
/ No]
Vincent looked at the
invitation floating before him. Every fiber of his being—the
rational part, at least—was screaming at him to refuse. You’re
going to kill him. It’s inevitable. You’ll lose control and
devour him just like you devoured Mirv.
But another part,
smaller and more fragile, whispered: What if… what if I didn’t?
What if it was possible to play normally? To have a teammate? To be…
human? More importantly: A support who buffs? That's exactly
what I need to farm more efficiently. It's tactically optimal. It has
nothing to do with loneliness or the need for human company. It's
just… strategic.
Of course. He
accepted.
[Group
Formed]
[Members: EchoZero (Level 4), Melodream (Level 5)]
[Group
Bonuses Activated]
[Shared XP: 80% each]
[Group Buff: Basic
Harmony (+5% to all stats)]
Melodream smiled even
wider, if that was possible, and gave a small, theatrical bow. —
Excellent! My name’s Melo, by the way. Well, in real life it’s
Theo, but here everyone calls me Melo. And you?
Vincent hesitated. Do
I give him my real name? My handle? Are we still pretending this is
just a game? — Vincent. My tag is EchoZero, but… Vincent is
fine.
— Vincent. Cool.
Well, Vincent, do you want to find a spot that’s a bit less…
creepy? I spotted a clearing not far from here with fewer things
leaking from above. We could set up a temporary camp, cook a bit,
discuss strategy?
A camp. Cooking.
Strategy. As if it were a normal MMO. As if they weren't in a
psychological nightmare. But Vincent nodded anyway.
— Yeah. Yeah,
that works for me.
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And they set off
together, the ultra-positive Troubadour-Sutler and the cannibal
monster who thought he was Watchdog Man, walking side by side in a
forest of skin and despair. Objectively, this was going to end badly.
But maybe it would be entertaining in the meantime.
The "clearing"
Melo had mentioned was generous in its description. It was
technically an open space, yes, but "open" simply meant
"fewer skin-trees leaking directly onto you." The ground
remained spongy, wet with an indeterminate liquid that was neither
water nor blood but something in between. The grey lighting
persisted, sourceless, directionless, just… present.
But Melo seemed to
think it was perfect. He dropped his bag—a real physical bag, not
just an inventory interface, filled with pots, utensils, and what
looked like spices stored in small vials—and began to set up with
the relaxed efficiency of someone who had done this a thousand times.
Vincent watched him,
standing a few meters away, motionless in a slightly modified Amai
Mask pose—one hand on his hip, the other hanging along his
waxen body, head tilted with a fake nonchalance.
He’s too
comfortable. It’s weird. No one should be this comfortable here.
He’s either a hardcore pro, or a psychopath, or… I don’t know.
Something.
Melo pulled out a
small iron pot—surprisingly clean for an object in this
environment—and began filling it with water he filtered through a
strange cloth that seemed to absorb all impurities. He hummed while
he worked. Literally. A cheerful little tune that had absolutely no
business being in this nightmare.
— You know how to
cook? — he asked without looking up, his hands continuing their
methodical work. — I… no. My build feeds on… you know. Organs.
Raw. I’ve never needed to cook.
Because biting into
beating hearts is so much more efficient. Pure min-maxing. Real
players understand.
— Ah, right. —
Melo nodded, still without judgment. — Well, technically, you COULD
cook. Most buffs work even on absorption builds. It’s just that no
one takes the time to try because… well, it’s faster just to eat
directly. But less optimal for Psyché.
He finally looked up,
his face—a normal human face, no mask, no transformation—displaying
that perpetually benevolent smile. — Psyché is the real survival
stat in this game. Not Integrity. Not level. Psyché. Because if it
drops too low, you lose control. And if you lose control…
He didn't finish the
sentence. He didn't need to. Vincent swallowed. The sound was
strangely dry, hollow, echoing behind the mask.
— Yeah. I…
noticed.
[Psyché:
65%] [Transformation: 2/10] [Control: Fragile but maintained]
Melo went back to
work, pulling different ingredients from his bag—pieces of dried
meat that looked suspiciously like local creatures, herbs that should
have been toxic but smelled surprisingly good, and something that
might have been mushrooms if mushrooms were blue and slightly
luminescent.
— Cooking is a form
of magic here, — he explained while cutting the meat into precise
cubes. — Not literally magic, but almost. When you combine the
right ingredients in the right way, you create synergies. Buffs that
last longer, that stack better. And above all, that feed the mind as
much as the body.
He threw the cubes
into the pot, added the herbs, the mushrooms, and a bit of what
looked like salt but was probably something much stranger. — For
example, this stew. Creeper meat, Spiral herbs, Sleepy Spore
mushrooms. Separately, they’re just basic food. Together? Plus
fifteen percent Psyché regeneration for two hours, plus ten percent
HP Stock, and a small resistance bonus to fear effects.
Vincent sat down
slowly, his long waxen legs folding with a grace he hadn't possessed
a few days prior. He watched Melo cook with a fascination he didn't
entirely understand.
It’s… soothing.
Just watching him. As if everything were normal. As if we were just
two players camping between two farming sessions.
— Why are you doing
this? — The question came out before he could stop it. — Why are
you so… kind? You don't know me. I could be dangerous.
I AM dangerous. I
literally devoured a player a few hours ago.
Melo laughed softly,
stirring the stew with a wooden spoon he had pulled out of nowhere. —
Everyone is dangerous here, Vincent. This game is designed to turn us
into monsters. The question is: do we accept that, or do we fight
against it?
He looked up, and for
the first time, Vincent saw something deeper in that gaze—not
naivety, not ignorance. Determination. And something else. Something
older, heavier, that the smile didn't entirely succeed in covering. —
I refuse to let this game make me into something I don't want to be.
So I cook. I play music. I group with people. Because that’s how we
stay human.
[Improved
Group Buff: Deep Harmony]
[+10% to all stats] [+5% Psyché
regeneration (passive)]
[Duration: As long as the group
remains formed]
Vincent felt something
change. Subtle, almost imperceptible, but real. The Hunger—that
constant presence, that low growl at the core of his being—eased
slightly. Not gone. Just… calmer.
[Hunger:
Vigilant → Soothed] [Psyché: 65% → 66%]
Wait. My Psyché…
it’s going up? It CAN go up? Melo smiled, as if he had read his
thoughts. — Yeah. It’s possible. Difficult, but possible. Psyché
isn't just a bar that goes down. It’s an equilibrium. If you give
your mind what it needs—connection, calm, normalcy—it can repair
itself. Slowly.
He pulled the pot from
the invisible fire he had created—Vincent hadn't even noticed there
was a fire—poured the contents into two wooden bowls, and handed
one to Vincent. — Here. Taste it. And tell me if I messed up the
proportions.
Vincent took the bowl.
His hands—those long black claws emerging from the translucent
white wax—held the wood with surprising delicacy. He looked at the
stew. It smelled… good. Really good. Not like hearts. Not like
blood. Just… food.
This is stupid. My
build doesn't work like this. I have to eat organs, hearts, absorb
traits. That's how I level. It’s— He brought the bowl to the
gaping hole of his mask and tilted it.
The liquid vanished
into the darkness behind the mask, and for a moment, nothing
happened. Then the flavor exploded. Not in his mouth—he wasn't sure
he still had a mouth in the traditional sense—but somewhere deeper.
A taste that was simultaneously salty, earthy, slightly sweet,
complex in a way he couldn't describe. And above all, satisfying in a
way that had nothing to do with Hunger.
[Item
consumed: Creeper Stew with Spiral Herbs]
[+15% Psyché
regeneration (2 hours)]
[+10% HP Stock]
[+10% resistance to fear
effects]
[Hunger: Soothed → Dormant]
[Psyché: 66% → 68%]
Vincent remained
motionless, the empty bowl in his hands, staring into the void with
his three black holes. — It’s… — His voice was raspy,
cracked. — It’s really good.
Melo beamed. — Glad
you like it! I’ve been experimenting for days to find the right
combinations. The Toxic Spiral has a bitterness profile that
perfectly counterbalances the fat of the Creeper, and the Sleepy
Spores add that subtle umami note that…
He kept talking,
explaining the subtleties of his culinary craft with an enthusiasm
that would have been contagious in any other context. And Vincent
listened to him. Really listened. Not because he was particularly
interested in flavor profiles or ingredient synergies, but because it
was… normal. Human. A passionate guy talking about his passion.
That’s it. That’s
what was missing. Just… a normal conversation. Without violence.
Without Hunger. Without transformation.
[Psyché:
68% → 69%]
The notifications kept
appearing, softly, almost shyly, as if the system itself were
surprised by this development. They spent the next hour that way.
Melo cooked, talked, sometimes played a few notes on his
harp—soothing melodies that made the air vibrate in an oddly
comforting way. Vincent listened, sometimes responded, even finding
himself laughing once—a hollow, raspy sound, but a genuine one. And
slowly, progressively, his Psyché continued to climb.
[Psyché:
69% → 70% → 71%]
It’s… it’s
working. Damn, it’s actually working. Of course, a part of his
brain—the egocentric part that constantly compared itself to manga
characters—hurried to rationalize: Perfect tactical synergy.
I’ve recruited a support who not only buffs my combat stats but
also stabilizes my Psyché. Exactly the kind of optimization top-tier
players look for.
Which, translated into
honest human language, meant: I’ve found someone who keeps me
from going completely insane, and I am pathetically falling into
emotional dependency. But Vincent had never been particularly
good at honesty.
It was then—in this
fragile balance, in this lull that felt almost like peace—that the
notification appeared. It floated before him, calm, neutral,
indifferent to everything that had just happened.
[Current
Session: 6:00 elapsed] [Logout Recommended] [Continue? Yes / No]
Six hours. Vincent
stared at the text without moving. The two options blinked softly,
waiting. Six hours. He was supposed to leave now. Go back to his
room. Go back to his mother. Go back to…
To nothing. To the
room. To the stained carpet. To the silence. To the absence of noise,
smell, or meaning. To a life that wasn't a life but just a series of
hours passing without him remembering them.
He looked at Melo.
Melo, who was already cutting the first ingredients for the next
meal, who was humming distractedly, who seemed completely at ease in
this horrible place—as if he were at home. As if it were the only
home that mattered.
If I leave, I might
not come back. And what if he isn't here when I return? And even
if it’s just a game, even if it’s supposed to be temporary, even
if my mother might worry—
He didn't think of his
mother. Not really. The blurred silhouette, the distant memory.
Nothing concrete. Nothing that carried weight. He thought of his
father. It wasn't a precise image. Rather, an absence frozen in time.
One day, he just wasn't there anymore. No final scene. No memorable
argument. Just a departure that had imposed itself as a fait
accompli.
He mostly remembered
his mother. Her voice. The sentence that followed. You want to
leave with him, admit it. He remembered what followed too, even
if he didn't like to revisit it. But he doesn't care anymore. Not
about you, not about me.
That sentence had
never stopped working inside him. It didn't hurt in an acute way. It
had simply settled in, becoming a reasonable hypothesis. With time,
it had stopped being an accusation and became an explanation. He
wasn't someone people stayed for.
From that point on,
everything had been organized around that idea. Don't get attached.
Don't insist. Don't give yourself entirely. Let things fail before
they take on too much importance. It wasn't cowardice. It was a
strategy. A way to avoid the final surprise.
But Melo. Melo, who
had just cooked for him. Melo, who hadn't taken his eyes off him
since the first second. Melo, who had said "we're a team"
as if it were obvious.
Vincent selected
[Yes]
[Session
Extended]
[Total Duration: ongoing]
[Warning: prolonged
sessions may affect your physical well-being]
[Warning Ignored]
The notification
vanished. The world continued to seep. Melo continued to cook. And
Vincent stayed.