#entity horde

[brent-emery-pieczynski]

2 Backrooms Weapons... #shorts #backrooms

[starcrustduster]

i fucking hate rpg games bro gale got kidnapped in baldurs gate now i have to run peoples dumb errands to save him i killed gods before i came here im not killing rats in some basement for you im sorry my man save your ass yourself i give up

[thatfeelinwhenyou]

SAFE & SOUND — part 6

Navigating one year post-apocalypse, when the dead began to walk and the living proved to be no better, you decide that trust is a luxury you can no longer afford. But after a run-in with a group of seven peculiar survivors, you learn that there are bigger problems than just the undead roaming the streets. You also start to wonder if there’s more to survival than simply staying alive.

word count: 18k

a/n: heavy trigger warning for depiction of gore, blood, killing and death. reader discretion is advised. enjoy! ☺️

MASTERLIST

Dusk.

It settles over the camp, painting the sky in deep purples and burnt oranges. The air is thick with the kind of quiet that only comes before a storm, heavy and expectant. 

You and Jungwon sit side by side on the rooftop, gazing out at the horizon, lost in your own thoughts. Your head rests against his shoulder, his warmth grounding you, the occasional brush of your legs against each other a quiet reminder of just how close you are.

Neither of you has spoken for hours, yet the silence between you isn’t empty. It’s comfortable, weighted with everything that doesn’t need to be said. Words feel pointless when the future is a gaping unknown, when death lingers at the edge of every decision you make.

You still don’t know what your feelings for Jungwon truly are. Is it respect? Admiration? Or something deeper—something dangerous—something resembling affection? You don’t want to find out. Not now. Not when either of you could be dead by sunrise. Naming it would only make it real, and you can’t afford that kind of pain.

A shift in the air makes you straighten slightly. The atmosphere thickens, the world around you seeming to still. And then, in the distance, you see it.

The horde.

It moves like a single entity, a writhing, heaving mass of death spilling over the landscape. Even from miles away, the sheer size of it is terrifying, bigger than what you remember from the bus terminal. Bigger than what you had prepared for. A lump forms in your throat.

You feel Jungwon tense beneath you, his muscles coiling like a wire pulled too tight.

“They’re here,” he murmurs.

The words send a ripple of finality through your chest, cold and sharp. No hesitation, no maybe, no they’re coming—they’re already here.

Without another word, the two of you silently pull apart from one another. Your muscles move on instinct, years of survival kicking in, pushing back the rush of dread clawing up your spine. Your fingers twitch at your sides, curling into fists before flexing out again, steadying yourself.

Your feet barely touch the ground as you move, slipping down from your vantage point with Jungwon close behind. “You see ‘em?” Jake appears beside you just as your feet touch the ground.

You nod. “Yeah. And… the horde’s bigger than I remember.”

A sharp exhale. Jake runs a hand through his hair, his usual confidence slipping. “Fuck, man. Is it too late to pack up and leave?”

Jungwon ignores the comment, already shifting into leader mode. He turns to Sunoo. “The masks?”

Sunoo jerks his thumb towards a small crate by the petrol pumps. “Over there. Though we haven’t actually tried them on…” His voice trails off as the weight of what you’re about to do sinks in.

The idea of wearing the dead suddenly feels more real. More horrifying.

Jungwon strides over to the crate, crouching beside it. He lifts the lid, revealing a mess of grotesque masks, stitched together from the rotting flesh of the dead. The smell alone is enough to make your stomach churn. 

Even though you knew what to expect, seeing them up close, knowing you’re about to wear them—it sends an involuntary shudder down your spine.

Sunoo hesitates, eyeing the pile of decayed flesh like it might lunge at him. “I don’t think I can do this,” he mutters, swallowing hard.

“You can,” Jungwon says, his voice steady, leaving no room for argument. “We don’t have a choice.”

Jake exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to shake off the dread creeping up his spine. “Well, no point in putting it off,” he mutters before reaching into the crate. He hesitates for only a second before pulling one out, inspecting it under the dimming light. His face twists in disgust. “Jesus Christ.”

“You think A’s people ever got used to this?” Sunghoon mutters, grabbing a mask and flipping it over in his hands.

“No,” Jay answers. “You don’t get used to things like this. You just learn to live with it.”

Just then, a muffled scream cuts through the tense air, sharp and urgent. Your attention snaps to Lieutenant Kim, still bound to the chair beside the convenience store entrance, her body jerking violently as she struggles against the restraints. Her feet slam against the floorboards, the hollow thuds echoing in the heavy silence.

“Shit, I forgot about her,” Ni-ki mutters under his breath, exasperation laced with something closer to unease.

Heeseung strides over without hesitation, yanking the cloth from her mouth in one swift motion. The moment she’s able to breathe freely, she sucks in a sharp breath before her smirk returns, curling at the edges like a predator baring its teeth.

“Hah,” she exhales, eyes flicking straight to you. “That mask… looks like it was made for you.”

Her words slither through the air, taunting. But they don’t hit their mark. Not like she wants them to. Not when you’ve already embraced the horror of what you’re about to do.

Heeseung doesn’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction, moving to shove the cloth straight back in her mouth.

But then she panics.

“Wait!” she blurts out, her voice cracking ever so slightly, the first sign of real fear slipping through the cracks in her bravado. “You can’t just leave me out here with nothing! I’ll die!”

Heeseung pauses, cloth still gripped in his hand, his gaze narrowing as he watches her panic take hold. 

The mask of arrogance slips from her face, replaced with something raw. Desperation. The kind that seeps into your bones when you know—truly know—that death is coming for you.

“You knew this was coming,” you say, your voice eerily calm. “You knew we’d figured out A’s plan. That’s why you went after Sunoo. You were buying time, weren’t you? Hoping that if you could keep up the act just a little longer, you’d distract us long enough for them to get here.”

Lieutenant Kim’s eyes snap to yours, her expression flickering with something unreadable. 

“You should’ve known what you were getting into the moment you decided to reveal yourself,” you continue, your gaze unwavering. “So why are you acting like the victim?”

Her jaw tightens, and for a split second, she hesitates. It’s barely perceptible, but you see it—the tiny fracture in her composure. The smug confidence she had only moments ago is slipping, cracking at the edges like glass under pressure. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, and for the first time since she first revealed herself, she looks afraid.

Then, just as quickly, she scowls, yanking at the ropes again, frustration spilling out in sharp bursts of breath. “I was foolish,” she spits, voice laced with venom. “That was before I realised just how fucking insane you all are.”

Her laugh is bitter, hollow, like something jagged scraping against stone. “You’re actually going through with this? Walking in there like sheep to the slaughter? You don’t know the first thing about walking with the dead.” She shakes her head, eyes flashing with something almost close to disbelief. “The dead don’t think. They don’t hesitate. One slip-up—one wrong breath—and they’ll tear you apart before you can even blink.”

Jungwon steps forward then, his shadow stretching across the floor as he towers over her. “Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?” His voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it—sharp and unyielding. “You wanted to see us dead. Whether it’s by their hands or yours, the outcome is the same, isn’t it?”

Lieutenant Kim’s breath catches. The bravado she clung to so fiercely is slipping from her grasp. “You don’t understand,” she says, her voice lower now, strained. “I know A. You don’t. You think this is just about killing you? He wants you to turn. He wants you to become part of his army.”

You’ve already figured that much on your own.

She swallows hard, her eyes darting between you all. “You think you can play his game, but you’re not like him. You still care. And that’s why you’re going to lose.”

A heavy silence follows.

No one moves. No one breathes.

Jungwon tilts his head slightly, regarding her with cold calculation. Then he kneels, lowering himself to her eye level. “If you’re so sure we’re going to lose,” he murmurs, “why are you afraid?”

Lieutenant Kim flinches, her mouth pressing into a thin line.

“That’s what I thought,” Jungwon says, standing back up. He nods towards Heeseung. “Stuff the cloth back in.”

“No, wait—you need me,” she spits, trying to regain some ground. “You think you can just walk among them without understanding how it really works? You’ll fuck it up, and then what? You’ll be torn apart before you even reach the first one of them. I know how they move. I know how they think. You need me alive!”

It’s a compelling argument. But the fear in her voice betrays her—this isn’t about being needed. This is about survival. The truth is, she’s terrified. Of being left behind. Of facing the things she’s been walking with for so long without the protection of her disguise.

You step forward then, slow and deliberate, your expression unreadable. The flickering light from the campfire casts long shadows across your face, making your eyes seem darker, more hollow. You look down at her, considering.

“You think we’re going to risk our survival for yours?” Your voice is quiet, dangerous. “You spent how long spying on us? Hunting us? Forcing us into this mess? And now you expect us to trust you?”

“I didn’t force you into anything,” she snaps back, but there’s no real bite to her words anymore. “You were always going to lead them back here. That was inevitable.”

A chill runs through you at her words. So they have been watching you, ever since you ran into the group at the auto shop. 

No. Not just since the auto shop. Not just since the city. Not even since the forest. 

They’ve been watching you ever since you first rolled up to this rest stop, all those months ago. The horde that swarmed the city that night—it wasn’t a coincidence. They released it. Because that was the night the group finally came out of hiding. The night you ran into them. The night they made sure you would meet.

The night they ensured you would lead them back here.

Your breath stills, your mind racing to fit the pieces together. The city—the ambush—it wasn’t just bad luck. It was orchestrated. Every move you made, every choice you thought was your own—it was all guided. Manipulated. They herded you like cattle back to this place. Back home. Only they hadn’t considered you would leave and expose their plans.

It makes your skin crawl.

“You were there, weren’t you?” you ask, your voice lower now, almost to yourself. “That night in the city. You knew I would run into them. You made sure I did.”

Jungwon’s brows furrow, his mouth parting slightly as if to respond, but he doesn’t. Because he doesn’t know. None of them do. 

You scan their faces. They’re all wearing the same expression, a mixture of unease and complete bewilderment. They have no idea what you’re talking about.

The realisation makes your pulse spike. You hadn’t even had time to sit them down, to tell them what you suspected, to lay out the signs that had been gnawing at the back of your mind since that night. 

Because everything was happening too fast. Your emotions are a mess—your anger, your fear, your desperation all tangling together, clouding your judgment, making you second-guess things you know are true.

There was no time to think, to process, to make sense of the truth before you were already neck-deep in it.

Lieutenant Kim tilts her head, her smirk creeping back like an old habit. “We were always watching. We knew you tried coming back here for supplies.”

The rage comes quick, burning through your veins. You knew something was off that night in the city, you knew it wasn’t just bad luck. But hearing it confirmed, hearing it from her—it makes your fists clench so tight your nails dig into your palms.

“You led me to them,” you grit out, the realisation settling like a stone in your stomach.

“And you led them here.” Her eyes gleam, victorious. “Funny how that works, huh?”

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Your mind is screaming at you to do something. To hit her. To shut her up. To make her feel the fear she forced onto all of you. But you don’t. You can’t. Because deep down, she’s right. You did lead them here. Whether you meant to or not, whether it was orchestrated or just fate, it doesn’t matter now. It happened.

And now, you have to deal with it.

Your throat feels tight as you try to swallow the guilt, but it clings to you, digging its claws into your ribs. You force yourself to breathe. Shutting your eyes for a moment, you focus on the ground beneath your feet, the slight chill of the night air, the distant groans of the horde closing in. You don’t have time for this. There’s no room for regret, no space for self-pity. If you stop now, if you let yourself spiral, you’ll fall apart.

And you can’t afford to fall apart. Not now.

Jungwon sighs beside you, the sound heavy, exhausted. When you finally open your eyes, he’s looking at you, his gaze searching, measured. “What do you think?” he asks.

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“I need to know what you think,” he says, his voice calm, but firm. “Do you think we should keep her alive?”

His words hang between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. He’s asking you something deeper than just a yes or no. He’s asking if you can handle this. If you’re still the person who came back, the person who stood in front of them and said this was the only way. If you’re willing to see it through.

You inhale sharply, steadying yourself, and look at the group. At the way they’re waiting, expecting you to take responsibility for your own mess. Your throat feels dry, the weight of the decision hangs in the air like a guillotine, waiting to fall, waiting for you to let it.

Lieutenant Kim watches you, her smirk fading ever so slightly as she realises that Jungwon has placed her fate in your hands. Your psychotic hands.

Jungwon’s eyes are locked on you, unwavering, searching. He’s not testing you, not challenging you. He’s just waiting. Letting you make the call. Because you’re the one who brought this plan to life. You’re the one who gave them hope. And now you have to decide what to do with the person who tried to take that hope away.

You swallow hard, forcing your voice steady. “We keep her alive.”

A few people tense. Sunoo shifts uncomfortably, his fingers still curled around the pistol he took from her. Jake exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. Jungwon doesn’t react, doesn’t move, just waits for you to continue.

“She’s right,” you say, hating the words as they leave your mouth. “She knows how they move, how they think. She knows what they’ll do when they get here. We’d be idiots not to use that.”

Lieutenant Kim raises a brow, the smirk crawling back onto her face, but you cut her off before she can speak.

“But make no mistake,” you say, stepping forward, letting the words press into her like a blade. “The only reason you’re still breathing is because I let you. Don’t mistake that for mercy.”

The smirk falters.

Jungwon watches you, unreadable, before giving a slow nod. “Fine. But she’s not getting any chances to turn this on us. We keep her tied up with Jay on the roof. And if she so much as thinks about playing games—” His voice drops, dark and final. “She’s dead.”

No one argues.

She exhales through her nose, looking between you and Jungwon, something unreadable flashing through her eyes. “Fine,” she says simply. “Have it your way. As long as I come out of it alive.”

Despite the restraints, she looks unnervingly comfortable, like she’s been in worse situations and lived to tell the tale. She’s watching you all carefully, like a cat surrounded by mice, waiting to see who flinches first.

“Well?” Jungwon prompts, arms crossed, standing a few paces away. “You wanted to live. Start talking.”

She exhales through her nose, tilting her head slightly. “I’ll tell you, but don’t think for a second that it means you’ll survive doing it.”

Ni-ki scoffs from where he’s crouched near the crate of masks. “Really selling it to us, thanks.”

She ignores him, shifting slightly in her seat. “Walking with the dead isn’t just about the masks,” she starts. “It’s about becoming them.”

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She lets the words sink in before continuing. “You can’t just put on rotting skin and expect them to ignore you. They sense things. They’re drawn to movement, sound. They can tell when something isn’t right. The mask covers your scent, sure. But if you twitch too much, breathe too hard, look too alive—they’ll notice.”

“Right,” Jay mutters, voice laced with something between disbelief and dark amusement. “Act like the living, and you’ll be dead. How ironic.”

A shiver crawls up your spine. 

Sunghoon crosses his arms. “So what, we just shamble around like zombies?”

“Yes,” she says, with an almost sick kind of amusement. “Slow, steady, unbothered. And most importantly—quiet.”

Sunoo, who’s been unusually silent, finally speaks. “How did you learn to do it?” His eyes flick to her missing arm, and it doesn’t go unnoticed.

She hums, tilting her head slightly. “I guess I’m just naturally gifted,” she wiggles her remaining fingers as if to taunt you. “You get it wrong once, you don’t get a second chance.”

The room falls silent for a moment, the weight of that statement settling over everyone.

Jake exhales sharply. “And the people who got it right?”

“They learned that fear is the biggest giveaway,” she continues. “If you panic, if you start breathing too fast, moving too much—they’ll know. You have to be still inside. Empty.” She flicks her gaze to you, then to Jungwon. “That’s why A’s people don’t hesitate to kill. When you strip yourself down to nothing, there’s nothing left to be afraid of.”

Your stomach churns at her words, a deep, unsettling nausea curling in your gut. There’s a casual ease in the way she speaks, like she’s explaining something as simple as tying a shoelace, as if becoming nothing is a switch you can just flip.

And maybe for her, it is. Maybe that’s why she’s so willing to spill every secret, to reveal all the intricacies of how A’s people move and survive. Because, at the end of the day, she doesn’t care about them—not more than she cares about herself.

It makes sense now, the way she smirked when you asked how she got here, how she survived this long. There was no grand loyalty to A, no deep-seated belief in his cause. She simply did what she had to do to not die. And now, she’s doing it again.

Jungwon seems to come to the same conclusion, his gaze narrowing slightly. “So that’s it, then?” His voice is steady, but there’s something beneath it, something edged with quiet contempt. “You don’t care who wins, who dies. You’ll sell out anyone as long as you get to keep breathing?”

She doesn’t even flinch. If anything, she looks amused. “Now you’re getting it.”

There’s no shame in her expression. No guilt. Just the bare, stripped-down truth of what she is. 

Survival at all costs.

Jungwon’s expression remains unreadable. “So what’s stopping you from walking out of here?”

She smiles, slow and sharp. “Nothing. If you hadn’t tied me up.”

It’s a warning. A challenge. And a reminder that this is not something you can half-ass. If you’re going to do this, you have to commit.

Jungwon glances at you. “You still think this will work?”

You swallow hard, pushing down the unease clawing at your ribs. “We don’t have a choice.”

Lieutenant Kim’s smile widens. “Then I suggest you start practising.”

You, Heeseung, and Sunghoon move in unspoken sync, lifting her from the ground, each of you gripping a limb as you haul her up toward the roof. She’s heavier than she looks, dead weight in your grasp, but she doesn’t resist. Even as you tighten the ropes around her body, securing them to the support pillar, she doesn’t flinch. She only watches, her dark eyes gleaming under the moonlight, the ghost of a smirk still tugging at the corners of her lips.

You steal a glance towards the horizon, your breath catching slightly as your eyes settle on the horde. They are closer now. A wave of bodies stretching far into the darkness, moving in sluggish, restless synchrony. From up here, they look almost surreal—like a living, breathing organism, pulsing forward with one singular purpose: consume.

Your stomach twists. You count the minutes in your head, assessing their pace, the way they stumble but never truly slow down. Thirty minutes. Maybe forty at best. That’s all the time you have before they reach the outer perimeter. Before they begin pressing against the barricades, before the presence of the living draws them forward in a frenzy.

It’s not enough time. It never is.

You force yourself to look away, tearing your gaze from the inevitable and climbing back down.

By the time your feet hit the ground, the fire crackles against the heavy quiet, flickering shadows dancing across the tense faces gathered around it. The warmth barely reaches you. It should—should seep into your bones, chase away the cold curling at your core—but instead, the chill settles deeper in your chest, curling into the spaces between your lungs.

Jungwon is already watching you, his expression unreadable. You don’t know what he’s looking for, what he sees when he looks at you, but after a moment, he nods. “Put them on,” he instructs the group, his voice calm but firm.

Lieutenant Kim’s warning must have sunk deep into him. What she said about never being able to truly walk with the dead unless you learn to become them. 

Your hands tremble slightly as you reach for the mask in the crate, fingers brushing against the decayed flesh. You force yourself to pick it up, ignoring the way your stomach twists at the thought of pressing this thing against your skin.

The texture is sickly, stiff yet disturbingly soft, like leather left out to rot in the rain. The edges are uneven, jagged where it had been hastily cut from whatever corpse it once belonged to.

You swallow down the bile rising in your throat.

A deep breath. In. Out.

You can do this. You have to.

The stench hits next. A foul, overwhelming odour of decay and stagnant blood floods your senses the moment you lift the mask closer to your face. It’s a putrid mix of damp earth, copper, and something sickly sweet—the unmistakable scent of death. It clings to the inside of your nostrils, coating your tongue as if you’ve tasted it rather than smelled it. You breathe through your mouth in an attempt to lessen the nausea, but it doesn’t help. The scent seeps into you, invasive and inescapable.

You hesitate, staring down at it, your grip tightening. You tell yourself that it’s just a mask. Just a means to an end. A tool for survival. But as you turn it over in your hands, inspecting the ragged stitching that barely holds the flesh together, the hollowed-out sockets where real eyes once sat, the weight of what you’re about to do settles deep in your chest.

It’s not just a mask. It was once a person.

A shudder rakes through you, your mind flashing to the possibility—who were they before they became this? Before their face was carved from their skull and turned into a disguise? A survivor? A fighter? Someone clinging to their last shred of humanity?

Would this be your fate too, if you failed? Would your face be the next to be hollowed out and worn by someone desperate enough to do whatever it takes to live?

Your breath shakes as you glance at the others. They’re watching you, waiting for someone to move first. Waiting for you to move first.

This was your idea.

You squeeze your eyes shut, bracing yourself. Then, slowly, you lift the mask to your face, your heart hammering against your ribs. The moment it presses against your skin, everything inside you screams. The dampness of rot sinking into your pores, the way the texture clings to your cheek, how the rancid scent floods every sense—it feels suffocating. The edges don’t sit comfortably; they scratch against your jaw, the flaps curling slightly where the flesh has begun to peel. You feel it stretch across the back of your head, tightening against your forehead, your breath now trapped in the confined, hellish space beneath. 

The worst part? It moves.

The lingering remnants of decay shift with each breath you take, subtle but unmistakable, as if the dead thing is still breathing with you. The mask absorbs your warmth, dampening further, moulding itself onto you as if it has claimed you as its own.

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, your instincts screaming at you to rip it off, get it off, get it off! But you don’t. You can’t. Everyone is watching you. You force yourself to stay still, to endure.

For a moment, you feel sickeningly, terrifyingly not yourself.

But then you remind yourself: This is survival. This is how you live.

The silence around you is suffocating, save for the faint rustle of movement as the others follow suit. No one speaks. You don’t need to look at them to know they’re struggling, too, each reaction ranging from silent horror to barely suppressed gags.

Sunoo dry heaves. “I think I’m actually going to be sick.”

Sunghoon, adjusting his mask, smacks him on the back. “Not in the mask, dude.”

Jake groans. “I swear to god, if I hear one more joke, I’m ripping this thing off and taking my chances.”

Despite everything, a faint smirk tugs at Jungwon’s lips. “Good. If we can joke, we can handle this.”

Your fingers clench into fists at your sides as you watch Jungwon secure his mask. His hands don’t shake, his breath doesn’t falter. Even now, even when you know he’s just as afraid as the rest of you, he refuses to show it. He carries it all in silence, swallowing the fear, locking it away where no one else can see.

Except you.

You can see the tightness in his jaw, the way his shoulders are rigid with tension. He’s terrified—just like you, just like all of you—but he won’t show it. He won’t let himself. Not when everyone is looking to him for reassurance.

And as much as it hurts to see, it makes you admire him even more.

The moment he fastens the last strap, he turns to you. The sight of him like this—his sharp eyes peering out from behind something so grotesque, something that doesn’t belong to him, doesn’t deserve to be him—it unsettles you in a way you can’t quite name. Not because he looks different, but because he doesn’t. The mask, with its decayed flesh and empty, hollowed-out sockets, should strip him of his identity, should erase the Jungwon you know. 

But it doesn’t. Even through the filth, through the horrid disguise, he’s still him. Still Jungwon. Still the boy who pulled you back from the edge when you thought you had nowhere left to turn. Still the boy who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders without ever asking for help. Still the same person standing beside you on the rooftop just hours ago.

And yet, something about this feels wrong. Like you’re looking at a ghost of him, a version of him twisted by the world you’re trying so hard to survive in.

He moves with purpose, with certainty, with that same quiet resolve that makes your chest tighten. Because it’s real now. This is real. There is no pretending, no hypothetical outcome where this isn’t happening. You’re doing this.

The world suddenly feels too small, like it’s closing in on you, squeezing the air from your lungs. You’re painfully, horribly aware of the texture of dead flesh pressing against your forehead, against your cheeks. Your vision is slightly obscured, the edges blurred, distorted. The mask is heavy. It’s claustrophobic.

For a split second, panic swells in your chest.

But then you hear it—Jungwon’s breathing. Slow. Measured. Steady.

You focus on that.

If he can do this, so can you.

You lift your chin, squaring your shoulders, forcing yourself to push past the nausea crawling up your throat, past the revulsion, past the unbearable itch of decay against your skin.

This is survival. This is what it takes.

Jungwon watches you for a beat longer, his sharp gaze scanning your face, searching for something. Maybe he’s making sure you’re not going to bolt, that you’re not second-guessing this at the last second. Maybe he’s trying to commit your face to memory before it’s buried beneath the grotesque mask.

“Alright.” His voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it now, like he’s bracing himself for what’s to come. He adjusts his mask once more, as if settling into this new, monstrous identity. As if making peace with the fact that he has to become something unrecognisable to survive.

“It’s time.” The words ring through the silence like a final verdict.

He had given you the chance to walk away—multiple times. Every step of the way, he had left the door open to let you decide if this was a fight you were willing to take on. No pressure, no demands. Just a choice. And yet, here you are. 

You chose this. Chose to stay. Chose to fight. Chose to bury whatever fear, whatever hesitation still lingered inside you, and stand with them.

Now, you have to hold your ground and finish what you started.

The air is thick with tension, the dying embers of the campfire flickering weakly in the distance, casting long, warped shadows that stretch long and distorted against the walls—the same walls that will either be left standing or reduced to rubble by the time this is all over. There is no in-between.

Everyone stands ready, motionless, save for the occasional shifting of weight, the tightening of fingers around thin air, the quiet, steadying breaths swallowed into the night. 

In the dim light, their silhouettes blend into the darkness, merging with the moment. Because from this point forward, none of you are who you were before.

And then, there’s Jay.

He’s the only one still wearing his own face, the last reminder of what normal used to look like. His jaw is tight as he exhales a slow, controlled breath, eyes moving between each of you. The faintest crease in his brows betrays the frustration, the helplessness. He hates this. You can see it in the way his fists clench at his sides, in the way he looks at Jungwon as if asking to be given a role more substantial than being a distraction.

But there is nothing for him. Not tonight.

You know he understands. Knows why he has to stay behind. But knowing doesn’t make it easier. You’d feel the same if you were in his position—sidelined while the people you care about throw themselves into the unknown.

Still, it’s better this way. Better to have him on the bench than risk him collapsing in the middle of the dead, his wound opening up like a beacon in the dark.

Jungwon steps forward, his voice calm and controlled. “Remember the plan. A small cut is all it takes. Even when they catch on to what we’re doing, don’t engage. They won’t be stupid enough to expose themselves in the middle of the horde either. We move in groups and we don’t leave anyone behind.”

He hands each of you a small pocket knife, pressing the cold steel into your palms. You feel its weight, its deadly potential, and the knowledge of what you have to do settles deeper into your bones. Your fingers curl around the handle instinctively, as if your body already knows what your mind is still trying to accept.

Jungwon scans the group, his expression sharp, calculating. “There are seven of us. Let’s split into two pairs and a group of three—”

You don’t let him finish. You do what you do best.

“No.” The word leaves your lips before you can stop it. “Having three of the us walking together could look too out of place. It’s dangerous. We stick to pairs.”

Jungwon sucks in a breath, his jaw tightening. He knows where this is going. You can see it in the way his eyes twitch, in the way his posture stiffens. Despite that, he pushes. “Then I’ll—”

“No,” you cut him off again, firmer this time. “You already know I’m not going to let you do that.”

Jungwon’s entire body stills, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. His chest rises and falls in measured breaths, but his eyes are locked onto yours, searching, challenging. 

“Y/N.”

It’s not just your name. It’s a warning. A command.

But you don’t back down. You can’t.

Because you know exactly what he’s thinking. You know that look. You’ve seen it before—the night before you left—when he’s making a decision he knows he won’t change, when he’s preparing to throw himself into the fire, to take on the worst of it, to shoulder the danger like it’s his duty. And maybe, on some level, he thinks if he’s the one to do it, if he’s the one leading the charge, it’ll keep the rest of you safe.

But you know better.

This isn’t just strategy. It’s not just about what makes sense.

It’s about him. It’s about the way he carries the weight of this group like it’s carved into his bones, the way he never lets himself be the one protected. It’s about the way he expects to be the one who pays the price.

And you refuse to let him.

You refuse to lose him.

The tension coils tighter, suffocating, pressing into the space between you like a force of nature neither of you can control. It coils around your throat, wraps around your ribs, making it harder to breathe, harder to think. Every second wasted here is a second closer to death, and yet, neither you nor Jungwon back down.

The others watch in silence, their gazes shifting between you and Jungwon, their fingers tightening around their weapons. They don’t speak, don’t interfere—because this isn’t their fight. It never is when it comes to the two of you.

Whatever moment you shared before—whatever fragile, unspoken thing that had existed in the quiet safety of the rooftop—it stayed there. Preserved like an ancient relic, untouched, unspoken, waiting for a future where the two of you return to reclaim it—a future that may never come.

Jungwon exhales sharply, jaw tightening as he secures the pocket knife into his belt with clipped movements, frustration simmering beneath his skin. But it’s not just frustration. It’s anger. Not at you—never at you—but at the situation. At the inevitability of it all. At the way you refuse to let him shoulder this weight alone. 

“Forget about it. I’m not letting you have this one.”

You watch the way his fingers tremble, the way his breath hitches ever so slightly before he forces it into something steady, something controlled. It’s the same way he always is—poised on the edge of breaking, but never quite letting himself fall.

“Jungwon,” you persist.

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even look at you. As if ignoring you will make you accept his decision. As if you’ll ever just accept it.

“You know I work better alone anyway.” The words come out firmer than you expect, but you don’t take them back. You mean them. You always have. “Hell, having one of you with me probably signs my death penalty.”

The words land between you like a blade, sharp and cutting, splitting open the raw truth neither of you wants to acknowledge.

Jungwon doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react, but something shifts in his eyes—something unreadable, something you can’t afford to decipher right now.

Silence stretches between you, thick and unrelenting. You know he wants to argue, to push back, to demand that you don’t do this. But you also know that, deep down, he understands.

Because you do work better alone. You move faster. Think sharper. Fight harder when there’s no one to slow you down, no one to hold you back. No one to lose.

And maybe that’s why he hesitates. Because if you’re alone, there’s no one to stop you from making the kind of choices that get people killed. 

No one to stop you from getting yourself killed.

His fists clench, his knuckles white, his breathing even, but you can see it—the storm behind his gaze, the way his mind races for an argument he knows won’t change anything. He’s searching for an opening, for something he can say to pull you back from this. But there isn’t one.

“Y/N…” His voice is low, raw, edged with something dangerously close to surrender.

There’s a finality in the way he looks at you now, dark eyes burning beneath the grotesque mask. He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like you standing beside him like this, just as willing to throw yourself into the fire as he is.

But he won’t stop you. He can’t.

And you both know it.

Jungwon exhales sharply, the sound heavy with frustration, his jaw tightening as he finally looks away. You hear it—the quiet resignation in the breath he releases, the way his chest falls just slightly.

And you know you’ve won.

"Jake and Ni-ki. Sunghoon and Sunoo. Heeseung with me." His voice is clipped, controlled, but there’s an edge to it—a thread of reluctance he can’t quite hide. His gaze flickers back to you, lingering for just a second longer, before he turns to Heeseung and the latter nods.

“We’ll tie a white cloth around our left arms,” Heeseung says, moving swiftly to pass down strips of lazily torn fabric. “It’ll help us tell each other apart.”

The cloth feels rough as Sunoo helps you tie it around your arm, the knot tightening like a promise. It’s a fragile identifier, but it’s all you have.

Ni-ki moves to put out the fire completely, the last glow of warmth vanishing in a final flicker. Darkness swallows the camp whole, wrapping around you like a living, breathing entity. The absence of light shifts something in the air, thickens it. You blink, trying to adjust, barely able to make out the vague outlines of the masks surrounding you. The decaying disguises blur into the night, turning your friends into fragments of shadow.

The absence of the fire’s crackling also seem to make everything else sharper. The sound of your own breathing. The faint scuff of movement as someone shifts their weight. And beyond the walls, bleeding through the night like a slow, creeping tide—the groans and shuffling of the dead.

They’re closer than before.

You strain your ears, trying to gauge just how near they are, but it’s impossible to tell. Their movements are uneven, unpredictable, a restless shifting mass of bodies dragging themselves forward, step by step, inch by inch. Every groan, every shuffle, every wet, hollow breath is a reminder of what waits for you on the other side of these walls. 

Your fingers twitch at your sides. The weight of the mask presses against your skin, suffocating, the scent of decay curling thick in your nose. You can’t afford to slip up. Especially not now. Not when you’re about to step into the midst of the very things that have haunted you since the world fell apart.

“Move into position.” The command ripples through the group in an instant, setting everything in motion.

Ni-ki and Jake move first, guiding Jay towards the rooftop where Lieutenant Kim remains bound, a cloth still stuffed into her mouth. Her presence is almost an afterthought now—just another problem to deal with once this night is over, if any of you make it that far. The only access point to the roof is a narrow chokepoint, and with Jay positioned there, armed and watching, there’s no chance A’s people will be reckless enough to attempt an ambush from above. Not unless they have a death wish.

At the same time, Sunghoon and Sunoo slip into the shadows behind the convenience store, their silhouettes dissolving into the darkness. When the dead breach the camp, they’ll blend in seamlessly from the side, hidden in plain sight.

Jungwon and Heeseung move next, their footsteps light, measured, a careful synchrony of movement as they make their way towards the gate. Even in the heavy silence, they communicate without words, understanding what needs to be done.

Jungwon reaches the barricade first, fingers curling tightly around the reinforced metal. His breath is steady, his shoulders squared, but you can see the tension in his grip, the way his knuckles whiten as he glances at Heeseung. No hesitation, no uncertainty—just the briefest nod before they begin.

The creak of shifting metal fills the air, a slow, deliberate screech that makes you cringe. The sound alone is enough to make your pulse spike, your body stiffening as your ears strain for any sign of movement beyond the walls.

And then—you hear it.

A shift in the groans outside. A change in the rhythm of their movements. A ripple through the dead.

They know. They feel it—the space opening, the presence of the living.

Heeseung glances back at Jungwon, something unspoken passing between them before they push further, widening the gap just enough for them to slip through.

The threshold stands open, a gaping maw in the barricade, an invitation to the horrors waiting just beyond. And now, all that’s left to do is wait for them to step through.

Ni-ki and Jake are waiting inside the convenience store, bodies pressed against the shadows. They won’t move until the horde has fully pushed through, until they can slip between them unnoticed, blending into the chaos like ghosts.

Meanwhile, Jungwon and Heeseung are taking the longer route, slipping outside the barricade to wrap around from the back, disappearing into the darkness beyond the rest stop. You trust them to know what they’re doing. You trust them to know how to move without hesitation, without fear.

And you—you are right here. Right by the gate. Right in the thick of it.

The cold metal of the barricade presses against your palm as you steady yourself. The night is alive with the low, guttural groans of the dead, shuffling closer, their movements slow but deliberate, drawn in by the sound of something living just beyond their reach.

The gate is open just enough. Just enough to let them pour in, one by one. And when they do, you will be right there with them. 

Your plan is to let the dead surround you from the moment they step through. A’s people won’t risk being the first ones to enter the rest stop. Not when there’s a chance they’ll be gunned down before they even make it inside. They’ll wait, watching from the darkness, using the dead as their shields.

They’ll release a handful first, let them flood in, let them test the waters. And only when they’re sure it’s safe, only when they believe the dead have done their job, when they hear the panicked screams of the living being torn apart—then they will come.

Only they won’t hear a single thing. No cries of pain. No desperate gunfire. No sound of bodies hitting the dirt. Only silence. 

And silence breeds curiosity.

They’ll hesitate, uncertain, waiting for a sign that their plan is working. But by then, the dead will have filled the space within the barricades, their numbers too dense to pick apart who is living and who isn’t.

And in that moment, that single beat of doubt—it will already be too late.

Because you’ll be waiting.

Right in the heart of it.

The night feels colder now, the wind carrying the putrid scent of rot as the dead shuffle forward, drawn to the opening like moths to a flame. 

The closer they get, the more overwhelming the sounds that accompany them—the wet, sickening squelch of decomposing flesh dragging against the ground. The suffocated gurgle of air forced through ruined throats, moans stretching into the night in a discordant chorus. The dull clack of exposed teeth clicking together like chattering bones. Feet scrape against the pavement, shuffling, stumbling, pushing forward with no will, no purpose beyond the primal hunger that keeps them tethered to what remains of existence.

It’s no longer a distant warning carried by the wind, no longer something that exists just beyond reach. It’s here, pressing against the boundaries of your world, seeping through the cracks in the barricade, slithering into the spaces between heartbeats. 

It’s everywhere.

Echoing. Reverberating. Surrounding you.

Your pulse pounds in your ears, a frantic drumbeat against the overwhelming noise. The sound of your own breath feels deafening but you force it to stay steady.

And then, the barricade shifts.

A creak of metal echoes into the night, the rusted hinges straining as something presses against it from the other side. Your fingers twitch at your side, but you don’t move. You don’t react. You force yourself to stay still.

And then—

Tok. Tok. Tok.

A deliberate, unnatural knock against the metal. You know that sound. It’s not the dead.

It’s one of them.

Another knock. Tok. Tok. Tok.

A’s people are out there, controlling the horde, directing them like sheepdogs herding cattle. They aren’t pushing through blindly—they’re being led, positioned, placed exactly where they need to be.

Another shove. The metal creaks louder this time.

And then, the first one reaches the gate.

A hand presses through the opening, gnarled fingers curling around the rusted metal, nails cracked and blackened, skin peeling away in wet, glistening strips. It clutches, pulling itself forward, its eyes locking onto you, no consciousness behind that milky, clouded gaze.

It groans, and the sound is guttural, rattling from deep within its ruined throat. More hands appear—reaching, grasping, clawing.

Then, the first body pushes through.

It stumbles, jerking unnaturally, the sheer weight of the horde behind it forcing it forward. Its head lolls to the side, neck bent at an impossible angle, skin stretched taut over exposed bone, lips chewed away leaving only the glistening remains of its teeth permanently bared in an endless, frozen snarl. A second follows. A third.

One by one, they seep into your world, like ink spilling into water, like a plague swallowing everything in its path. It stumbles, feet dragging through the dirt, jerking forward with that disturbing, twisted movement. 

Another pushes in behind it. Then another.

They’re so close now. Close enough that you can hear the faint creak of joints stiffened by death, the sticky squelch of exposed muscle shifting beneath half-rotted skin.

And then, one of them turns towards you. Your breath catches, freezing in your throat as it lurches forward, its head tilting unnaturally, as though sniffing the air.

It’s testing you.

A lump forms in your throat, and you will yourself to remain still. Don’t move. Don’t react. Don’t breathe too fast. Lieutenant Kim’s words echos in your head, over and over.

Fear is the biggest giveaway.

The thing sways slightly, its milky-white eyes staring right through you, empty yet searching. It leans closer, enough that you can see the way its skin peels away in slow, sickening strips, revealing the raw, festering tissue underneath. Its breath—if it can even be called that—hits your cheek, rancid and thick with the scent of spoiled meat so pungent that you almost gag.

A low groan rattles from its throat, and for a terrifying second, you swear it knows. It knows you don’t belong.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, an instinct to reach for the knife strapped to your belt. But the thing’s head jerks suddenly, its jaw slack, teeth clicking together as if considering something. Then—

It moves past you.

The second it turns away, your lungs burn from the breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding. Your pulse is erratic, hammering against your ribs so hard it physically hurts.

You don’t dare move just yet. Not when another is staggering past you, its shoulder bumping yours with enough force to send a sickening squelch of something wet against your sleeve.

The dead move past you, groaning and shuffling, their scent wrapping around you like smoke, their bodies brushing against yours as they push further in, filling the gaps between the pillars, the scattered supplies, the places they had laughed and planned and hoped.

From where you stand, you can’t see them anymore—Jungwon, Heeseung, Jake, Sunghoon, Sunoo, Ni-ki, or even Jay.

But you can feel them. Their presence lingers, just out of sight but never truly gone.

A’s people must be thinking you’ve been caught off guard, that the horde is nothing more than a terrifying accident, a cruel twist of fate forcing you into a corner.

But they’re wrong. 

You’ve come to terms with it—the fear that once gnawed at your ribs has dulled into something quieter, something steadier. This isn’t an accident. This isn’t a mistake. This is what has to be done. And now, standing at the edge of it all, watching the dead spill through the gate like water rushing through a cracked dam, all that’s left is the hope that they’ll make it.

That they’ll survive.

That they’ll no longer have to run.

So you let go of whatever fear is left, whatever hesitation still lingers in the back of your mind. You swallow the bile rising in your throat and keep walking.

Walk like you belong.

Blend in.

Be nothing.

Time has lost all meaning. You keep walking, one sluggish step after another, matching the mindless rhythm of the dead around you. You’re searching, scanning, waiting for movement that doesn’t belong. But you’ve seen no sign of A’s people, no flicker of a shadow that moves with intention.

You wonder if the others have had better luck. But if they had, you’d know. You’d hear it. A scream, a shout—something that would disrupt the sickening harmony of the horde.

Nothing.

A flicker of doubt creeps into your mind. Were they even here? Or had they figured you out before you even had a chance to act? The thought sends a shiver down your spine, despite the heat pressing in from all directions. If they’ve already seen through your plan, if somehow Lieutenant Kim managed to send a message out, if they’re just watching, waiting for you to make the first mistake—

You spot Jay.

He’s crouched low near the edge of the rooftop, barely visible unless you tilt your head just right. His body is still, his presence so well-hidden that you almost miss him entirely. But his hand—his hand is moving. Pointing to somewhere ahead of you.

Your pulse spikes. You follow the angle of his gesture, gaze sharpening, focusing—

Movement. Your muscles lock instinctively as your eyes snap to it. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible against the shifting mass of the horde. A figure standing slightly apart, just enough to not be swallowed by the dead. But it’s not the stillness that gives them away.

It’s the way they shift. Too smoothly. Too deliberately. The dead don’t move like that.

Got you.

Your grip tightens around the pocket knife, the cold metal slick against your clammy palm. You don’t hesitate—hesitation will get you killed. Your movements are careful, calculated, slipping through the sea of bodies like a ghost, closing the distance between you and the figure that doesn’t belong.

Your breath is shallow, controlled, just as Lieutenant Kim told you. No fear. No hesitation. 

You are nothing.

The figure stands just ahead, barely distinguishable from the others, their posture slightly too rigid, their movements too alive. They’re trying to blend in, just like you. But you see them.

You get close enough that you could reach out and touch them, close enough that the rancid stench clinging to them mixes with your own.

You strike. The blade slices clean across the back of their arm, just deep enough to draw blood.

And for a moment, nothing happens.

Then—

The reaction is immediate, violent. The scent of fresh blood fills the air, and the change is instantaneous. A guttural, inhuman groan rips through the horde.

Bodies shift, jerk, twist toward the source like puppets yanked by unseen strings. The shuffle of feet turns into frantic, erratic movement. Hands that once hung limply at sides now reach, claw, grasping blindly toward the scent that calls to them like a siren’s song.

A’s man panics, the realisation hitting too late. They jolt, trying to shove past the dead, trying to escape, but it’s useless. The moment they stumble, the horde collapses on them.

Then the screaming starts.

You don’t have time to react before the wave of bodies surges forward, a relentless force slamming into you from all sides.

You stagger, nearly losing your footing as rotting arms push past you, skeletal fingers grazing your skin as they reach for something more tantalising than your presence. The pressure is crushing, bodies pressing in too tight, the heat suffocating. You can’t move. You can’t breathe.

You feel the breath of something too close against your ear. A low, gurgling moan.

Panic claws at your throat.

No, no, no—stay calm. 

You are nothing.

You are one of them.

You force yourself to remain rigid, unyielding, keeping your breaths shallow. One wrong move, one slip of fear, and they’ll turn on you next.

The screams beneath the pile of dead become muffled, wet gurgles as teeth sink into flesh, tearing, consuming. The horde writhes and shifts around you, desperate, mindless. A frenzy.

And you—trapped in the middle of it all.

The air is thick with the sickly-sweet scent of blood and decay, the stench clogging your throat, coating the inside of your lungs like something tangible. Your heart is slamming against your ribs.

You need to move. You need to get out before this frenzy becomes uncontrollable.

Through the gaps between writhing bodies, you spot another figure—another one of A’s people. They’re frozen, watching the carnage unfold, horror painted across their face—the kind of terror that only comes when a plan unravels right before your eyes.

You catch their gaze. They see you. They know what you just did.

You don’t hesitate. You push forward, weaving through the dead with slow, careful steps, keeping your movements unnatural, hollow. They see you coming, their panic doubling as they shift subtly, preparing to slip away, to disappear back into the horde before you can reach them.

But then you see it—a flash of a familiar white cloth threading through the chaos.

Sunghoon.

He moves fast, quicker than even you anticipated, stepping through the wall of the undead with a precise, calculated strike. His knife cuts deep into the back of their thigh. A clean, swift motion.

The moment the blade slices through skin, the figure stumbles, a sharp, pained gasp slipping past their lips. Their leg buckles, their balance wavers and they fall right into the pit of waiting hands and gnashing teeth. The scream that follows is a raw, jarring sound of pure terror. It barely lasts a second before it’s drowned beneath the frenzied moans of the dead.

Sunghoon doesn’t linger. He doesn’t even spare them a glance as he withdraws, blending seamlessly back into the tide of bodies.

You watch as the horde reacts, the scent of fresh blood igniting them into another violent frenzy. They collapse onto the fallen figure like starving animals, the wet, sickening sounds of tearing flesh sending a shudder down your spine.

Before you can even register the chaos unfolding before you, the provoked growls of the undead rise in a deafening chorus as a shattering scream erupts from the other side of the rest stop. 

Then another cry near the gates.

Another from inside the convenience store.

It’s working.

The plan is working.

It’s brutal. It’s monstrous. But it’s working.

Bodies fall beneath the swarm, the dead closing in, sinking their teeth into warm flesh, tearing, consuming. The air is filled with the sound of it—bones snapping, wet, visceral gurgles as throats are ripped open. And yet, something about this moment doesn’t sit right.

You’ve seen what happens when the dead consume the living. But this—this is different. This is calculated. You’re not fighting back. You’re not defending yourself. You’re orchestrating their deaths.

And the worst part?

You don’t feel anything. Not guilt. Not satisfaction. Just the awareness that this is what needs to be done. 

That thought lingers, unsettling in its clarity, but there’s no time to dwell on it. You push forward, scanning through the chaos, searching for the next one when you hear it—

A whisper.

“Am…bush…”

Your breath catches.

It’s quiet, barely audible beneath the grotesque symphony of groans and shuffling feet, but it’s there. A hushed, broken murmur, threading its way through the carnage.

They’re communicating.

“Among… us…”

Your head snaps towards the sound, eyes darting wildly, scanning through the writhing bodies, trying to pinpoint where it came from.

But then—it spreads. Like a disease. 

One whisper becomes two, then four, then too many. The words ripple through the horde, eerie and fragmented, carried on gasping, inhuman voices. The whispers spread like wildfire, bouncing between the scattered remnants of A’s people still hidden among the horde.

“Am…bush…”

“Among… us…”

Your eyes dart frantically across the shifting mass of bodies, searching for the ones still thinking. The ones who don’t stumble blindly, the ones whose steps are too careful, too measured. The ones who haven’t bled yet.

Then you see it. 

One of them, face half-shrouded by the grotesque mask. Their gaze snaps to another figure just a few paces ahead in a silent exchange. They know.

A cold spike of adrenaline rushes through your veins. Your grip tightens around the knife, sweat slicking your palm despite the freezing night air. You move, carefully at first, weaving through the dead, keeping your movements slow and disjointed—just unnatural enough to blend.

The figure in front of you turns their head ever so slightly, as if listening, as if searching for—

You strike.

The blade slices clean across the wrist—deep, precise. Blood wells instantly, dark against the pale, rotting hues around you. The effect is instantaneous.

The closest zombie snaps to attention, its sunken, hollow eyes igniting with something primal. The moment the scent hits, the dead lurch forward. 

The scream barely leaves their throat before they’re swallowed whole.

You don’t watch. You don’t think.

You move.

Another step. Another body.

Another quick slash. Another spill of blood. Another scream.

And the dead descend.

The horde surges, bodies slamming against yours in a frenzy, the desperate hunger of the undead overpowering even the whispers of fear.

But it’s not enough. There are still more of them. Still too many. And you don’t even know if A himself is among them.

Your heart is a relentless drum against your ribs, your breaths shallow, measured. You’re not spiralling. Not yet. But the whispers—they don’t stop.

“Am…bush...”

“Among… us...”

You push forward, eyes darting wildly through the shifting mass of bodies. There—another one. You recognise the panic before you even see their face. It’s in the stiffness of their shoulders, the way their breathing picks up just slightly, the instinct to run beginning to override the act.

They know they’ve been made. And unfortunately for them, you’re not the only one who notices the flicker of panic, the unconscious twitch of muscles, the quickening breaths beneath the mask.

Fear is a beacon—and the dead are always drawn to it.

Before they even get the chance to react, the zombie beside them lunges. Teeth sink into their neck with a sickening, wet crunch.

A strangled cry tears from their throat, raw and desperate, but it’s swallowed by the chaos, lost beneath the endless groans of the horde. Their hands claw uselessly at the decayed body latched onto them, but it’s too late—the damage is done, blood spilling down their collar, staining the air with the scent of fresh death.

They struggle. They always struggle. But there’s no winning against something that never stops coming.

You watch as their body jerks, collapsing beneath the weight of the undead, their form vanishing into the sea of rot and decay. And you can’t help but wonder—

Is A panicking too? Is he feeling that same instinctive terror, that slow-dawning horror of watching his own weapon be turned against him? 

Maybe then it would save you the trouble of hunting him down.

Or maybe—

“Y/N! To your left, Jake is cornered!” Jay’s voice cuts through the groans.

The dead react instantly to his voice—clear, human, alive—pulling them in like a magnet. Their heads snap toward the direction of the noise, their bodies shifting, pressing forward, pushing closer to the convenience store.

Jake.

Where’s Jake?

Your breath catches as your head whips to the left, eyes darting wildly, scanning—

Bodies, so many bodies, all shifting, writhing, moving as one. Where is he?

Then you see him.

Jake is backed against the rusting frame of the barricade. He’s slowly retreating as two of A’s men close in on him. And not just A’s men—

The mask covers his face, but his body language betrays him—chest rising too fast, shoulders tensed, muscles coiled like a spring about to snap. He’s panicking.

And the dead is starting to pick up on it. Closing in, drawn to that silver of uncertainty, to the quickened breath that doesn’t belong.

A’s men sees it. They’re not trying to attack him, they’re taunting him, taunting the fact he’s about to die due to his inability to kill.

You move before you can think, pushing forward through the crush of bodies, the sickly heat of decay pressing against your skin. The world narrows to the space between you and Jake, to the suffocating mass of the undead, to the time—the seconds slipping through your fingers, too fast, not enough.

You reach the closest zombie, discreetly plunging your knife into it’s temple. You stumble forward towards A’s men, as if on purpose and push one of them into the horde. The yelp that escapes their lips signed their death warrant.

Then the shift. Like a ripple through water, the dead turn, their attention snapping to the unnatural sound. The bodies heading for Jake now twisting towards the new prey.

Jake stumbles forward, breath ragged, shock still clouding his face. He turns to you, eyes wide, as if still catching up to what just happened.

No time.

You grab his arm, dragging him away, forcing him to move, to blend. He’s shaking, his body still locked in fight-or-flight, but he follows.

The two of you push towards the rooftop access, barely making it through the press of bodies. Above you, Jay is already watching, crouched low near the edge. He gestures frantically, silently urging you up.

You climb. The second your feet touch the rooftop, the breath you didn’t realise you were holding escapes in a sharp exhale.

Jake’s still shaking as he rips the mask off his head.

“Are you okay?” you pant, turning to him, but he doesn’t answer. He’s staring at nothing, breath still ragged, hands trembling at his sides.

Jay grips his shoulders, shaking him slightly. “Jake. Where’s Ni-ki?”

“Ni…ki?” The realisation flickers in his eyes. 

The world tilts. Your breath catches, eyes snapping to Jake, but he’s already unravelling. His fingers dig into his hair, his chest rising and falling too fast, the weight of the realisation crashing down on him in real-time.

Jay’s fingers tighten. “Jake, where is he?”

“I—I don’t know.” His voice breaks on the last word. “It was so chaotic—I must’ve lost him in the horde. Fuck. Fuck. No. What if he’s—” His breath stutters. His knees buckle slightly. “Fuck. God. No.”

He’s spiralling. You feel it too—that cold, sinking dread curling in your stomach.

Jay grips his shoulders tighter, his own panic bleeding through. “Jake, focus. Where did you last see him?” His voice is sharp, urgent, but Jake is barely hearing him. He shakes his head violently, trying to claw through the fog of shock clouding his mind.

“I—I don’t know!” The words rip from him like something physically painful. “He was right there, I swear he was right there! Then everything—everything just—” He chokes on his own breath, stumbling back a step. “I lost him. I fucking lost him.”

You don’t realise you’re moving until you’re gripping Jake’s arm, hard enough to bruise. “Where, Jake?” Your own voice is taut, barely controlled. You can’t afford to lose control. Not now. Not when Ni-ki is still down there.

Jake’s breathing is erratic, but his gaze flicks to yours, locking onto it, grounding himself just enough. He swallows thickly, blinking hard as he retraces his steps. “He—he was with me when we got separated near the barricade. We were heading toward the convenience store, but then—then the horde—” His voice cracks, and he squeezes his eyes shut as if trying to will himself back to that moment, to see through the panic.

Without a second to spare, you turn on your heel, ready to plunge back into the chaos.

“You’re going back down there?” Jay steps in front of you, his hand flying to your arm, fingers tightening around your sleeve. His grip isn’t harsh, but there’s urgency in it, in the way his breath stutters, in the disbelief written across his face.

“I’m going to find Ni-ki.”

You attempt to push past him, but he doesn’t budge—not without a wince, his hand flying to his side, pain flickering across his features. He’s still injured, but he doesn’t let that stop him.

Jay’s jaw clenches, already scanning the mass of undead below, searching for any movement that doesn’t belong. “He’s smart,” he says, but the conviction in his tone wavers just slightly. “Ni-ki’s smart, he knows how to blend in. He knows.”

You want to believe that. You need to believe that.

But the horde is still moving, still feeding, still shifting, a sea of rotting bodies and gnashing teeth. It’s impossible to tell where they begin and where they end. The noise, the suffocating stench of decay, the endless press of bodies—it’s too much, too chaotic.

And Ni-ki is down there. Alone.

Your pulse thrums in your ears, the sheer wrongness of standing here—safe—while he’s down there, somewhere in that hell, clawing its way through your body like poison. Every second that passes feels like a mistake, like a betrayal, like you are choosing safety over him.

Your eyes meet Jay’s, your voice low, steady, unwavering. “There’s nothing you can say or do that will keep me here. Let me go.”

"Y/N," he snaps, his voice lower now, harsher. "Think for a second. If you go down there without knowing where he is, you’re not saving him—you’re just adding another body to the horde."

His words cut through the panic rattling in your chest, but they don't stop you. They can’t. Because every second that passes is another second Ni-ki is alone, lost in the sea of the dead, and you cannot—will not—stand here and wait.

"He could be anywhere,” Jay presses, his own panic fraying at the edges. “Do you even have a plan? Are you just going to charge in and hope for the best? Hope that the dead don’t pick up on the fear pouring off of you right now?”

You glare at him, your breath ragged, fists clenched at your sides. "If I don’t go, he dies."

Jay exhales sharply, his jaw locking. He turns to Jake, who has barely moved, still frozen with guilt, still staring at the ground like if he looks hard enough, the earth might just swallow him whole.

"Jake," Jay grits out, snapping him back to the moment. “Come on, say something."

Jake’s head lifts, his face pale and sweat-slicked. He looks at you, then back at Jay, then at the chaos below.

"I—" He swallows hard, his voice shaking. "She’s right."

Jay’s expression twists.

Jake lets out a breath, unsteady. "If she doesn't go, and Ni-ki—if Ni-ki doesn’t make it—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. "Then what the fuck are we even doing here?"

Jay curses again, his hands dragging down his face before he lets them fall limply to his sides. He looks back at you, his frustration bleeding into something else—something that almost looks like resignation.

You don’t wait for his approval.

Your feet hit the ladder, the rungs cold against your hands as you descend. The stench of rot thickens, the groans of the dead stretching into the night like an eerie melody. Your heartbeat is steady, your muscles locked tight with focus.

You slip back into the horde.

And you become nothing.

The dead press against you, their heat suffocating, their slow, dragging movements brushing against your limbs. You move like them, let yourself become one of them, let your breath still in your lungs.

Ni-ki. Where is Ni-ki?

Your heart hammers as you push forward, eyes darting through the mass of rotting flesh and hollow faces. If you were him, where would you go? The convenience store? The back entrance? Had he managed to climb up somewhere, out of reach?

A flicker of movement catches your eye, but before you can react, a hand shoots out from the darkness, latching onto your wrist with an iron grip.

Panic surges through you as you're yanked sideways, dragged into the shadowed entryway of the convenience store. The noise of the horde muffles around you as you’re pulled inside, the door swinging shut with a soft but final thud—swallowing you into sudden silence.

Your knife is already in your hand as you twist, heart hammering, ready to drive it into whoever grabbed you—

“It’s me.”

Jungwon.

You barely have time to register his presence before another figure steps forward—Heeseung. His eyes are sharp, scanning you for injuries, for any sign that you’ve been compromised. The tension in his posture doesn’t ease when he sees you’re unharmed

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Jungwon hisses, his grip still tight around your wrist. His voice is low, controlled, but the anger—the sheer panic—lurks just beneath the surface. His fingers are cold against your skin, but his hold is firm, unrelenting. There’s something in the way he looks at you that makes your stomach twist—a mixture of frustration, disbelief, and something else, something deeper.

“Everyone and their mothers could see you climb down from the roof,” he continues, his voice sharp, cutting through the suffocating silence of the store. “It’s like you want them to find you.”

The words sting. Because he’s right. You were careless.

His breathing is measured, but you can tell he’s barely holding himself together, barely keeping himself from shaking you for being so reckless. His jaw is clenched so tightly you can see the tension in it, the flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. 

But you don’t have time for this. You don’t have time to let his concern sink in, don’t have time to unpack the way his voice wavers at the edges, the way his fingers twitch against your wrist like he’s afraid to let go.

You don’t attempt to calm him down. You don’t explain yourself. You shove his grip off and cut straight to the point.

“Ni-ki is alone somewhere in the horde. I need to find him.”

The shift is instant.

Heeseung’s face darkens as he exhales sharply. “And Jake?”

“He’s on the roof,” you say, voice tight. “Scared shitless out of his mind.”

Heeseung curses under his breath, running a hand through his already dishevelled hair. His usual easy confidence is nowhere to be found—he knows what this means. What it could mean.

Jungwon is silent, but his eyes remain locked on yours, unreadable. His breathing is heavier now, barely noticeable unless you’re close enough to feel it in the air between you.

Still, his voice is clearer than everything else when he says, “You should’ve been more careful. What if one of A’s people were waiting for you below the ladder?”

You glare at him. “I didn’t have a choice.” Your voice is sharp, frustration laced into every syllable. “I’m not going to sit up there while he’s trapped in all that.” You gesture wildly to the boarded-up windows, beyond which the dead are still groaning, still hunting.

Jungwon exhales sharply, rubbing his face, trying to suppress whatever storm of emotions is raging inside him. “You never think,” he mutters. But there’s no real anger in it. Not really. 

You swallow against the lump rising in your throat. “Where was he last?” Heeseung asks, stepping forward, all business.

“Near the barricade,” you say quickly. “Jake was with him, but then things got chaotic, and he—” You falter, pressing your lips together. “He could be anywhere by now.”

Jungwon exchanges a glance with Heeseung.

“Alright,” Jungwon exhales, nodding. “We’ll find him.”

You nod quickly, your grip tightening on the knife at your belt, already bracing yourself to head back out.

But then—

“And by we, I mean Heeseung and I.” Jungwon’s tone is firm as he meets your gaze.

Your eyebrows draw together. “What?”

“You’re not in control right now,” he states simply. “I need you to stay here until we get back.”

“No.” You shake your head, already stepping forward. “That’s not happening. I’m going out there.”

“Y/N.” Jungwon’s voice stops you cold.

He’s looking at you now—really looking at you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes that roots you to the spot. 

“Please,” he says. It’s barely above a whisper. Not an order. Not a command. 

A plea.

It nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

You open your mouth to argue—to fight—but you can’t. Because suddenly, it’s hitting you why he’s saying this.

He knows. He knows that if you go back out there, you’ll do something reckless. You’ll throw yourself headfirst into the chaos. You’ll act without thinking. You’ll do whatever it takes, no matter the cost. 

Your hands tremble slightly as you tighten your grip on the knife. You hate this. You hate feeling useless. But as much as you want to deny it, you know he’s right. You’re not thinking straight. You’re acting on impulse.

Jungwon must see the conflict in your expression because his fingers brush your wrist—gentle, grounding.

“Let us do this,” he murmurs.

You force yourself to nod.

It nearly kills you.

You hold your breath as Jungwon and Heeseung slip through the entrance of the convenience store, vanishing back into the seething mass of bodies outside. Your fingers twitch uselessly at your sides, every fibre of your being screaming to do something. But all you can do is watch as they move deeper into the horde, their forms blurring, dissolving into the restless sea of death.

And then—just like that—they’re gone.

You stay put, just as Jungwon instructed, though the restraint feels like a noose tightening around your ribs. Every so often, a scream pierces through the night, sharp and sudden, cutting through the air like a blade. A shout follows somewhere deeper in the horde, indistinct but undeniably human. Your stomach churns. What’s taking them so long?

The longer you stand here, trapped in your own silence, the harder it is to keep your mind from spiralling.

What if Ni-ki is injured? What if Jungwon or Heeseung gets caught up trying to keep each other safe—trying to keep everyone safe—and gets bitten? What if something happens to them, and Jake never recovers from the trauma, the guilt? Where even are Sunghoon and Sunoo?

What if all of this—every risk, every desperate move—was for nothing?

Your pulse thrums violently against your skin as your eyes sweep the horde once more, searching, searching—until they land on something familiar.

A strip of white cloth.

It’s tied around the steering wheel of the van, barely visible beneath the layers of grime and blood staining the windshield. The van sits in the middle of the petrol station, wedged between the pumps, surrounded by the dead.

Your breath catches. A flicker of movement.

Then, through the dust-streaked glass, a pair of eyes rise just above the dashboard.

Ni-ki.

You don’t think. There isn’t time to think. 

Before you even register what you’re doing, you’re already moving, pushing through the door and stepping back into the horde. The stench hits you like a brick wall, thick and suffocating, but you ignore it. You keep moving, head ducked low, steps slow and unnatural as you weave through the crush of bodies.

It’s congested here—too congested. Every inch of space is occupied by the dead, the air thick with the sound of gurgling breaths and the grotesque squelch of decayed limbs shifting against one another. You can barely squeeze through without making contact, without brushing against clammy, rotting flesh.

With painstaking effort, you reach the van, every step an exercise in restraint, every movement deliberate and calculated. Your breath is shallow as you discreetly tap your knuckles against the metal frame, the sound barely audible over the discordant moans of the horde. After awhile, a pair of eyes flick up over the window. 

Relief surges through you like a tide as recognition dawns in his gaze, the tension in his expression softening ever so slightly. You hear the faint click of the door unlocking, followed by the hesitant creak of rusted metal as he pushes it slightly ajar—just enough for you to slip through if needed.

But movement catches your eye. A zombie shifts, turning its head toward the noise. Your muscles seize, heart hammering against your ribs as you brace for it to lurch towards you.

It doesn’t. The corpse stares for a moment, milky eyes sweeping over you—before turning its attention elsewhere, back to the lifeless rhythm of its existence.

You exhale shakily and push forward, peeking through the gap in the door. The van reeks of stale sweat and rust, the interior cloaked in darkness save for the weak glow of the moonlight filtering through the grime-smeared glass.

Ni-ki sits hunched against the driver’s seat, his chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths. Your eyes scan him, searching, cataloguing every detail for anything out of place.

And then he moves—shifting slightly as he gestures downward. Your gaze follows and the dim light catches the swollen outline of his ankle.

He’s injured.

"Can you walk?" The words slip past your lips, barely above a whisper, the sound almost lost in the cacophony of groans surrounding you. The sweat rolling down the back of your neck feels almost like an invitation—an open door for something to bite you, to tear into your flesh if you so much as make one wrong move.

Ni-ki doesn’t answer immediately and you see the contemplation flicker in his eyes. He’s calculating—debating if it’s worth it. If risking your life to get him out of here is a choice he can live with.

But there’s no need. You’ve already made up your mind. You’re getting him out of here, whether he agrees to it or not.

His jaw tightens before he finally speaks, his voice barely audible over the noise outside. “It hurts if I put pressure on it. I’m afraid I might make a sound that’ll give both of us away.”

Your eyes flick to his injured ankle, noticing the way it's slightly swollen, the bruising starting to form beneath the fabric of his trousers. But that’s not your biggest concern.

“Are you bleeding?” You keep your voice steady, but the weight of the question presses hard against your ribs. If he is—if there’s even a drop of fresh blood—then the moment he steps outside, the horde will catch the scent. And you won’t stand a chance.

He swallows thickly, lifting his hand and tugging at the fabric of his jeans just enough to expose the injury. You strain your eyes in the dim light, scanning for any sign of an open wound. Your breath catches when you see nothing but bruising. No cuts. No breaks in the skin.

You nod, already forming a plan in your mind, already pushing aside the worst-case scenarios clawing at the back of your thoughts. "You can lean on me," you murmur. "We’ll limp towards the ladder and get you to the rooftop. You think you can do that?"

A beat of silence.

Then—he nods.

Your hands tremble slightly as you shift, angling your body just enough to shield Ni-ki from immediate view. The dead are close—too close—but if you do this right, they’ll remain oblivious, unaware that their next meal is slipping right through them.

Ni-ki grits his teeth, his face contorted in silent pain as he struggles to ease himself out of the van. His body tenses when his injured ankle makes contact with the ground, the jolt of agony flashing through him so intense that his breath hitches. You feel it in the way he stiffens, the sharp inhale he quickly muffles, as if sheer willpower alone can keep him from making a sound. The moment hangs precariously between failure and survival, teetering on the edge of catastrophe.

Without thinking, you move—instincts overriding hesitation. You duck beneath his arm, your shoulder pressing firmly against his side as you slip an arm around his waist. He’s heavier than you expected, his weight pressing into you, but you adjust quickly, steadying him against you. He leans into your hold, muscles tense, breaths shallow. You can feel the warmth of him through the layers of grime and sweat-soaked fabric, the stark contrast to the cold, lifeless bodies that surround you.

The dead continue their slow, aimless shuffling, bodies pressing together in a writhing sea of decay, yet they don’t react to you—not yet. You mimic their movements, forcing yourself to stagger in disjointed steps, your limbs slack, your breaths shallow. Ni-ki follows suit, matching your pace as you move in eerie synchronisation with the horde. Every step is agonisingly slow, every second stretching into an eternity.

A noise breaks through the suffocating tension—a sudden clang, sharp and jarring against the restless murmurs of the undead. Your head snaps up instinctively, heart lurching in your chest. Across the rest stop, movement flashes in the corner of your vision—shadows shifting along the rooftop.

Jay and Jake.

They’ve caught on.

The realisation sends a fresh wave of relief through you, but you don’t have time to dwell on it. They’re making noise—deliberate, strategic—drawing attention away from your position. The dead react instantly, their heads snapping toward the source, bodies lurching forward in slow, uncoordinated steps. The groans rise in volume, filling the air as they shift, their hunger reeling them in like a magnet.

A gap opens in the horde—small, fleeting, but just enough.

Your grip on Ni-ki tightens.

This is your chance.

You exhale slowly, steadying both your nerves and your footing before dragging him forward, each staggered step calculated, each movement a fine line between blending in and being discovered. The dead remain oblivious for now, too distracted by the rooftop noise to notice the two living bodies slipping through their midst.

But the living—the living is different.

You feel it—the weight of a gaze cutting through the thick rot-stained air, sharp and knowing. Unlike the vacant, mindless stares of the dead, this one lingers. It searches. It sees.

Your breath hitches, fingers tightening around Ni-ki as you force yourself to keep moving, keep staggering, keep pretending. But the prickle at the back of your neck won’t go away.

Someone is watching you. You don’t know how long, if they saw you help Ni-ki out of the van, if they recognise the way your movements are just slightly too deliberate, too measured.

But if one of them has caught on, how long until the others do? How long until they abandon their own disguises and make their move? How long before this entire plan unravels into chaos?

The rooftop feels impossibly far away now. Every step feels heavier, every moment stretching unbearably thin. Jay and Jake are still making noise, still doing everything they can to keep the attention of the horde. But that won’t help if the real threat isn’t the dead.

The real threat is the living.

The moment it happens, you feel it before you see it. A shift in the air—subtle yet unmistakable, like the quiet before a storm. An unspoken warning prickles along your spine, a whisper of danger slithering beneath your skin. Your stomach lurches, a hollow pit of dread unfurling as your senses sharpen, heightening to a razor’s edge. 

Someone is charging straight for you.

Your breath stutters, heart pounding in frantic warning, but you barely have time to react before—

BANG!

The gunshot tears through the night, sharp and deafening. A body crumples before it reaches you, a lifeless heap of tangled limbs and fabric collapsing in on itself. The scent of gunpowder lingers in the air, mixing with the sickly metallic tang of fresh blood. A second later, the dead react.

A grotesque chorus of guttural moans rises like a wave, carried on the wind, deep and insatiable. The horde shifts in unison, their rotting bodies lurching toward the fresh kill with single-minded hunger.

Your head jerks up, breath snagging in your throat as your gaze snaps to the rooftop. Jay stands steady, rifle still raised, the tension rolling off him in waves despite his unwavering stance. His aim had been precise, unerring. He saved you again.

But there’s no time to process the relief. The reality of your situation presses down on you like a crushing weight. The distraction Jake had been orchestrating across the compound is rendered useless as every pair of eyes—dead and alive—now fixates on the spot where the gunshot rang out. The frenzy has begun.

You tighten your grip on Ni-ki’s wrist and push forward, muscles burning, heart hammering as you force your way through the thick, unyielding press of decayed bodies. The air is thick, stifling, choked with the rancid stench of rot. Fingers—some whole, others stripped to sinew and bone—graze your skin, reaching, grasping, desperate. The heat of their decaying flesh is suffocating.

A second shot cracks through the night.

Another body collapses. Another life extinguished.

Ni-ki starts to turn, his instincts telling him to look, but you shove him forward, jaw clenched, refusing to acknowledge what you already know.

The ladder is within reach now, just a few more feet. Just a few more agonising steps—

Then the ground shifts beneath you.

A body drops right in front of you with a sickening thud. The sudden obstruction is unavoidable. Your foot catches on the sprawled corpse, balance teetering on the edge of disaster, and before you know it, the world tilts. You’re falling.

The impact slams through you like a sledgehammer, pain exploding through your ribs as the unforgiving ground rushes up to meet you. The breath is knocked from your lungs in a violent gasp. Your knife slips from your grasp, clattering away into the darkness, lost among the sea of writhing bodies.

You blink, dazed, before your vision locks onto the body lying inches away. The vacant eyes of one of A’s men stare back at you, glassy and unseeing, a bullet hole punched clean through his temple. Blood seeps into the cracks of the pavement beneath him, dark and thick, pooling like ink in the dim light.

Shit.

You have to move. Now.

The dead are shifting, the scent of fresh blood igniting their primal hunger. You can feel it in the way they stir, the guttural growls reverberating through the air. They’re moments away from turning their attention on the body in front of you.

You scramble to your feet, hands grasping at slick concrete, fingers slipping in the growing pool of blood. Desperation claws at your chest, white-hot and searing. You don’t even bother trying to blend in—there’s no time. You just need to get away before the dead close around the body with you inside it.

Ni-ki reaches his hand out for you. His face is taut with fear, his fingers stretched toward yours, urging you to take it. Relief surges in your chest as you lunge for him—but the moment your fingertips brush against his, the horde surges forward. The press of bodies crashes into you, dragging you back into the abyss.

A strangled sound rips from your throat as you’re swallowed whole by the swarm. Panic flares in your chest, a raw, visceral thing, sinking its claws deep.

You thrash against the press of decayed bodies, but it’s like drowning in quicksand. The heat is suffocating and the weight is unbearable. The slick, clammy flesh of the dead clings to you, grasping, pulling, consuming. Your left arm is trapped, ensnared in the tangle of limbs, the rancid breath of the undead hot against your skin.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Ni-ki yanks at your free arm, his grip bruising, desperate, but the sudden movement only draws more attention. The nearest corpse jerks its head toward you, milky eyes locking onto yours. Its lips peel back, revealing blackened gums and jagged teeth, and then—

A groan. Low. Hungry.

More follow.

The walls are closing in.

Ni-ki is shouting something—your name, maybe—but the sound is distant, drowned beneath the deafening roar of blood rushing in your ears. You see the way Ni-ki’s expression crumbles, the sheer desperation as he refuses to let go. His grip tightens, fingers digging in, raw desperation in his eyes. 

He’s trying to save you, but in doing so, he’s going to get himself killed too.

No. Not like this. Not after risking your life to get him out of this mess.

You open your mouth to tell him to run—to leave you—but before the words can leave your lips, a spray of blood splatters across your mask.

 A skull erupts into fragments inches from your face. The force of the shot sends the corpse toppling backward. But the bullet—it didn’t come from above. It came from in front.

Then another. And another.

Jungwon and Heeseung.

Then, Sunghoon and Sunoo emerge, pistols raised, their movements cold, precise. They’ve abandoned their disguises, stepping out of the shadows, tearing through the horde with practiced efficiency. Each shot is a lifeline. Each bullet carving a path straight toward you.

Above, Jay and Jake rain down gunfire, thinning the horde before they can overwhelm.

“GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE, NOW!”

You don’t hesitate.

Adrenaline fuels you, burning through your veins as you throw your weight forward, kicking free of the bodies threatening to swallow you whole. You stumble as you come loose easily now that majority of the zombies around you have been shot dead. Ni-ki stumbles with you, his breath ragged, his fingers still locked around your wrist.

Almost there.

Your legs feel like lead, every muscle in your body screaming, but you push forward, forcing your way through. You hit the base of the ladder, hands fumbling for purchase, every second stretching unbearably long.

You shove Ni-ki up first. He scrambles desperately, his body trembling from the pain in his ankle, but he doesn’t hesitate or falter.

The moment he starts climbing, you push Sunoo up after him while taking out another zombie that manages to get too close. Sunghoon follows, then Heeseung.

Then it’s just you and Jungwon again.

It reminds you of that moment in the motel, when you first ran into them. Back then, you insisted Jungwon go first, and he did. But now, as you turn to him, intending to do the same, the fear in his eyes stops you. And in that moment, you know he won’t take no for an answer.

You start to climb. Your limbs feel heavy, exhaustion weighing you down, but you force yourself up, step after step, gripping the metal so tightly your knuckles ache. You can still hear the gunshots being fired from above and below you but the sounds are muffled, like you’re underwater and all you can really hear is the sound of your own heartbeat.

As you near the crawlspace, a hand locks around your forearm, yanking you onto the rooftop. Your knees hit the concrete, your chest heaving, lungs burning, the night air rushing into your body like fire. You mutter a small ‘thanks’ though you don’t know who it was.

You don’t even register the pain at first. Your body is running on pure adrenaline, every nerve still screaming from the chaos below. You tear the mask off your face as your vision swims, breath coming in ragged gasps, but you force your gaze across the rooftop.

They’re here. 

They’re safe. 

Alive.

The weight pressing against your chest loosens just slightly.

Thank God.

You did it.

You—

“You’re bleeding.”

The words cut through the haze, spoken so quietly, so eerily calm, that they don’t quite register at first.

Your heart stops as you notice something in Jay’s expression. It almost makes you throw up. His wide eyes stay fixed—not on your face, not on the carnage behind you—on you. 

More specifically—your arm.

Your breath catches as your gaze drops, following his line of sight.

Your sleeve is torn. The fabric is soaked in red, the colour spreading, seeping into the seams, staining your skin. A sharp, pulsing pain finally reaches your brain, cutting through the numbness like a blade.

No.

With trembling fingers, you peel back the fabric. Your stomach twists into a suffocating knot as the wound is exposed.

Teeth marks. 

Deep, raw and final. A wound that does not heal.

The rooftop is silent. You can feel their eyes on you—frozen, watching. The weight of their gazes is crushing, suffocating.

No one speaks. No one breathes.

The world seems to tip sideways, the ground slipping out from beneath you. The air is too thick. Your lungs won’t expand.

The relief, the victory—the hope—it all vanishes.

It takes everything in you to force the words out.

“…I’m bit.”

And just like that—everything shatters.

“You’re what?” The moment his voice breaks through the suffocating silence, something inside you completely shatters. The sheer disbelief in his tone makes your throat tighten, makes the wound on your wrist throb as if your body is reminding you of the truth you can’t escape.

“Say that again.”

Your fingers twitch at your sides, nails biting into your palms as you exchange a knowing glance with Jay. He doesn’t say anything, just watches, the weight of his unspoken words pressing down on you like a stone.

There’s no point in dragging this out. No point in trying to soften the blow. You inhale sharply, gathering what little strength you have left, and turn to face Jungwon.

His mask is already coming off, ripped away with shaking fingers, discarded like it’s suffocating him. And for a brief second—a single, fleeting moment—you think you almost forgot what he looked like.

But there he is. Jaw clenched, eyes burning, exhaustion etched into every sharp line of his face.

Jungwon—the leader, the fighter, the survivor.

Jungwon—who has carried everyone through this war, through this night, through the impossible weight of survival.

And now he’s standing in front of you, waiting, eyes searching yours for an answer you already know he won’t be able to accept.

So you don’t draw it out. You don’t let yourself waver. You don’t waste what little time you have. 

“I’m bit.”

The way he stills—it’s like all the air has been sucked out of the rooftop. For a second, he doesn’t react. Just stands there, staring at you, expression blank, unreadable, as if his mind is struggling to process the weight of your words, to piece them together into something that makes sense. But his eyes—his eyes—they tell you everything. 

“You’re lying.”

You wish you were. You really, really wish you were.

The ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of your lips, but it’s hollow, lifeless. It doesn’t belong to you. It belongs to defeat. The world has won.

Jungwon shakes his head, stepping forward, desperate, refusing to let the words sink in. “No. No.” His voice is cracking, trembling under the weight of something he’s never allowed himself to feel. “Why?”

Then his entire body seems to fold inward, like something inside him has snapped. His hands fly to his hair, gripping, pulling, trembling. “I told you to stay put inside. I told you.” His voice is shaking, rising, unraveling into something wild. “You never listen. Fuck.”

“Jungwon—”

“NO.” His breath is ragged. His eyes are blazing, glassy with emotions he refuses to name. He looks like he wants to grab you, to shake you, to force you to take back what you just said—to make this not real.

But you don’t move.

Because it is real.

“I’m sorry…” The words come out in a whisper, fractured, barely holding themselves together. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to keep standing, to keep from breaking apart completely. 

But you can’t stop your hands from trembling. You can’t stop your fingers from curling into fists, nails digging into your palms, grounding yourself against the pain threatening to consume you whole.

Jungwon stares at you, breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts, his chest rising and falling too fast, too unsteady. Then, all at once, you see it happen.

You’re watching his world fall apart.

And this time, he isn’t trying to hide it.

There’s no mask, no pretense, no desperate attempt to hold himself together like he always does. He doesn’t fight it.

Because he can’t.

Because he’s breaking.

And so are you.

Then, without a second thought—without hesitation, without permission—he drops the weapon in his hands, the metallic clang drowned out by the imminent death roaring in your ears, and pulls you into him.

It’s not careful. It’s not slow.

It’s crushing.

One arm winds around your neck, the other cradling the back of your head, his fingers digging into your scalp as if he can keep you here, keep you whole, keep you alive just by holding on tight enough.

He’s trembling. He’s holding you so tight, as if letting go would kill you—when in fact, you both know that letting go would kill him.

And something tells you that if you don’t pry him off of you—he’ll never let go. Even when you’re no longer yourself, even when there’s nothing left but a hollow shell of what you once were, he’d still be here, still holding onto you, still refusing to let go. Even if it destroys him. Even if it means exposing the bare skin of his neck, offering himself to you without fear, without hesitation, without care for what happens next.

Because this isn’t just grief. 

This is affection in its most dangerous, most reckless form.

And yet you don’t push him away. You should. You really should tell him to stop. To pull himself together. To walk away before it’s too late.

But instead your arms slowly wrap around his waist, your hands gripping the fabric of his t-shirt so tightly it creases beneath your fingers. Your body sinks into his warmth, and for just a second—you savour it.

The way he feels against you, the way his heartbeat pounds in time with yours, the way he’s breathing you in like this moment is the last thing he’ll ever have of you. And maybe it is. Because this moment will never come back. 

And you will never have this again.

Slowly, you feel it—the warmth of hands wrapping around you, one by one, hesitant at first, then stronger, until you’re encased in something far greater than just Jungwon’s embrace.

The others press in, their bodies closing the space, forming a human shield around you like this little confined bubble between all of you is the only thing that matters.

And in that instant—you break. A sob rips from your throat, raw and uncontrollable, and once it starts, it doesn’t stop.

You crumble into Jungwon’s arms—into all of their arms—sobbing incessantly, helplessly, like the sheer weight of everything you’ve been holding back is finally too much to bear.

You don’t know how long you stay like that—clutching, breaking, falling apart together—but when you finally pull back, when your bodies part, Jungwon’s hand never leaves yours.

And it kills you when you bring yourself back to earth. Because this—whatever this is, whatever this moment is meant to be—it’s not over. 

A’s people are still out there, still roaming beneath you, waiting, watching. A himself is still out there. And even with your death penalty signed, stamped, and sealed—you still have to finish this. Now more than ever, because you won’t be here in the future. You won’t be around to throw yourself into the fire again and again for them.

And when you’re gone—Jungwon will pick up that role again.

And it’ll get him killed.

Your chest tightens, resolve hardening as you take a slow, shaky breath. You know what you have to do.

"I need to go." The firmness in your voice catches them off guard.

"No." Jungwon doesn’t even give you the chance to argue. His voice is sharp, final, a command, like sheer refusal will be enough to stop you.

But he should know better. A simple "no" isn’t going to suffice.

"I’m no help up here," you push, forcing yourself to be rational, to be cold, even though every fibre of your being wants to fall apart in his arms all over again. "In fact, I’d be a threat. A is still out there. If I don’t find him, he’ll come back. He’ll keep coming back."

"No." Jungwon’s grip tightens on your wrist, his fingers digging in, like he’s trying to anchor you here, to stop you from slipping away like sand through his fingers.

“We can still win, we can—”

“I’ve already lost, Y/N.” You freeze at that. But your conviction doesn’t waver.

“Please, Jungwon.” Your voice quivers, but you step closer, looking into his eyes, begging him to understand, to let you go before it’s too late. “I need to know that you’re safe. Only then can I die in peace.”

The words leave your lips like a final nail in the coffin. You’re going to die. Period.

And the moment they do—you see it sink in. The reality of it. The undeniable, unforgiving truth that this is how it ends.

You see it in the way his head shakes, as if denying it will make it disappear, as if he can erase the bite on your skin just by refusing to believe in it. You see it in the way his gaze drops to the ground, unfocused, staring at nothing, his mind spiralling into a place you can’t reach.

So, with one swift motion, you cup his face between your hands, lifting it so his eyes have no choice but to meet yours.

Your thumb grazes over his cheekbone, the touch gentle, almost reverent, and for a split second, your gaze catches on the bite marks decorating your own wrist.

They taunt you.

Remind you of what’s coming.

But when you look back at Jungwon, it’s suddenly acceptable.

Because in exchange for your life, they will be rewarded. And that thought makes you wonder—when did it happen? 

When did their survival become just as important as your own?

When did you stop seeing them as liabilities?

When did you start caring?

You don’t leave room for regret. You lean in, pressing a soft, longing kiss against his lips. It’s gentle—not desperate, not rushed—just enough.

You feel the moment he tenses, the shock rippling through his body. Then, he releases it into you. His jaw relaxes, his grip on you tightens, like he’s pouring everything he can into this moment.

When you pull back, you hesitate.

Just for a second. Just long enough to press your forehead against his.

“Now there’s no way I’m letting you go.” His voice is quiet, a whisper against your lips, but there’s so much weight in it, so much desperation, so much hope—

And you ruin it.

Because you pull away. And he chases after your warmth, his eyes still closed, still pretending you’re there. But when he opens them, his heart drops.

Because he knows. He sees it in your face.

You’re going to do it.

Your gaze moves past Jungwon, landing on Jay behind him. 

No words are needed. 

Jay understands immediately. And Jungwon realises too late.

“Well, you don’t have a choice.”

The moment the words leave your lips, Jungwon lunges forward, his arms reaching out but he doesn’t reach you. Because Jay and Heeseung are holding him back.

Your heart shatters seeing Jungwon struggle, his entire body writhing in their grip, crying out your name, his voice hoarse, desperate, like sheer force of will could somehow stop this from happening.

Like if he just screams loud enough—you won’t leave.

And then, you see it.

Something you don’t have to wonder about this time. Something you know for certain.

Fear.

Not of the dead. Not of the dangers lurking in every corner. Not of you—

But fear of losing you.

And there it is. The weakness.

Love makes you vulnerable. Caring makes you weak. Hope makes you blind to reality.

But maybe—just maybe—it’s also what makes you human.

You don’t look back as you reach down, picking up the mask from the floor, securing it over your head. Even with the wailing screams, the sobs ripping through Jungwon’s chest, you steel yourself.

You rip the white cloth off your arm, wrapping it around the bite, tying it tight.

It’s not ideal. It won’t change anything. But at least it’ll contain the scent of fresh blood. Not that it matters. You’re already as good as dead.

As you begin your descent down the ladder, you catch the gaze of Lieutenant Kim.

She’s still tied to the sign, cloth in her mouth, her eyes sharp with amusement. And even though she can’t speak, the ghost of a smirk is evident on her lips.

She’s mocking you. Like she knows exactly what’s coming. Like she’s already seen how this will play out. But you swear, to every divine being that still exists, that you will rid this world of every last one of them.

When your feet hit the ground, you push forward. Instincts scream at you to act fast. They haven’t run yet—haven’t broken formation. 

But if they do, if even one of them makes it out—this will have all been for nothing. And the vicious cycle of revenge will just keep repeating itself until no one is left to claim victory.

part 5 - people | masterlist | part 7 - hope

♡。·˚˚· ·˚˚·。♡

notes from nat: this chapter actually sucked so much out of me i'm not even kidding. fr put my vocabulary to test because girl was i running out of nouns and verbs and adjectives to use 🤡 also would like to apologise for the mental distress because the next chapter is going to take awhile...

perm taglist. @m1kkso @hajimelvr @s00buwu @urmomssneakylink @grayscorner @catlicense @bubblytaetae @mrchweeee @artstaeh @sleeping-demons @yuviqik @junsflow @blurryriki @bobabunhee @hueningcry @fakeuwus @enhaslxt @neocockthotology @Starryhani @aishisgrey @katarinamae @mitmit01 @youcancometome @cupiddolle @classicroyalty @dearsjaeyun @ikeucakeu @sammie217 @m1kkso @tinycatharsis @parkjjongswifey @dcllsinna @no1likeneo @ChVcon3 @karasusrealwife @addictedtohobi @jyunsim @enhastolemyheart @kawaiichu32 @layzfy @renjunsbirthmark13 @enhaprettystars @Stercul1a

taglist open. 1/3 @sungbyhoon @theothernads @kyshhhhhh @jiryunn @strxwbloody @jaklvbub @rikikiynikilcykiki @jakesimfromstatefarm @rikiiisoob @doublebunv @thinkinboutbin @eunandonly 

non-underlined/grey = cannot tag

[ozzgin]

I really hope you continue the eldrich God story. I may or may not have become obsessed with the idea, and i think it's actually really funny and I also just love the idea of a God being in love with a human.

Also, I love your writing and art! I hope you're doing well!

Yandere! Eldritch God x Detective! Reader

Based on this prompt and this meme. You're sent to a remote island to investigate a string of murders, and end up with a horde of cultists and their Lovecraftian God who is very much obsessed with you. Don't worry, he just wants to help you with your case!

Content: gender neutral reader, monster romance, tentacle tomfoolery again

[More Monsters]

The island checks all the boxes for a stereotypical shady place: the grimy boat captain who talks in riddles and vague warnings, the constant fog, the tavern filled with rumors and fears, the bizarre statue of a creature with tentacles. You were expecting most of it, save for their patron God being a literal monster.

Soon after your arrival, you discover that you’re being followed by men in dark robes. Could it be related to your case? A little alcohol-aided interrogation, and the locals confess to you about the existence of a cult. The dots begin to connect.

Unfortunately for you, whatever theory is cooking up in your mind couldn’t be further from the truth. The patron Beast of the land has been watching you from the moment of your arrival. He’s rather intrigued by your nonchalant city attitude, your stubbornness, your lack of any sense of danger. Thus he demands that you’re brought to his lair.

A game of cat and mouse. You are now convinced this said cult is responsible for the murders, so you delve deeper into their secrets. At the same time, the men put all their efforts into chasing you down. The Lord's wishes are their command; for how long can you outsmart sheer numbers?

At last, they succeed. You’re dragged over, cocooned in thick rope. “My Lord, we’ve brought you the sacrifice”, one cultist proclaims victoriously. Sacrifice? The ancient creature gazes at the men with utmost confusion. He frees you from your restraints with a mere point of his tentacle appendage, and proceeds to lecture his devout following for treating his special guest with such shameful brutality. Everyone blinks in disbelief, you included.

What the hell is this, some beastly romcom? Once everything is cleared up, you dust your knees, stand up unceremoniously, and tell the cosmic deity you’ve no time for idle gossip. “There’s a criminal running free and it’s my task to stop it”, you bark. Aha, that’s the very same attitude that got his nebulous heart pumping with curious desire. He cannot explain the maddening interest he’s taken into you. The monster releases a monotonous hum, causing you to jolt in surprise. The cult leader gasps. “He…he wants to help you solve the case”, the man concludes, defeat in his voice.

“Does it have to be all of you?” You whine, clicking your tongue at the sight. It’s the morning after the godly encounter, and you’re greeted outside your room by the cult leaders and their monster. “I can’t be discreet with a dozen monks after me. Not to mention…” your eyebrows furrow. “What on Earth is he wearing? Is that a detective hat and a mustache? Are you mocking my job?” You demand, glaring at the eldritch beast and his ridiculous disguise.

“Excuse me, I’ll have to ask you to quiet down”, an employee suddenly interrupts. “You and the gentlemen over there.” You stare at him incredulously. Can he really not see he’s facing an enormous, tentacle monstrosity? You swear you can discern a grin forming across the creature’s amorphous, unholy features. Alright, you’ve been convinced. What now?

As a child, Sherlock Holmes was one of your favorite books. You'd flip through the pages and daydream about your own future as a detective, though your little fantasies never included Watson as a cursed entity of a thousand tentacles. The eldritch creature seems to be more interested in you than the case itself. Eyes always fixated on your movements, tendrils creeping around you, never leaving your proximity.

Why would he need to look elsewhere? He can already tell how things will unfold. He is, after all, the God of this land. He knew your wanted culprit had been hiding in a sealed room right under your nose, as you dusted for footprints and scribbled hurried notes. He knew the underground tunnel had deadly traps, which would have normally put your investigation to a swift end. "Kind of suspicious to leave his trail unguarded like this", you mumble in deep thought. The cosmic God smiles.

He wouldn't dare ruin your fun. Consequently, he only interferes when your safety is involved. As annoyed as he is by the criminal's persistent attempts to kill you, he doesn't want to steal your grand capture. Besides, he is very much content with the current circumstances.

As the two of you follow along the dark passageway, you clear your throat, lips pursed awkwardly. "Uh...Thank you for dealing with the obstacles", you finally say. The monster pretends to ponder your words. "Hey now, don't play dumb with me. The conveniently deactivated bombs? The mutilated guards clumsily stuffed behind the door? I am a detective, after all."

You feel a thick tendril wrapping around your arm, and you turn to glance at the creature. His eyes of spiraling depths regard you intensely. A voice suddenly echoes in your head; is he trying to communicate with you? Deep, resounding, and imposing. "I am looking forward to our next case."

"Next case? Sorry pal, I work alone-" your throat clenches involuntarily. Somehow, your innards are flooded with a particular kind of certainty, dictating an ironclad truth: you do not have the option to refuse. You sigh, exasperated. "Fine! Have it your way. At least skip the fake mustache", you beg, then pause. You slap a second tentacle that has made its way under your shirt. "And avoid groping me when I'm thinking. You interrupt the little gray cells at work." You tap your temple to prove your point, and the eldritch God bows lightly. Of course.

He'll refrain himself until you're off work, Detective.

[lesser-mook]

Footage of Texas STANDOFF With 302k Migrants on US-Mexico Border Has Gon...

https://youtu.be/cL7X4cskd8Q

(shitty *melodramatic thumbnail aside- and brace yourself this is finna get deep, 90% of this is lore)

This is like The Walking Dead Season 4, but the Zombies came with bags and are given free resources after they invade. Literally a zombie horde forcing their way in, to consume resources that should've been going to Americans. 

But this sudden surge of resources given to these aliens shows that the Gov. had the means to help Americans the entire time but chose not to, which we all knew already but it's confirmed by the same people that left us to burn.  

(To clarify, this isn’t on the illegal aliens entirely, like ‘let’s dehumanize these people’ because of the dumb policies our “leaders” made

Yeah some of em are coming here not for some Dream but they want free shit because Biden is an agent, ie. Who allowed them to come in here in the first place? The Illegals aren’t actually taking anything by force--  they’re being GIVEN the motherload by your own Administration)

 What a joke. 

Every Empire has it's fall. America. Your turn.

And how we got here starts with the simple things, like relations, tensions between the power-houses of society. 

The dichotomy, Man & Woman. 2.Two forces of nature, two pieces of an incomplete entity that is the “Hu-man” 

The agenda is simple, it wasn’t quick, it was a slow burn: If these two pieces fit so well together that when they are getting along, things are great, community is stronger, the culture is healthy, values/norms/standards intact- Traditional family works...but the problem is

A civilization united like that well? is a lot harder to fool/control/manipulate.

 So the agenda is simple:

Keep people fighting, invent more labels, enable toxicity/ hostility in the culture, propagandize with stronger signals in the music, movies, political spectrums = Separate men and women on a cultural level. Plant a disconnect and keep it intact.

Drive the sexes apart in the intangible sphere, thought, norms.

Propagandize & overstimulate girls with a crap-ton of unrealistic expectations of themselves and men. 

Give women every incentive not to be responsible with their reproductive powers, to the point young men are stuck with grown children who are looking for Papa at Ages 19-35 to pay for everything and offer next to nothing of their own accord. 

The world owes you for being born female

 And when every woman is a special snowflake & pandered to, womanhood is trivialized, accountability becomes an option. 

It’s why your culture worships “Girl bosses”, you call your adult females “girls” so casually, it’s casual condescension. Patronizing.

It is so casual- WOMEN call each other “girls”. Reinforcing a state of infantilism.

So a bunch of girls and yet you have no “Women”, America has stopped raising women years ago. 

Castrate, degrade, bash and shame men to the point where young women are now stuck with Sub-Males who are out of touch with their balls. 

America doesn’t make men like they used to, they’re too busy neutering them.

And then develop fetishes wanting giant women (aka a hybrid construct of mommy/female authority issues & Gynocentric society) to castrate, degrade, bash, and subjugate themselves- They developed a fetish where they castrate themselves in the exact same fashion society does except they depict actual violence happening. Manslaughter even.

Now, what do you call a condition where a victim normalizes the abuse as a coping mechanism?  Stockholm Syndrome.

Macrophilia is just an advanced/tragic case of mass Stockholm Syndrome.

See psychologists aren’t allowed to say that, they stay very neutral because that’s what keeps them employed. 

But I’m not getting paid for this- so there you go. Macrophilia and it’s mother: (toxic-gynocentrism/ not Women having opportunities-- but TOXIC Gynocentrism/Female Privilege) & it’s father (misandry) are all connected. 

One big inbred family of dysfunction and societal collapse (which if you pay attention that’s what a giant woman mainly does, collapse civilization, cause pain, destroy, evil-

Something women are not, just to put that out there, because I feel it’s necessary or we’ve fallen so hard as a species, that HAS to be said now. Women are not the enemy, Women are not the enemy, Men are not the enemy, Women are not the enemy of Men. 

So it’d be a good idea to stop emulating the hatred that’s implanted.

Macrophiles/ or Macrocreeps as I lovingly dubbed them- are literally/indirectly/ & repeatedly communicating that women will cause or are the collapse of civilization, women being empowered means women are enemies of humanity, women are evil- the same narrative on repeat)

NOW THAT- is misogyny, 100% learned, 0% nature. 

If you were raised in a small town like Black Forest (Germany): 

or a Mongolian Steppe Nomad life. Healthy upbringing, healthy-equal community for men and women, away from misandry & gynocentrism, unplugged from the Matrix/ aka The HATE-trix

-you’re not going to have this crap living in your head. 

You just might even have a life.

It’s why this movie (The Red Turtle) is so poetic, simple and beautiful. it displays simply what life is without the bullshit:

Every time I watch this movie, I’m reminded what the “human experience” boils down to, as repetitive as it is, it really boils down to having each other, family.

See people were freaks back in the day, but within reason, this macro-cancer wasn’t really popping back in the 70s when men and women were for the most part in an okay place. 

You get more of a rise of this kind of thing when things are bad between men and women, it’s really a mirror of HOW bad it’s gotten in society or in your own childhood, your mind, your subconscious where seeds are planted.

When men & women are happy on mass, when the culture has shows like Good Times, The Cosby Show, Living single Roseanne, Full House- positive culture, when that is the repeated narrative, positivity, you tend to get positive signals implanted in the people watching it, namely children.

 Fact is, you get an infection in the body when there’s a problem, not when it’s healthy, plain and simple.

See you don’t simply feel the need to replace women with a demonic sociopathic mile-high she-beast or in a neutral sense you need to have Mommy looming over you & make you feel like a loser to feel secure because the giantess needs to be MAN enough for both of you combined: (Hence, women are stuck in a generation of SUB-Males who lost touch with their balls and a lot of the time women have the carry them both) 

And this has nothing to do with confidence, you can be confident and have no balls, want to be mistreated or not know what being a man is about.  There’s a lot of confident losers on this planet, do not confuse the two (Confidence vs Security) together.

vs when you have actual healthy relationships with women throughout life here in reality or a society that doesn’t tell you you’re less than dirt or outright communicates you are stupid, inferior, and something that needs to be fixed or stamped out by a more competent woman presence-

Hellywood definitely hasn’t been doing that, TV shows definitely hasn’t been doing that, Culture, various IRL situations (some caught on camera) definitely hasn’t been communicating that.

One just can’t help but share that misery with the world & await a “congratulations” from fellow cult members for posting the exact same thing for the 15′000th time for the 13th year in a row.. An example of misandrist propaganda birthing a mini-industry of misandrist propaganda. (Though women are victimized as well in the fantasy, lesbians can be macrocreeps too, and the opposite spectrum exists *Giant males* but let’s focus on the popular one, women.)

The compulsion comes from the fact that it’s a generational conditioning operation. I personally think it’s unintentional, there’s no way this shit was calculated, and macrocreeps are too small a group to even be measured as a problem but the problem actually is what they represent, the question: “Where in you is that fantasy coming from?”

What they represent, and what they’re literally showing us (Cry for help / Red Flag) in the content is the concerning factor. And how *consistent it is.

A normal person gets tired of watching the same movie, playing the same game, hell- some people break up from boredom. 

Most fetishists (especially macrocreeps)- DO NOT evolve, grow up or move on, they will stay on the same radio channel for- EVER. I repeat: FOREVER. 

The same horror, the same scenarios but from new artists (so much talent wasted on nonsense, it physically hurts me), the same-

“me male, me insignificant, yes goddess” 

disrespect/Misandry narrative on repeat and repeat and repeat. As per design.

It’s literally a case of an internet economy where nothing changes, like it’s recycling the narrative that their culture convinced them to be true. 

And most will eat it up for years to come (Literal Matrix tier enslavement of the mind)- as if following an installed directive, robotic. If only that level of commitment was shown to marriages or idk actual women? 

But nobody tryna have that conversation, a she-devil in your head who’s entire function is to hurt you & belittle will get more of your time, your skills, investment, devotion than women here in reality, hilarious. 

(And don’t be fooled, these are everyday people, some with families, these aren’t neckbeards but men & women with serious issue, and it’s about time we stopped pretending being broken is a virtue or some kind of badass badge when at the end of the day what you’re producing is blatant misery.

 It’s just ironic the level of commitment given to some lala-land kaiju, a paragon of misogyny that will NOT give you anything back in this life but wasted time, is still more effort than they’d give to women with something to offer)

And it’s even more hilarious that American birthrates started the drop just around the70s to 2020, now that is very interesting to me. Seems like the 70s was just around the tipping point for everyone over in America. Including Biden, because his stance on borders was verrrrry different way back when:

Funny how the media has all the resources to ride Trumps D 24/7 but they conveniently leave out this little gem. 

.Biden In 2007_ “No Great Country Can Say It’s Secure Without Being Able To Control Its Borders”

source

And so, again, women are now stuck with a good chunk of  house broken Man-children or live in a culture that cultivates this attitude where some men  in a bizarre sense want to worship women to a disturbing degree and want their mother to domineer over them and tell them how insignificant they are as society successfully programed into them (rarely is it from one experience), thus women are shipwrecked in this generation with a good number of American males-

-who don’t know how to be or afraid to be men (not men’s fault). And yet the consequence is they turn to fantasy, Anime, fetishism- escapism or any escapism where they condition themselves to have unreasonable expectations of girls and women’s behavior, bodies & themselves.

All to overcompensate what they couldn’t or CHOOSE not to step up to be in reality as men. 

Keyword: They <choose> fantasyland over choosing to be better, which is 100% in their control. They’d rather play victim in a fantasy where they lose control instead of growing a goddamn pair.

Product of the times.

Modern day wars on masculinity is what happens when we are taught women have a right to say “no” (True) but as a society we never tell a woman “no”. (A problem)

A woman happily serving the husband is toxic & repressive, but “Happy wife, Happy life” is normalization of men suffering in silence as long as their domestic adult-baby is pacified.

Notice how I’m throwing haymakers in both directions, because either way you slice it (and yes, it does go both ways) on either side it’s not efficient nor sustainable, as we’re now seeing. Everyone actually, because the Americans aren’t the only one’s suffering dropping births.

But it’s only okay when women get the better end of the deal. But the punchline is women aren’t receiving anything good from an atmosphere like this.

Do women today feel safe? Do they trust the men of their country? (that is a big one),  Does their culture prepare girls or pander to them to keep them in a box? Because padding women’s ego’s is a subtle form of control by giving women the illusion of agency.

That’s the ultimate fallacy of a Giant Woman being used by Feminists as an  empowerment symbol, and Fetishists as a symbol of power:  When in fact, a woman that big has even less control over her life because her interaction with civilization (and all the resources they have that she NEEDS from care to tampons) is now limited. The gigantism is fallacy in itself. 

The illusion of control.

Inflating the importance of a woman’s “independence” from men in society (when it’s not dependence to be with a man, it’s coexistence)

Some society shame the egos of men  because they are afraid of what men are capable of when things go wrong (Shootings, R*pe, murder).

When all that needs to be done is to teach boys & men to regulate and channel their ego instead of snuffing it out, teach principle, not hedonism. 

Abusing boys, drugging them up to stay still & smothering masculinity because the result is that a lot of  men now think they have no power and some believe & revel in the narrative they should have no confidence or power and only women should be allowed to have an ego & overwhelming advantage (Gynocentrism).

When it's just another perpetuated narrative (harming women & men) that men should be nerfed because they're a threat and not women because-

 women aren't a threat. Apparently only in a fantasy are they anything close to a danger.

  Exacerbating a woman's ego because you or the system presumes they won't ever do anything about it, zero threat. 

That’s why American culture is biased toward women so hard: They don’t take you seriously.

Misandry  is when the village fears men

Gynocentrism is the result of underestimating women's egos, underestimating women, painfully so.

Which is also why these macrocreeps use the fetish so they can fabricate a woman with near omnipotence over the “tiny”, 

Some psychologist taking on macrophilia theorize (paraphrasing): ‘Macrophiles seek to create women with overwhelming power in light of society lacking female empowerment’...... uhhhhhh excuse you, where have you been in the past 15-20 years of American pop culture & real time events? 

A “LACK” of Female empowerment? What?! 

Women are in fact doing better than the fellas.

This is a brutal form of gaslighting harder than a politician.

 And you want to know the most insulting part? Their assertion It’s conceivable to an extent but they never dig deeper.

Example: Most of these qualified people will use the “lack of female empowerment” point but rarely do any of them mention the rampant misandry in society & the culture inflating women’s egos, more so the normalization/glorification of male expendability as a logical alternate or logically the primary reason why Macrophilia has taken root in this era specifically to glorify what? You guessed it Glorification of male expendability and inflating the hubris of a woman.

Coincidence, it’s all coincidence.

But you see, when you say men wanting to be destroyed is because of gynocentric society lacking female empowerment: That’s another way of saying:

It’s not the fault of culture putting women on a pedestal at men’s expense as to why men developed stockholm syndrome where they also put women on a pedestal at men’s expense, even to the point of desiring their own oblivion- #Deflection

No instead they assert or suggest women aren’t being gassed up ENOUGH!!!

 So it’s not about men & women being culturally (& possibly at some point physically or emotionally) abused and propagandized- 

let’s make it about women not getting enough pandering, reinforcement, benefits, exceptions, compliments, priority, priority priority, priority. PEDESTAL.

(I think you get it, and I also think you see the problem. Men ARE ALWAYS AT THE BOTTOM, even in a situation where they are the focus per the fetish & might look to these psychologists for answers, somehow these people still make women out to be the victims anyway because society isn’t doing enough, so women deserve more more more.)

THAT right there is the freaking problem, not that women are involved in the conversation, but the fact that men are shelved yet again to make it about women.

But so many go to these pages for answers to be met with enabling the problem further, thus the source of the problem is lying in the place you go to get answers, how ironic. 

The dishonesty with some of these professionals is astounding, and you know what? I don’t think they’re doing it on purpose, that’s the scary part for me.

But yes, I do believe a lot of these people are holding back information or a degree of transparency to prevent from seeming like a persecutor.

Listen, I get empathy, you can’t just come at people any type of way. But if we’re going to get to the bottom of this, we have to stop holding people’s hands. The truth doesn’t exist to breastfeed you, the entire point is to enlighten, teach, and if that involved discomfort that means it’s working. 

And saying essentially ‘women deserve better’ is why men glorify women destroying humanity is just signaling more entitlement, toxicity, excuses, zero accountability. 

And worse? Enabling people to worship Anti-Humanity obsessions.

This isn’t about accountability of women, not this time, Macrophilia wasn’t created by women, it was created by the overall culture, the village, the atmosphere that enabled female privilege, how matriarchal society is despite how patriarchal civilization is or was, but society? Is very matriarchal, Gyno (Women)- Centric.

Namely the people on top that own these companies, these news, media platforms of all types, owning everything we see (global too)- that are pushing the narrative.

Then we wonder why so many ladies are infantile and panic whenever asked “What do you bring to the table?”, this is not women’s fault, mind you. 

How are women supposed to answer the question, when they’re taught that they have all the answers, they’re bosses, they’re in charge, they run the world, the future is female, girlpower, #girlpower, #GIRLPOWER, empowerment, ass-kissing-

WOMAN WORSHIP culture. (Macrocreeps anyone?)

That’s what’s pumped into the average Americano lady like crack, like being reliant on the world to tell them they’re awesome. And then they grow up (physically), trained to be reliant on external validation for life-

A form of control over a woman’s mind, not fantasy but here in reality.

Spend a lifetime with a phone in your hand, depending on anon’s to signal they want to sleep with you instead using those hands of yours to actually build something or spread something constructive, like the truth, or a song, or a story, an empire, create something, anything other than your Two-Millionth selfie for the day.

That’s the sick joke: It comes off as America’s boner for Female Security when it’s female subjugation/pacification, on top of male subjugation/castration. Both parties are trivialized as a result. Nobody wins, nobody. 

Everyone’s a prisoner. That’s the point.

A giant 5′000ft tall woman destroys civilization, kills everyone. 

She laughs about it, gets off on it, and then what? She’s left stuck as a giant, no grocery to shop from, no one to love her, no one to talk to, no dental care, no resources, no infrastructure, no friends, no home, no support system, she’ll starve, she’ll dehydrate, she’ll get lonely, she’ll die alone. No fucking point,  that’s the part of the fantasy these muppets very conveniently leave out, reality.  Strength for days, but zero power. 

The natural consequence of the fantasy emulates reality. Nobody wins, nobody. Not even in fantasy. 

No intimacy, just horror, ugliness, death, destruction and emptiness. 

Because that’s what women are, amiright boys?

The common theme? I repeat, Nobody wins. 

It’s so closely similar in both fantasy & reality, the parallels are blood related (Hence my mother & child analogy). 

Propaganda is scary like that and moreso predictable, as are fetishists. 

We underestimate the effects of what children internalize (regardless of how minor the experience is) & regurgitate it and the fact that we don’t stop doing that emulation when we become adults.

It’s how we read rooms, social cues, our lovers or dangers, develop traumas.

We see, then spread the message. Whether it be school, a cool line from a movie, a song stuck in your head, an insult that sticks with you, someone intimidating you, threatening you, or you being threatened by a misunderstanding,  a compliment etc. 

No difference. 

We need less female empowerment, and more mentors.

Respect to women as humans first, and not singling them out constantly as “first woman to do-” something a man did 75 years ago. Patronizing women and making them like being a participation winner.

Mentor girls of womanhood as a principle, aka accountability, protecting your reproductive powers, not giving it away. 

America panders to female ego but does not respect womanhood. 

Society failed women and men by convincing us women are the exception when they actually deserve less- until  they’re willing to contribute something beside an open hand in a relationship.

You don’t get to win by just showing up.

women need to learn what earning a man’s time, money/ His life, His sacrifice, 

What earning his LIFE for hers really means.

Women need to learn what it means to earn that shit, I swear to god, a man’s life is so trivialized now, women don’t even think about what a big deal it is for man to just pay his life as a toll for hers to go on 5 more seconds.

 It’s disgusting how overlooked that is, but I keep hearing “As he should”, WHOO buddy. Americans are beyond lost baby.

But you see in 15 years or less that’ll be considered “hate speech” or a thought-crime, or perhaps this entire rant would be worth an insta-trip to ban world.

 because #MenAreTrash is trendy that’s fine 100% males don’t have feelings right but the same time we want them to be sensitive, but not too sensitive or else he’s a man-child. It’s never enough.

 #MenNeedToStepUp we can agree on 100%, but #WomenDoBetter or #WomenNeedToEarnAMan is misogyny

Everything is misogyny when name calling or witch-hunts aka “Cancel culture” (how it’s called today)- doesn’t work.

Right, keep that up. Doing a good job so far, lmfao.

But gee, I can’t figure out why the birthrates are falling

& men are flocking to other countries for real women? When there’s plenty in America, far in-between but they do exist.

All we wanted to do was just treat men/husbands/fathers like second class citizens, like idiots- so horrifically mistreated that the goofballs went & created a fetish/Cult where they actually enable each other to want to be treated like second class citizens.

ZERO connection, all coincidence!

Wanting Women to be their gods and mistreat or destroy them and the whole of civilization: um wow.

Did you even have a mother? I mean My God, what happened?!

You know, ZERO red flags there. Nothing to see here. Everything is fine. Go back to deviantart, enjoy the genocide.

No btw, I AM NOT shitting you, this is real. 

(And the access to A.I art made it SOOOOO much worse, now these lovable dorks can just spawn the most horrific shit with zero effort now)

If you didn’t think that group’s issues weren’t that deep? (because naturally, they’re just minding their business beating off/worshipping human genocide- until you realize how comfortable they’re getting, too damn comfortable, normalizing the most anti-human shit, it makes you question if you’re even awake sometimes)

Trust me, a good majority of them don’t even know where their obsession came from--- AND that is the point of propaganda, subtle, like a socio-cultural virus. A weapon for your mind. neurological malware.

I repeat: Neurological/Socio-Cultural Malware for your mind. A prison for your mind. It used to be heroin, still is for some, but now fantasy is the new drug, no drugs in your system, not “harming anyone” but that justification to keep doing it is why the prison is that much stronger. You tell yourself there’s no problem because no one’s hurt, you’ll keep doing it for the rest of your life.

The change begins when we allow ourselves to stop lying to ourselves.

And again, to no one’s surprise (Brain mappings show fetishism or sex addiction is parallel to addictive habits like drugs, alcoholism, etc.) So no, not harming anyone (until it does) but yourself through re-wiring what your brain imprints on, I believe it’s through firing signals via the synapse endings at climax, like you’re physically making changes to your brain on a microscopic scale. 

That is precisely why breaking the habit is difficult and the more rewarding, with any bad habit btw.

Fact is, Nobody knows exactly when a virus gets in your body or your pc/phone  machine, but when it’s in, it’s on you to do something about it or cope with it by not coping at all.

Superboy-Prime’s level of petty is not even close to an average GTS NPC, and ironically he could solo 99.99999999% of them all, even the god level one’s. And he’s smaller than most of them-

So yeah, despite having the word in their mouths 24/7, macrocreeps don’t really understand what  “power” is, lol.

Even if it’s a gentle scenario or the cringe “unaware” crap (where the appeal is more manslaughter but the excitement is she’s doing it unintentionally *yes, society failed this hard*)

The visual point of a woman being bigger by that much is visually signalling: “superiority”, female supremacy, gynocentrism. Males being lesser, weaker, vulnerable, under control, a security/self-esteem/ ultimately a Life-skill issue- that is the point.

It’s always a “power-” dynamic scramble, it’s so toxic and dysfunctional. 

To belabor the point, It’s no accident that what American society (from movies to articles) is pumping into you guys, is exactly what these cats worship with a level of dedication that makes Christians look like amateurs. 

They could legitimately begin a religion, I’m actually genuinely surprised they haven’t by now. 

In this context though, in Fantasyland where genocide is a goddamn game, that’s the entire appeal, #SizeDifference #Macro #Giantess #GiantessCrush #Sizeplay SizeSIZEsizesizesizesizesizesize, it’s really unhealthy. 

Hence Fetish hence “Obsession”, that’s what fetish means = You have nothing better to do.

This is why macrophilia is so unique though, solely because of how relevant it is to this era, the socio-cultural relevance.

And the reason for that (again) is this toxic gynocentric era in the west/ First world countries in general enabled it/ birthed it/ cultivated it in the first place.

Hear me: Macrophilia (One obsession) didn’t cause the problems between men and women, it is simply one of many manifestations/ & ultimately a spawn of these problems. 

It’s literally an example of what your civilization did horribly wrong whilst trying to empower women, you left men behind. 

Worldwide issue btw, Macrohphilia is not exclusive to America, neither is toxic-Gynocentrism. But America is Gold Medal champ in making their Men are 100% aware they are expendable to society, made to feel inept or stupid, should do more, here’s a superhero movie showing a guy being cool but IRL we’ll treat you like garbage in policies & law making. 

A lot of Japanese are into MacroCultisms, to no one’s surprise. 

Not in the 50s to 70s, but during the 90s, post-Internet 2000s era is when it really sparked, now all of a sudden we got a huge influx of goofballs wanting women to commit mass genocides on entire cities (Which involves children & babies- #ThisIsFine) or men the size of germs shrining women for existing, living on their bodies like Demodex (your hair mites)... just the most mind-numbing shit just to feel like you’re worthless, on purpose.

Kind of like the narrative privileged society pumps into you? #FutureisFemale (How inclusive) 

Or articles propagating that men are “Falling behind”, any & every excuse to plant seeds of disconnect and potential resentment, always negative.

The goal is to propagandize female supremacy to either frustrate men into resenting women (some of MGTOW), turn them paranoid (Anti-Woke Tards that complain about any movie with a female lead or women doing anything cool or competent), or straight up break them like dogs & the victims will ask for more (Macrocreeps)

or turn them indifferent, numb to even want to say or do anything about the problem. Men who unplugged and absolutely do not care anymore.

A lot of Men have been whipped & brutally trained by their own culture to be and somehow want to be second/third class citizens in some respects. and you’ll have attention seeking narcissist women infiltrating these communities garnering a following calling themselves “Goddess- [insert name]” , absolute silliness, just the most infantile stupid crap you’ll ever see. 

The strongest degree of secondhand embarrassment I’ve ever experienced, it’s like watching younger siblings just ruin....everything they touch for no reason.

These women banking on the insecurity of thousands of men who just need help or a fucking hug.

And the simple chemistry of men and women boils down to: SEX, connection, life, be happy. That’s it. That’s really all people want.

How do you complicate that, this badly? And it NOT be an artificial catalyst that caused it, life was not designed to be this convoluted & silly. This is what happens when you make relations between men and women more complicated than necessary. 

Otherwise, frankly: How does genocide correlate with sex. 

Vore? Still cringe, but at least you can loosely correlate that with oral sex, digestion (psychotic) but believe it or not it’s wanting to be in the womb again. 

(Male or female) it applies, yes brains are stupid like that. This is why what you ingest through the eyes to your soul is important, most people don’t even know where the impulses are coming from but WELP *wank wank

KNOW THYSELF. FREE THYSELF. Ya’ll better watch The Matrix again and really listen to what it’s telling you, not “was” telling, what IT IS telling us, still today. 

“A prison for your mind.”, notice how The Matrix in context was a “Fantasy” land/ distracting from the real war going on outside of the fantasy, outside of the prison. 

We better catch what these films are communicating.

Back on topic, how does being abused/bullied/destroyed/digested/ all of this crap by women- relate to sex and making love and NOT be related to some psychological struggles or a mass installation op. Even if unintentional.

Propaganda, abuse, societal/generational neglect. That’s how. Genocide ain’t it boi, something upstairs went sleep mode & it needs to wake up.

“The sleeper must awaken.“

I’m not smart at all, I just know what shit smells like and I’m more than willing to step on toes, and happily brave a ban or 2 if it means saying what apparently no one wants to say because we have this unspoken rule that all kinks are sacred & immune to judgement.

HA!, I don’t know what planet you came from, but that’s not how life works buddy. Whenever I tell fetishist this, they shut down completely or unravel, their confidence just goes away like fart.

Why?

Because they rely on the world saying “Sorry, carry on.” Nope! That’s not how life works. A fetish is not a baby, so adopting it gives absolutely nothing to us.

Really, all we have to do is pay attention to the world in real time and the rest sorts itself out. But our everyday can muddy & blur the lines, I get it, and that’s part of the game. Blue Pill baby, it was never about being asleep, it’s about being distracted.

“You need to see.“

- Jamis (DUNE PART TWO)

Some of these hombre’s aren’t even abused as kids, sometimes all it takes is one awkward moment with a girl overpowering you verbally or physically, a moment of vulnerability, or you get yelled at by an adult woman, or you see abuse or a woman having an overwhelming advantage in a movie and society does the rest with crap like #GirlsRunTheWorld over and over and over again-

No strong male role models to build up a healthy ego, or no dad at all, or a competent father, or even a big brother or sister, then when your confidence isn’t properly built (by your parents or environment) in time when you see something that makes you feel inferior or put-off and your mind can’t register it properly.

Like psychological indigestion and or in layman’s terms “Intrusive thought” that manifests into something it shouldn’t.

So it doesn’t bounce off as it should, or make you mad & you reject the negative signal.- instead it actually sinks into you, you internalize it. And it sits there, and sits there, & you keep seeing things in shows, feeding that seed.

And through a coping mechanism post-puberty where your hormones turn off your intelligence entirely (Yes, Sex chemicals actually make you stupid by design),  where you then normalize the toxicity because it’s women doing it, and women are attractive. So genocide is a good thing if a woman does, because women are hot. 

You’re horny now + the epic scale of giant women having near omnipotent control over your fate provides unrivaled excitement & dopamine levels that no woman could or would even want to measure up to (Cause it’s goofy af, Gulliver’s Travels #headass). 

Then the newborn fetishist propagates #Giantessisms over and over and over again with the unbridled freedom of the web- ready to act a fool.

And the ever so convenient echo-chamber of fetish spaces where everything you do and say came straight from Christ himself, where you’ll receive ZERO challenge. (Another part of the problem)

Indulge comfortably until someone, eventually goes against the grain in 4-15 years, roasting it- and then your defenses activate.  Because how dare they insult something that provides absolutely zero value or tangible substance to your life amiright?

But my oh my, I don’t know where it came from, I guess it’s always been there but It’s pretty much my personality and ”a part of my identity”....it’s a “hobby” 

-some say this crap, of course on threads where the likeminded are & will upvote everything they say, naturally naturally.  

Challenge is their Kryptonite. Questions make everyone queasy.

Painting women as inhuman psychopaths is a HOBBY. Riiiiiight, Okay then.

Pretending in make believe land that you’re a tyrannical burden to the society that would bend over backwards to protect you at the expense of men, any day of the week. 

You actually want to be an evil & mortal danger to people if means your fragile ego getting a stroke from being a couple meters/Mile  taller than everyone else, for a sense of control you obviously can’t manage to obtain as a competent adult here in reality. That’s part of your “identity”? Oooooooookay then.

Definitely not overcompensating for anything.

But don’t judge them though, you don’t want to hurt anyone’s fee’s fee’s now do you? You don’t want to be a meanie or a bad person.

Because saying nothing & pretending “This is fine” has worked out so well for mankind thus far right? 

Just ask Japan 2023 (Age of consent raise in that year, look it up. *If I talk about it, that’s going to be another essay, let’s stay focused: 

Sexes Disconnect/Gynocentrism/Gynocentric-Fetishism/Birthrates/Illegals/Decline )  🚨

Cycle of toxicity birthing more cycles.. 

The biggest woman you see first/imprint on in life is ideally your mother-figure. 

These cats just want mommy, thus from the place of a child (thus small like a child) so macrophilia has some PeterPan syndrome-isms in it’s core, thus to no one’s surprise this is a very cringe case of some suspended development because for most, all of this started when they were at their smallest & VULNERABLE to begin with.

“Vulnerable“, something they want to feel. That’s part of the high. “Helpless“, you’ll hear that term a lot in their subtext, it’s like a religious mantra next to “insignificant“, they LOVE that one, holy shit is that one a cult favorite line. (Z from ANTZ #headass, “You’re right Z, you are insignificant.”)

I’m telling you, all you have to do is pay attention. How our brains work is not that complicated especially when what these innocent goofs choose to share with us is literally spelling out the picture- How can I tell? Consistency and the fact that they NEED the world to know, like a cry for help:

Except they’re getting likes & money, and not a fuck to give to provide a solution vs exacerbation. 

And no, unlike what some of these exploitative women will say: NO providing an outlet or safe-space for these little angels is not therapeutic. 

Therapy is an actual solution, letting it go is a solution. Indulgence? Is like dumping a truck full of “happy snow” in a rehab center and then calling that “therapeutic”. 

The women arguing this want their meal tickets to stay delusional, stay deranged and remain imprisoned. Money baby, it’s all money.

This fetish became an industry, like many tend to do.

The repetitive nature of the “content” is too consistent, Artwork evolves it’s narrative. Art changes.

(I repeat) But this? It stays the exact same, same narrative, same bloodshed, same dialogue, all that’s different is the production value and who it’s coming from.

And yes, all of this & others mentioned prior contributes or related to the birthrates issue (China, Japan, Russia & others suffer this too), thus this illegal invasion in America.

All of it is connected, all of it, this isn’t the usual rambling session or tangent. There’s a point to this entire lecture, this is actual lore for the movie you’re living in.

The Twilight Zone episode that will not end even after you do.

These are real people, it’s not doing America any favors pretending these clowns/more-so the implication and subtext of their issues or more importantly THE issue doesn’t exist.

It’s the same with Japanese men and their infatuation with Anime culture & how that mega industry and so many other factors are causing Japan’s own falling births, social shut-in’s, etc.

We can’t just ignore this crap because no one wants to be “that guy”, screw that. Nothing’s gonna get done if we’re stuck in our own little worlds. 

Doesn’t make sense to have the Internet and be this connected & still be so distant at the same time.

We gotta at least address the roots of the issues while having fun-

That’s the operative concern, what caused the phenomenon in the first place, how do these obsessions work, why, and where is it coming from?

And why is it almost prophetic? Like a warning.

This isn’t about Macrocreeps being the problem, they’re a result. 

This ain’t about coming after them, though it’s been high time somebody put their ass on blast, so long overdue, holy shit. 

Because if you step back and really look at the concept of a giant woman committing genocide because her job sucks or she needed to bigger just to feel good about herself instead of just getting her life together? 

It’s pretty silly lol, infantile even.

But this is really about the subtext, that they are living breathing red-flags/reminders that your culture is failing and it’s failing everyone.

Woman is god, male subjugation good, women destroy civilization (including killing kids & babies by the thousands apparently, so marcocreeps are indirectly beating to slaughter of children, yaaaay) and yes, some also sexualize children too, casually. 

Japan would be proud or as of 2023, maybe not? Lol. 

Wash rinse repeat, it’s never enough. Men, humans, animals, life needs to be red paste on the bottom of a woman’s feet or else the itch isn’t scratched. 

For an average macrochump to feel some sort of sexual vindication in the context of the fantasy:  Women. The ONLY natural  threshold of human life, absolutely need need to trample, torture, and destroy life. 

That is indicative of something very concerning.

This is what I mean when I say Macrophilia is at it’s core: Anti-Human

That is straight misogyny, and I’m one of those people that hate the overuse of the word “misogyny”, I never use it but here I am using it (If I’m not mistaken for the first time in serious context) because this is actually that disturbing.

Click “upvote” on the psychopath content (”content” lmfao, more like commissioned propaganda)

comment for more, make video games repeating the same exact, and I do mean SAME EXACT narrative. 

(Yes, these goofballs make games & comics *they’re shit storytelling btw, absolute garbage, it’s not even appropriate for ironic cringe, it’s just bad*, it’s not creative either. But the lengths they go to to realize the exact same talking point they’ve heard a million times? The sheer determination to want to be demeaned, disrespected, & bullied by women and girls? That’s the impressive part. Again, I sincerely doubt they’d put that same effort in their kids. Just saying.)

further internalize male self-hatred as you were programmed to do so. Follow the script. Question nothing. Consume. Consume. Consume. Indulge, sink, drown.

You’d think they’d get bored of it, or maturity would fight it’s hardest to tame that beast of a brain in one’s cranium, and fit some sanity in there. God forbid

All in all, The American Culture state has weaponized women against men for decades now- so the fetish itself is not surprising or a shock.  

Men or women wanting to give up “control” for a sense of security in being ruled or abused in every way possible by a giant entity (male or female) sounds ideal for a (giant entity) state/society/government that literally would love love loooove for men (aka the first & last line of defense of civilization) or women (first, second and last line of defense to the children AND the only natural threshold of new life) to bow down, and want to be slaves.

So (in general) if your protectors are too busy kissing the ground, who’s protecting you? 

It’s why so many women are wondering what happened to men? Where did the men go? Why aren’t men performing? 

To put it simply (fetish or no fetish), a lot of western men:

They’re broken. Tamed. Clipped. Sterilized. By the same entity that tells you you can have it all “The Party”, The collective, society, the entity, the giant. 

Because there’s a lot more men committing self-termination than women, look it up. They’re suffering.

So most, not all- But all in all, women need better “uplifting” messages and the men are in serious need of society giving a crap about them.

  It starts in the home, both the solution and the problem starts at home and the village/society. Because parents can do everything right and society will undo 70% of that work.

I’ve said all this before, and I will keep saying it until I’m dead & probably still talking & ranting from beyond the grave.

If I personally wanted to "RIP” a country, “If.” Theoretically

I would convince the men that being a man is toxic, that they shouldn’t be men, to the point where they actually want to give up their manhood. 

Enable a superiority complex in the women regarding the men, to keep them in a constant state of resentment & entitlement and they don’t even know why. And the men are so passive & broken, they won’t challenge the women unless pushed, and when pushed, they will be frustrated, & what could result in a solution will just deepen the resentment on both sides.

And while one group is insufferable and the other one is groveling and pathetic and angry, or they just fight each other- The children are now exposed.

 Corrupt the children, you take that country’s future. Checkmate. 

Same with race. 

Not a nuke, not poisoning the water- but poison how the people see each other. 

Corrupt what they believe until they believe in nothing at all, not even in themselves, let alone their Gov., let alone their Homeland. Poison the culture. Keep them fighting, so when I do pull up on their doorstep, it’s too late.

 [Destroy the traditional family first, the pillars. Trivialize values until you stand for nothing: Destroy the country]

Convince the Protector Class/Men they should want to be destroyed by the group of people they should be protecting in the first fucking place: That is the power of propaganda people, corruption of the natural instinct. Anti-Human.

Size is not power, 

controlling what you see, influencing what you should think, what you don’t believe, who you hate, how to hate, what to hate, what to see as good, even now influence what you obsess over- To control how the world changes, controlling the triggers to your mind, propaganda, knowing you better than you know yourself, how to speak, what to say, weaponizing the mind against you, propaganda, that is power. 

Message = Power

 Always has been.

This is psychological warfare in real time. Brain-Malware, this is not a joke.

And trust and believe, I actually do have better things to do,  I only talk this much because I actually give a hoot.

 It’s just a crime that professionals with lengthier credentials WILL NOT tell you any of this. 

Propaganda is CONTROL, and can convince you to give yours up. 

Propaganda hurts you and conditions you to want to be hurt by the other half of humanity who’s entire instinct is community, birthing life, emotional propensity strength & nurturing. Things that glue civilization together. 

Things that are trivialized by civilization but things that civilization needs to stay intact, that only women provide in a way only women (as a collective) can. That’s womanhood, but you’ll sooner hear about empowerment on a corporate ad on Youtube to sell some damn soap than these companies tell you (what I just said) that truth because people actually NEED to see and hear this.

Hear me out, women are physically softer, designed to be more pleasant and lovable to appeal. Even an average woman’s voice triggers pleasure chemicals in your brain.

But somehow the popular obsessive scenario in the cult is women destroying everything, with a smile, with pleasure, and obscene satisfaction. Absolute demon-spawn who’s birth is a mistake.

Sooooo the overtone being, again, that a woman with any power- is a threat to civilization? A threat to men. 

Wow, that’s how you feel? Lmfao!  Again, smells like misogyny.  Smells like an implanted narrative. 

See, majority of the “GTS” (Gratuitous Trivial Silliness) -producers just conjure their content to receive likes, appease the intrusive thoughts living rent-free in their head and most importantly validation for their Misandrist-macabre & maybe money from the fellow members. 

The actual overtones of what they’re spreading out in the Human races digital continuity (Inter-Nets) and how that insults/slanders women or what that says about them because that’s coming from their own heart & mind about women- that  will never sink in for them to devote 5 seconds of self-awareness. 

Or they did, and just don’t care because they know nobody replying will say anything less than “More please!”

Too much dopamine addiction to the validation to properly think about the subtext or what they’re actually communicating by drawing/shooting/programming  the same crap over and over again.

A beautifully implanted rotted seed (on part of the powers sabotaging men & women), twisted, horrifically sick joke. 

Completely Anti-Human narrative, because who even portrays women like that, all women wanted was Equality. Why do we absolutely need them to loom over us like overlords when they actually just want someone to love them, listen to them, and see them? Flaws and all.

That’s all women want. Women are not a mystery, they’re just made to be complicated by the media & hacks that dictate the prevailing narrative that articles spread like wildfire, because women being complicated helps the disconnection. It romanticizes it.

Tell someone a lie enough times then it becomes true.

Some bro’s propagate “Woman with power is a man’s undoing” / “The threshold of life being the merchants of death” for a living and sleep at night without considering “Why is that coming from inside me” ? 

Nothing. 

This is why accountability, judgement, criticism is necessary. 

It helps prevent society from becoming a mass asylum (where it gets to a point where a woman who steps on toys for a living is actually given an interview, yes this happened). 

It never “hurts anyone” until it does-

Just. Ask. JAPAN. 

(’2023 Japan Age of Consent Law change’, look it up and look up why they changed it)

Some commenter said something simple yet true on the same video where some goofy attention seeking woman who sells videos of herself stepping on plastic toys & sells said footage to mouth-breathers, she ultimately claimed “I’m a Giantess” (*nice job parents, good to know where Americano Tax dollars went)

And the commenter didn’t insult her, they didn’t say anything wild, no essay, no lecture, not even something I personally expected, they said simply:

“Western society has derailed.”,

 that’s it.  It’s not profound, but it’s so candid & haunting. 

That stuck with me.

Because that’s the point.

And then if you’re not dealing with human footstools who want to be literal pets for giant-women, you have the other end of the spectrum: Man-Boyos who are actually toxic, the kind that grooms, unwanted advances persist then calls you a “bitch” because the situation didn’t play out how it did in his head, the R*9ists, harassers, stalkers etc.

Plenty of confidence, but misplaced, no humility, no maturity, nothing intelligent to say but talking the loudest. Can’t tell you how many times I almost threw hands with those types of dudes.

And in-between, you have the normies just trying to keep their heads down, live out whatever’s left of the “American Dream/ Theory”, racking up 50 exes every 6 months trying to figure it out because the only legacy society has to pass down to you is failure. 

Consider this hookup culture where women are expected by a lot of men to be LVL99 Sexperts but if she’s had too many partners she’s considered damaged/used up/monkey branching by MGTOW groups...who in concept should be a good thing, some good messages, but overall just boil down to divorcees & bitters bashing women while sprinkling “male empowerment” on top of it.

Again, we need less empowerment and more principles. With principles, you won’t need someone rubbing your belly telling you you’re a special girl or a special boy.

She hits 30, she’s over the hill when actually 30-35 is physically prime time to have babies. 20-30 should be young women figuring it out (mentally, existential), as with any adult.

Or women told/encouraged to “experiment” or made to think they can have the swingers life at 19  and then settle down when it’s convenient. 

Which they can, however, consequences don’t take a break because you’ve been taught to think that’s having fun- Then they’re worn & torn before they’re 25, just way too eager to sleep with 70% of America, like slow the hell down, jfc.

Have a laundry list of expectations for a man, but who you are doesn’t match half the good things you expect from him- How is that a recipe for success?

Just having your cake, eating it, and choking on it on both sides.

Both sides have podcasts asking “what happened?” or pointing the finger to the other side, when in reality--

 We’re not enemies nor meant to fight in nature, powerful women are not a threat, civilization NEEDS that. We need more women that earn their power, & have something offer.

A woman with advantage is not something that will threaten civilization, that’s advancement you goofballs lol.

 Ad proud men aren’t something to keep caged, broken and exercised.

We’re not even designed to fight each other. This is precisely the point as to how forced this all is.

We’re set up to be fractured and wedged from each other in a cultural sense. (because obviously people are still bumpin hips & having kids but some are not raising em worth a crap or training them to be useful or struggling to give them something good, or raising them up right just to be corrupted as soon as they leave the house, sometimes even earlier. some sects of Society are not even hiding that they are “coming for your kids”)

 “Everyone knows  what sex is, a lot of people know how to fuck. Nobody ‘makes love’ anymore.”

SO point being, finally, again: Propaganda is POWER. Propaganda is control (Not a new concept, it’s been said before). It creates delusions/& apparently fetishism. It creates false realities, conflict, disconnect. Lies. Lies. Lies. Propaganda is CONTROL. 

“power & control“, two words macrocreeps obsess over in fantasyland- same two concepts that propaganda is meant to take away from you. That is NOT an accident.

Drive the American sexes apart, division makes for a weaker people, weaker people are easier to control, birthrates dropping since the 70s (Not an accident, look it up & it’s got nothing to do with women going to school and getting jobs) 

And now Biden or the powers above him are making up the difference with an influx of illegals to compensate for what Americans are not birthing because of the disconnect and all the various side-effects of that and the propaganda.

American Feds has always been lacking, but this level of incompetence is not accidental. It’s sabotage. And it’s not new, it’s no different from how dope is implanted in Black communities so the community eats itself alive, remaining behind and seemingly primal.

Think about it, why would we need a New World Order, if one of the most iconic Empires on the planet  is successful, healthy and thriving economically?

The answer is, you wouldn’t need a NWO if the U.S. is King or a threat or taken seriously. 

(Even if you’re not the biggest fan of American history, or the current reputation they have with their poor wokeness & political embarrassments. Do not underestimate just how many countries look to America for reinforcement and an example & always have.)

So to fix that, you prevent The United States of America from EVER becoming a threat again.

And instead of picking a fight on the outside- infiltrate their political parties, infiltrate their culture, their pop-culture, propagandize what they watch, what the masses internalize, break the family down, drive apart men & women, promote alternative lifestyles, make truth an “insensitivity”, speaking truth punishable by legal persecution or being banned from social media (which is akin to erasing your existence in the modern age), and plant agents in the Senate that will (by vote) prevent any progress for the American people:

(Think in Newspeak or be banned for ‘violating community guidelines’, you vulgar swine) aka 

“Social Media” aka 1984: The Prototype

��there is no war in ba sing se”

Pay off the leader to literally allow illegals (that coincidentally involve a good number of your own nationals) into their country and make the legal citizens who are already desperate for better healthcare to then pay for the toilet-paper the illegals wipe their ass with.

The illegals aren’t the problem, Americans are letting them in there. Look up what one of China’s border installations look like, it’s a FORTRESS out of a James Bond game. 

Russia’s border doesn’t play either so why is America expected to be the fool?

Blatant sabotage. It’s all connected. Biden himself in ‘07 said a great nation can’t have weak borders (paraphrasing), now he’s changed his tune when what he said was 100% true.

Birthrates resulting from the disconnect, the disconnect resulting from propaganda, the fetish being the manifestation of the culture’s declining climate & hostility toward men and boys & trivialization of women & girls, dehumanizing humanity; As well as a symptom that the propaganda is working way better than intended.  

OR? the scary part? It was calculated. (doubt it tho)

PROPAGANDA is power!!! Control how people perceive reality & themselves, you control the direction of that society. 

Stepping on cities doesn’t compare to making a NATION eat itself over 50 years or less, it’s not even close. The slow knife cuts deepest, always have. 

(Notice how i’ve belabored & repeated some points throughout, that’s a methodology of propaganda, bombard you with the same narrative so that the narrative sticks, I did that on purpose just so you get a sample of how this machine is operated. Repeat exposure is form of conditioning, hence fetishism, repeat exposure. Repeat the same message. Repeat the same message.)

And because it’s working, Americans are likely past the point of recovery, social media is a powerful tool as well as an effective distraction.

If it took this long to decline, imagine how long it will take to repair the damage, and Americas will never be allowed to fix anything, not before another tragedy conveniently strikes or another reason to fight each other conveniently arises, more distraction.

The problem starts where the solution does, in the home, in your culture.  In your mind.

America needs more people, but the world is rotting, the times are going in a direction not suitable for children, or even if having/affording children is smart. You have a newborn that needs formula, you can’t afford insurance but your taxes are feeding an illegal’s kids. 

Who in their right mind would reward a society with another mind to corrupt, another slave to bleed dry and it won’t even help you raise the child before trying to feed other people kids- who trespassed to begin with and our own homeless are being exiled from cities like the trash you walk on?! *ERROR404*

But we have 50MIL+ for trespassers.

 It’s lose- lose for the modern Americano.

And don’t think Trump is the answer- while it is convenient that his trial happened just at the right time for this election to pop off (ideal distraction from something else going on in the world) these people will fight & debate on TV then have orgies on islands while you’re arguing with people you don’t know online because you think your political tribe is the answer to the world’s problems. When it’s all just manufactured chaos.

Make promises about things you can see, like “build the wall”, but bringing the country together? Bringing men and women together? Better healthcare WITHOUT subtext loopholes to fund backdoor deals in other countries? 

These antagonist corporations causing this disconnect in advertisements & movies, will they be falling in line to help your people?

Do the bloodlines that OWN these corporate giants give a crap?

If that isn’t the argument in the Presidential debate, you’re voting for an agent. (And I keep saying “Agent”, because I repeat: WATCH THE MATRIX again. Hiding in plain sight baby, in plain sight.) 

They do not care, they’re reading scripts, on orders. They promise you policy, when what will save you is unity in the culture. Literally just people getting along.

Help the culture maturing, growing up (pun intended, headass) , it will never happen. 

Why would Americans want that, why would Americans ever want the only real progress that will save their country? Unity. Cooperation. Coexistence. 

Apparently everything’s going great in America, why would people want actual progress that would fix everything, why would you ever want an actual solution when you can keep being promised one by people who don’t live in your community and own Islands to hand down to their great great-grands and yours live off of tips.

But you have 50 million+ big ones to spare for illegals? Hm, you cats got yourselves a paradise eh? Ready to fight everyone’s wars & fix everyone’s problems but your own.

Let them all in to keep families together, and drive your own people apart through movies, ads, games, articles, etc.. 

Your Gov. (and the powers above them) are giving Palpatine a run for his money when it comes to this Chess game play, my lord.

Ya’ll have been getting played, and played hard. 

That’s the only “Domination” happening here, the powers playing on the uninitiated, broken, lonely & longing and above all: distracted. 

Subliminally training so many to submit, hunt for likes from the collective, obey TOS or be erased (prototype martial law), and ironically want subjugation ie. train people to want what’s coming anyway.

All “they” (the token “they”) prevailing party- had to do was slap a woman on it. Genius. And the resulting atmosphere is hurting men and women, genius. 

Life was not meant or designed to be like this. This is why there are problems. 

Reverend Mother from DUNE PART TWO said it best: 

“-there are no sides.“

[cirusthecitrus]

"Horde Prime was said to have two heads"

You know what, lemme bring my old sketches back, cause lord knows i wasnt annoying enough about this lil piece of wiki trivia about filmation Prime (literally the more i learn about the 80s HP the more insane I get about my Kur Twins au cause how does this fact fits it so perfectly)

Basically, this idea is an AU for an AU, where Horde Prime's backstory is the same except for the fact that he and his brother are conjoined twins Since in this version the boys look exactly like their planet's local deity (also known as The Comet Brothers) they were worshipped since day 1 and the religious community didn't even need to convince people that they were truly the ones. In this story Anillis and Hec-Tor actually believed in their divine origins and feared to be proven wrong, because if they're no saints then they're just... strange kids, a burden to their community, unlovable defects. They were certain that they had no other choice but to embrace sainthood

So they gladly played along and were exploited by the high priests until a massive investigation was conducted that proved to the world that the boys had no godly powers and thus couldn't be real protectors of Krytis. Feeling useless, lost, humiliated and unwanted, Anillis and Hec-Tor wished to be seperated for the first time in their entire life. Thus came the idea of making new perfect bodies for both of them. It took them way longer than in the og backstory, but in the end, they succeeded. The problem was - they didn't like being in seperate bodies. After decades of sharing a life and a body, such huge change felt weird, unpleasant and scary. The brothers had given each other a chance at normalcy but soon rejected it, despite it all

But once they switched back, they discovered that the new bodies could move and speak on their own, that those were not just bodies but fully developed sentient people. It is when it hit them - the brothers had just created life. Their scientific invention could as well be seen as magic. They do have powers, they are saints, they are stars. No, they are better, more powerful than all of the stars in the vast sky. And they shall be treated as such. And they will make Krytis and the rest of the known universe fear and adore them, everyone will pay for ever doubting the brothers and casting them aside. But at first - they still needed a new body. One body for both of them, but this time stronger, more beautiful, more perfect. And of course, they couldn't just leave their new brothers behind too...

The 80s Horde Prime had two heads, the spop Prime's design at some point had four arms. The assymetricall extra eyes, the clones he keeps calling his brothers. It's almost like there's always someone else with HP, unseen entity following him everywhere, a phantom limb that still hurts at times, a part of him that could complete him but is missing. In conclusion, Hec-Tor is real and he's been hunting the narrative even in the 4th dimention (this is in fact a joke) Also, funny enough, this is my only au where I can see Prime changing for the better and not dying in the end, since here they're only a little insane, Anillis and Hec-Tor do keep each other humble after all. It's even possible that the clones are having a slightly better time serving this version of Prime

[solimavi]

Majima: Love, Suffering, and Dreams

I've still got Majima Gaiden on the mind and really need to ramble about Majima's mental state in this game, the emphasis on dreams and how they fit into the core of Majima's character and his arc in this game, and his relationships with Kiryu and Noah. Spoilers ahead.

When really getting into the meat of this character, something important to take notice of is of course the tattoo choice. To give a brief overview, hannya represent female demons who are driven by very intense emotions. An example of such an entity is the malicious spirit that manifested from Lady Rokujo's jealousy towards Genji's wife, Lady Aoi, in "The Tale of Genji". Bringing things back around to Majima, I often think of Yakuza 2. It's the game where we get the first look at his tattoo and in that game, there's a shot focused on it before he singlehandedly takes down an Omi horde. To bare such a tattoo is to proclaim to be driven by things such as obsession, jealousy, heartbreak, and wrath to the point those feelings overwhelm you and turn you into it a demon. The design of the mask is meant to appear as both dangerous and tormented. As Ugaki put it, Majima is overflowing with love, and he suffers for it.

Majima, as a matter of self-preservation, doesn't often wear his heart on his sleeve, but nonetheless accepts his strong emotions and the suffering that comes with them as a core part of who he is. In fact, the tattoo is him telling us that those feelings and suffering are what he's all about.

With all that said, let's take a closer look at his first encounter with the giant squid and the context of that encounter.

Years of unrequited love towards Kiryu, the devastating revelation of his cancer diagnosis, and a desperate attempt to find a, to Majima, likely not real cure are what led him to this moment. The interplay of love and suffering had reached its peak and appeared to be about to consume him in the form of a mythical-tier giant sea monster. When faced with this situation, Majima, against all reason, eagerly chose death. And I think this is where we see Majima's identity as someone destined to suffer because of love meets with the part of him that's "just a tough dude that likes to fantasize a lot" (Yokoyama's words). To a romantic who keeps their head in the clouds and embraces this sort of suffering as a core part of who they are, dying to a monster because they wouldn't stop fighting for the object of their one-sided love could appear to be the ultimate affirmation of that identity and their love. Majima isn't just standing his ground and going down with his ship. He's been stuck in a feeling of stagnation for years, as far back as at least Yakuza 5. The Tojo Clan is gone, and society has left the former yakuza to rot. And now he's been dealt the blow that he might be about to lose Kiryu. He's in a lot of pain. This was an opportunity to end it and go out with a bang for Kiryu.

But we all know Majima didn't actually die there. Through some miracle, the squid doesn't kill him, and he eventually washes up on shore after passing out on the ship. It's then that he meets Noah.

Majima finds a kindred spirit in Noah. Noah is preoccupied with fantasies of seeing the world while being stuck living a dull and sheltered life on Rich Island. He feels stuck and wants better and more exciting things. Just like Majima.

It's through helping Noah see the world that Majima finds the potential for fun and excitement in life again and two key things happen.

Number one is the second encounter with the giant squid. Before, the squid set the stage for giving Majima the ideal romantic death. The perfect ending to his tragedy. At the time, he was ready to accept that death. In the second encounter, nearing the end of the story, it's the squid that ends up dying at Majima's hands.

Number two is Majima's determination to not die in Madlantis. This comes after seeing Noah's response to Jason's near-death experience protecting him and Moana's kidnapping. To Noah, it was because his dad and sister love him and wanted to make him happy by helping him chase his dreams that they both got hurt. As a response, Noah was ready to condemn himself for having those dreams in the first place and throw them away. Majima was able to pull him back from those thoughts, but what would have happened if Majima had then gone and got himself killed after all of that? Again, Majima and Noah are kindred spirits when it comes to dreaming. Majima gives a lot of value to letting yourself fantasize about better and more exciting things. Noah throwing that away because he blames himself for somebody else getting hurt isn't something Majima can let happen and he's forced to consider how his usual self-destructive behavior could end up hurting the person he wants to help. In 0, Sera stepped in and forced this kind of consideration on Majima by directly calling him out before he could kill on Makoto's behalf. But the games that take place after 0 are indicative of no lasting reckoning with how his self-destructive habits could do more harm than good to the people he loves. In PYIH, he's able to think things through without needing another person to step in and talk sense into him.

Bringing it back around to Kiryu, there was a bit from the Anan magazine Majima interview where his connection with Kiryu was described as especially special amongst all the people Majima has encountered and connected to. He's Majima's dream. He loves Kiryu more than he loves anything else. While Majima was out there trying to cut in line to meet the reaper early because of that love, Kiryu was in the hospital fighting for his life to have as much time with the people he loves as possible after years of running away from them. What would Majima's sudden death had done for Kiryu? How would he feel if he knew Majima had died while desperately trying to find a cure for him?

Majima didn't find the miracle elixir he was looking for. He also didn't die while out looking for something he likely didn't actually believe to be real. No glorious ending to his tragic love story. No saving himself from still being alive to experience the pain of losing Kiryu if and when it happens. He just returns to Japan, ready to find new dreams to keep himself going, and he visits Kiryu to tell him about his recent adventure.

What would have happened if Majima hadn't lost his memories and then met and set sail with Noah? Would he have kept looking for that cure until he either found it or died trying? Majima says Noah saved him and when stepping back and looking at what took place, I don't think this is only referring to the helping hand Noah gave him when he washed up on shore.

Now that I put that all out there. We've got the former yakuza who is going through easily one of the worst moments in his life. He then meets a little kid going through their own struggles and finds himself able to deeply understand and relate to the kid. He takes up a guardian role to that kid, but he ends up being helped by them as much as he helps them. Oh, and there's this very familiar bit around the middle of the story where that kid is abruptly kidnapped. This is really starting to ring some bells.

Majima's story fuses the need to quickly adjust to an unfamiliar environment (the amnesia in a place far from home compared to Kiryu getting out of prison after 10 years not knowing what's going on) and the life changing encounter (Kiryu meeting Haruka who is just as lost and alone as he is) from Y1 with the death seeking behavior resulting from grief over loss of a loved one from Y2. Noah is the Haruka that's there to both save and be saved by Majima. It all rolls back around to rhyming with Kiryu and Haruka's story.

Anyways. Hopefully this isn't too rambly and disorganized. I really like to think about Majima's obsessive side, and I was really thrown a bone to chew on here with him maybe romanticizing those struggles. Trying to find romance or a bright side to your problems is a very real and relatable tendency people often struggle with, just probably not often on the level of "I'm gonna set sail and get killed by a giant sea monster for the love of my life". All of that interconnects with the sad love story with Kiryu, the focus on the importance of dreams, finding the fun in life again, and the parallels to Kiryu and Haruka with Majima and Noah. It's a lot to think about packed into this one five-chapter game.

[hoshinasblade]

hoshina found you in the rooftop of the training building.

the lights from the skyscrapers miles away from the base looked like beacons from this distance, hoshina thought to himself. you were however looking at the moon, crescent-shaped in the sky, dark clouds swallowing some of its luminescence.

hoshina knew he would find you here. he would have dropped by sooner, but the close-door meeting of high-ranking officials in the force took longer than he expected. even now, his top uniform unzipped and both his hands in his pockets, hoshina can still feel the tension and fatigue from the discussion earlier.

"i'm thinking of quitting." your face is indecipherable, but your voice betrayed the emotion swirling inside you. "i'm no good here."

the commanders of the anti-kaiju divisions met a few hours ago - an emergency session to discuss possible strategies on how they're going to handle kaiju threats going forward. it has not been a week since the attack in the tachikawa base where several officers in your platoon had died protecting each other. the image of people you'd trained with, worked with, even shared a meal with, dying under your command is forever etched on your memories, unable to be erased.

the truth is you cannot even stomach looking at yourself in front of the mirror without feeling like a complete, utter failure.

hoshina stood beside you, the cold breeze blowing the stray strands of his hair away his face. he wanted to offer his jacket to you but settled on putting his arm around you instead. "it wasn't your fault", he said, because it really wasn't. he faced the strongest entity in the horde of monsters that attacked the third division base that night and survived by the skin of his teeth. his only consolation is he didn't lost you in the whole ordeal.

you sniffled. "i'm not like you, soshiro. i'm not... strong." hoshina wanted to assert that what you said is a lie but decided against it. "tell me what i need to do," you pleaded, "cause i don't know anymore."

hoshina wished he could take away your pain even if it means he'll have to be the one to bear its burden.

"as your vice-captain, i am going to ask you to stay," hoshina said before turning to look straight at you. "we've lost a lot of people already, we cannot afford to lose any more." i cannot afford to lose you, he wanted to say.

your scoff surprised him. "and as my boyfriend?" you presented your follow-up question.

"as your boyfriend, i need you here," hoshina answered too quickly. he reminded himself to slow down; the last thing both of you need is an argument. he let the silence enveloped you for a few seconds, just enough to calm his own erratic heartbeat. hoshina, watching you from the corner of his eye, started to speak again. "you remember when you said you wanted to be a defense officer? we weren't even dating back then," hoshina pointed out. "i wanted to be one since i was little, but you, god, i have never met anyone else who wanted to protect people so bad like you do. honestly that's part of why i love you," he told you.

hoshina understands all too well how you feel - the horror of knowing you could have saved people who laid their trust on you but didn't. there are a thousand reasons why he wakes up each day as the vice-captain of an anti-kaiju division, and one of it is because he has to make it up for the people he's lost along the way - he's decided to continue on his mission of eradicating kaijus because if he stops he's scared everything and everyone he's lost will be in vain.

"look, if you really want an out, we know i can't stop you anyway", hoshina said matter-of-factly. "but if you stay, i'll be here for you." his hand lightly touched yours. "i'll protect you. i'll take care of you so you can take care of other people too. i'll protect you."

you did not reply. you did not have to.

[scalene-4]

before i told myself and all the people i love that i was a woman, i had already overcome insurmountable odds and decided the fate of a decaying world in the body of one. i’d broken myself out of an asylum meant to contain people like me, fought through hordes of monstrous entities that wanted nothing more than the sight of me dead, and chosen to break the cycle of life and death kept in limbo by the burning of an eternal flame.

i am, of course, talking about the original dark souls.

it’s no secret that these games have a special significance within the trans community — it seems especially trans women are drawn to the spiritual journey and tough challenges inherent in their design. since that first experience slashing through lordran with a stolen black knight’s greatsword, i have walked under the gaze of a world that sees me as a liability at best and a danger to the decided order at worst. i have collected the umbilical cords of a great one. i’ve taken hormones that have altered my body into a vessel fit for my soul, and i have bested a rotting and golden-armed warrior who has never known defeat. three times.

if i can dodge waterfowl dance, i can survive being trans in america.

if i can slay darkeater midir, i can survive being trans in america.

if i can learn lady maria’s parry timing, i can survive being trans in america. and look super hot doing so.

these games are everything to me, and i often find myself using my character’s journey and pitfalls and triumphs as a sort of sigil for my own life. the parallels between the souls games and transness run deep, and my connection to them is furthered by the musical structure and rhythm of their combat and exploration. defeating isshin the sword saint without hesitation can’t be that different from learning the right hand pattern to neon by john mayer on guitar, or navigating an ever-more-hostile healthcare system after all.

whenever times get tough and i feel as if i would be better suited cutting my time in this reality short and sweet, i remind myself of the lessons these games taught me: hesitation is defeat. react not from fear but from primal rhythmic understanding. dodge into the attack and not away. never give up, no matter what.

the only line that runs through those of us that survive and thrive in this world is the quality of persistence. that is to say, anyone doing something that you too want to accomplish only has one thing in common: they kept going and didn’t give up, no matter what.

the souls games (especially elden ring) teach you to approach adversity in an abstract and nonlinear fashion. something is kicking your ass? go kill a few beasts. find a cool new weapon and upgrade it. pillage a larval tear from an underground temple and respec your entire skill set. you can do this.

us trans folk are thrown into the world with no plan or blueprint for how to navigate it, much like the chosen undead is plucked from the asylum by a giant crow and dropped into lordran with a vague pair of instructions: ring two bells, one above and one below. you’ll figure it out, although you’ll die quite a bit doing so.

i’ve died so many times throughout my multiple lives in these worlds that i couldn’t even begin to guess the number. i plan on making it all the way through this one to the very end, and hold firm in my ability to learn the dodge or parry timing to any challenge that comes my way. if you are trans and reading this today, know that you inherently and skillfully are capable of the same.

happy trans day of visibility my friend <3 may you never go hollow!

[writers-potion]

Vampires, Werewolves, Zombies

They are human, but not quite. Although these entities are deeply embedded in the human psyche, they have not single definite form.

Here are some notes about these paranormal creatures of 'The Universal Unconscious', and ideas about how to tweak them.

Vampires

First stories about vampires as we know them appeared in the 18th C and developed in the early 19th C.

In 1819, a young English doctor wrote The Vampyre, featuring the character Lord Ruthven. An aristocratic fiend, immortal, seductive, and dangerous, he soon became popular.

It inspired Bram Stoker's novel Dracula. Count Dracula then became the archetype from whom most literary vampires evolved.

Sparkling vs. Traditional

Broadly, vampire would fall into 2 types:

Sparkling ones where vampires are more or less benevolent/heroic, less of a monster but a tormented human.

Traditional vampires who are creepy and dangerous.

It doesn't matter which of these you write!

Vampire Tropes

is 'undead' in a state between living and dead

drinks human blood

has an adverse or strange reaction to sunlight

sleeps in a coffin

needs to sleep on native soil, therefore carries some soil with him

remarkably handsome

seductive

pale

low body temperature

has two long retractable fangs

averse to garlic and silver

cannot bear the sight of a crucifix

suffers pain or injury when touched by holy water

cannot enter a home without being invited

can hypnotize humans

can impose his will on humans

not reflect in mirros

can fly

may be a loner or part of a hierarchical society

drains human's life force to replenish its own

immortal (almost)

superhuman strength

can be killed with a wooden stake through the heart

vampires are former humans, "turned" by a bite

when bitten by a vampire, a human weakens, dies, or becomes a vampire.

Werewolves

While wolves are the most common were-humans, humans turning into other animals are also popular.

Werewolf Tropes

normally lives as human, but turn into a wolf with certain triggers

the full moon is a common trigger

superhuman strength

possessive

loyal

dangerous

jealous

organized in hierarchical packs

may be able to change shape at will

lives an ordinary human life and keeps the turning a secret

can be killed with a silver bullet

a bite from a werewolf infects, and the bitten person becomes a werewolf.

immortal

Zombies

Through flesh-hungry undead have been a feature of ancient stories like the epic of Gilgamesh, the zombie as we know it today is rather modern, stemming from George A. Romero's 1968 film Night of the Living Dead.

The word "zombie" stems from the Haiti Vodun tradition, but was not applied widely to flesh-eating undead corpses until the second half of the 20th century.

Zombie Tropes

reanimated corposes

infected as a virus (often in a worldwide pandemic)

mindless, cannot be reasoned with

hunger for human flesh

appetite for brains

craving for salt

relentless, purpose-driven

retains some physical features and personality traits of the person they used to be

sickening smell of rotting flesh

body slowly rots, with parts dropping off

move in hordes

keeps living in this undead state despite injuries that cannot be survived.

besiege human dwellings.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* . ───

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[ccazimi]

Prologue

cw: angst, blood, murder, mc dies, possible dubcon, wounding, mentions of religion/slightly religious themes (more so to do with "purity"), heian era au, decapitation, corruption, mentions of sex/sexual activities, sadism, manipulation, toxic relationship, mdni

wc: 2.6k

a/n: so this is the quick prologue i wrote up a bit of time ago to help me flesh out an idea for a story that revolves around reader reincarnating in a modern au with a connection to sukuna, sort of as a vessel, maybe more like a haunting... this is written in third person but the actual fic would be written from second person pov, like a typical reader insert

A renowned clan, revered for their spiritual bonds and sacred techniques, which stood as protectors against the hordes of cursed spirits that ravaged the land, shielding its people from their relentless destruction.

Their shrine's connection to one of the most powerful sorcerer clans, made it central to a complex web of regional politics, only heightening the family's prestige.

From peasants to royalty, pilgrims journeyed to the shrine they had safeguarded for centuries, seeking purification from cursed afflictions or blessings for protection against malevolent entities and misfortune.

What a joke, Sukuna thought it all was.

Humans and the way they worshipped these pathetic non-existent gods, when he existed.

So just to prove a point, he stormed the lands they owned in a five day long slaughtering spree, leaving a trail of mutilated corpses and the stench of blood in his wake.

Sanctity would not save them, neither could any other sorcerer thrown his way.

And when he learned that the clan had two daughters, things got even better. He offered them a deal, that in exchange for one of the young women from their bloodline he would leave their territories and their people alone.

They agreed, offering up the oldest girl only a few days after she had turned twenty-two.

Every deity does not care for humanity— in the age of gods, sacrifices and offerings were made as frequently to keep them at bay as they were to draw them near.

This was precisely what the clan was hoping to achieve when they gave her to him.

Her family adorned her in the finest silks, whispering assurances that it was a great honor to be chosen—that her sacrifice would not be in vain, that the afterlife would reward her in ways this world never could.

She was bathed in fragrant waters, purified of earthly taint, silken hair bound with a vivid mizuhiki, delicate feet slipped into black lacquered geta sandals.

Such meticulous preparation just to propitiate the King of Curses with an offering that everyone silently understood would be ruined, ravaged, by the demon.

From the moment his gaze fell upon her—her figure draped in a flowing white kosode and crimson hakama, timid eyes lowered yet unable to resist flickering toward his aberrant form, betraying a smoldering curiosity—he knew he wanted to sink his claws into her, to stain her delicate skin with bloodied fingerprints.

And so, he did.

She hid herself at first beneath the mask of chastity, the one she'd been taught to wear her entire life. A mask that buried whatever deep and ugly desires she was told to suffocate, locked away behind the illusion of purity. She bound herself to the chains of who she was expected to be, suffocating under the weight of devotion to a self imposed upon her.

Yet beneath that pristine facade, a fissure began to form— something ugly and raw, desperate to break free, yet so minute it was likely unnoticed even by her.

But he saw it—saw her vulnerability—and turned it into a game, slowly chipping away at her walls with the kind of ruthless patience that made her heart ache and her body tremble.

She was stubborn, desperately clinging onto that mask like it would save her, so he made her flesh worship him when she refused to.

Because try as she might, she couldn’t stop the arousal from dripping so sinfully between her thighs when he touched her like that for the first time, two large fingers eventually piercing through her untouched sex.

Sukuna found it humorous in a way, how she was calling out to her false gods the first time he took her in the garden, cool damp grass and fresh earth rubbing against her bare back while he took her virginity under the pale moon. Hot tears splashed from her eyes, a warm stream of liquids running down her thighs and ass- whether it was spit, her fluids, his precum, or her blood, she did not know.

Neither did she care as soon the cries of her old gods were replaced by the name of her new one- Sukuna.

She had never known herself, her identity smothered beneath the weight of duty and family expectations her whole life. But this impious hunger he had awakened in her—it was the first thing in her existence that felt real.

To her, he was freedom, the door she had never seen, the escape from the miserable, hollow life she had been shackled to, a life that now seemed empty and meaningless.

Only he could understand the true depth of her perversion, perhaps even illuminate it as he drew it from her, delicate as spider's silk—tacky, glistening, tangled in the dark corners of her soul. With every touch, every pull, he wove her twisted desires into something new, something unrecognizable.

He became everything to her in this way, her salvation, her deliverance, pulled from the very grace he offered with his ruthless touch.

To him, she was nothing.

Just another toy to be discarded, another pawn in Sukuna’s game. He had suspected from the beginning that this little act of deference from such a powerful clan of sorcerers was nothing more than a calculated move, a ploy to manipulate and control. And she was just the latest piece to be used, nothing more than a fleeting distraction in his endless pursuit of power.

The amount of times he took her all over the estate were just a means to an end he told himself, that whenever he found his head between her thighs it was so she’d spill what he needed to know after hours of dragging her to the edge and pulling her back right before she could fall, till her muddled and fucked out mind was easily manipulated.

“You conjure up gods because you’re too afraid to judge yourself,” he told her as he pried open her lips and dipped fingers coated in her essence against her wet tongue, “Taste the filth you’re really made of…”

He could have torn her skin off in pieces, plucked the eyeballs from her skull to make her feed on them, but where was the fun in that?

It was far much more enjoyable seeing the war in her mind as she reluctantly sampled the bitter saltiness that wept from between her legs, ending up licking his fingers clean with an almost desperate fervor.

How over and over she tried so pathetically to fight years’ worth of unholy repressed desires, how she failed and the guilt that would storm her after each night she fell further into his grasp, reciting sutras and bathing in waters in a desperate attempt to cleanse herself each time he defiled her body.

He made her forget any allegiance she still had to them, and it didn’t take much.

Born without a cursed technique, with a hollow, shifting disposition that never quite fit anywhere, the family’s power was never meant for her. It would’ve gone to her younger sister anyway—bright, charismatic, the perfect heir, trained as a sorcerer, molded for their cause.

She confessed to Sukuna once, her mind still hazy from their encounter, her body heavy with post-coital bliss. She said it like a revelation, like a curse she was finally free to speak- that she had always known she was a mistake. The weight of her family’s duty had never claimed her, never made her feel tethered to their blood or their expectations.

She never truly felt it, not once.

Night after night, she shed the remnants of who she once believed herself to be, as Sukuna remade her in his image, carving out forgotten parts of herself—the parts untouched by any divine notion, the parts that had always been godless.

With each layer peeled away, a festering resentment toward her family grew, seeping deeper, feeding into the revelations of what she truly felt for them. The hollow sense of obligation she once harbored toward the clan that had cast her aside twisted into something much more visceral, more damning. Chains that had once bound her were rusted, broken, as her truth began to claw its way to the surface.

Unaware, the girl unwittingly drew closer to her own demise with every secret she surrendered about her family and the allied clans. Each confession, each discarded fragment of knowledge, was another step toward the inevitable, until there was nothing left to spill.

Of course she had suspected, at some point, that Sukuna was using her—at least partially—for the information she held. But the truth of it never fully sank in, drowned out by her desperate, naive hope that—however small, however twisted—that maybe, just maybe, there was some kind of meaning to the bond they’d forged. Even if it was merely a byproduct of his schemes, it had felt like something that could be real.

What a stupidly naive notion.

Soon there was nothing left to extract, no more purpose for her- she had outlived her usefulness. And so, one night, as the cold weight of finality settled in, he made the decision that it would be her last night.

He fucks her more mercilessly than he usually did, the two of them cumming who knows how many times.

As usual she's melted by the time he's drained, her fucked out mind yearning and aching for even the smallest shred of his affection afterward, like a starving runt clawing for the faintest drop of its mother's milk, trembling in its need.

"Could you please...lay with me, my Lord?" She askes softly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

For once instead of denying the simple request immediately, he pauses to take a good look at her, at the sweat covering her bruised and marked flesh in a thin sheen, the tendrils of her hair sticking to her head, flushed cheeks and unfocused but satisfied eyes, his semen dripping obscenely from her bloated womb, mixing with her arousal in a small puddle on the silken sheets of his futon.

"Fine." He replies, voice low with an unreadable gaze.

Her eyes widen in surprise, a flicker of hope sparking within her. He had agreed, at last.

She's too pleased to overthink it, too eager to bask in the rare moment of his attention. She shifts on the futon, making space for him, a breathless anticipation building as he moves to settle beside her.

He crawls in beside her, the warmth of his body dwarfing her small frame, and she instinctively curls into him, seeking comfort from a man who has never even kissed her, truly kissed her.

"Thank you, Lord Sukuna," she sighs, body melting under the sensation of his calloused fingertips gliding over her delicate skin, grazing through the softness of her hair.

The poor thing has no idea how close she is to her end- he might as well indulge her in these last few moments of her meaningless life, in the fleeting tenderness she allows herself to believe in.

"Do you love me?" he hums, his voice oddly contemplative.

Her heart stutters, once again caught off-guard by the question.

She turns on her back to face him, gazing up at his face as stern and stoic as always, so impossibly beautiful in its coldness. "Of course I do. More than anything, my Lord…"

"You swear?"

"Yes."

She lifts a trembling hand, delicate fingers shyly brushing over the dark markings that adorn his face, tracing them with reverence. He doesn't stop her, only fueling the false hope she clings to.

For a moment there's this most strange sensation, like his heart tightening in his chest and before he can comprehend whatever the feeling is, he raises two fingers.

"How pathetic." He mutters sharply as he flicks his wrist.

Her piercing shriek cut across the silent night as two large slices formed across her abdomen, through the fragile illusion she'd built.

“Silly girl.”

Another cut, another scream.

For a moment, she's disoriented, lost in the searing pain, voice choked with confusion and terror, sobbing "What are you doing?" as she writhes in agony.

But whatever fleeting emotion had gripped him, whatever hint of hesitation, is gone in an instant, burned away by the familiar, twisted hunger within him. The urge to break her, to hear her cries echo in his ears, consumes him entirely. Each scream is fuel to the fire of his sadism, and he savors the sound.

They're quite similar to how she sounded when he would fuck the life out of her, he thinks.

Sukuna laughs, lazily swiping his fingers now so that cuts mar her skin while she begs for him to stop.

"What, did you think that if we -if you- played pretend long enough, your inane fantasy would somehow turn real?" He leans in, to brush her cheek in a mocking gesture imitating that of a lover. "You swore you loved me. Do you still love me?"

She spasms, a frantic, feeble attempt at movement, but her body betrays her. She wills her legs to respond, to flinch, to do anything—but there’s nothing.

No sensation, no control. Just the sickening realization that she’s trapped in her own failing flesh.

Sukuna brings his face close, lips brushing against hers, warm breath feathering against her parted mouth that so desperately struggles for oxygen right now. "If I kissed you now, would you still pretend that I could have been anything more than this?"

He sees it in her eyes then, the realization that he never actually cared, that he was the monster he was known to be right till the bitter, inevitable end.

What had she expected? Mercy? Love? How pathetic.

“Where are your gods now?” He pulls away to admire the sight before him.

The dark, dripping lines that scar her naked body thrills him, cocks hardening at how damaged she looks, at how she uses her last breaths pleading him over and over to stop with such sincerity as if that would truly stop him.

“A shrine maiden taking her last breaths with my seed leaking out of her…What a sight.” He sneers, wiping the hair away from her face and relishing in the way it seems like her heart is breaking in her eyes, the weight of her decisions finally catching up to her in the end. She's given up on begging for mercy, or maybe she simply can't anymore.

Her skin is paling, sweat collecting in beads and rolling off as she bleeds out.

And yet- something is wrong.

Instead of dimming, her eyes sharpen, dark pupils locking onto him with unnerving clarity.

Even her ragged, uneven breaths begin to steady, as if she’s forcing herself to hold on, to say something, to be something in her final moments.

Sukuna doesn’t like it.

The fun is over.

Her lips part—too late. The invisible blade carves through flesh, tendon, and bone in a single merciless stroke, the sharp crack of severed sinew ringing through the air before her head falls clean off.

Few things ever truly unsettle Sukuna.

But this—this was something else.

Her severed head fell onto the sheets with a dull, wet thud, rolling to its side to face him, yet her colorless lips still moved. No breath should remain, no voice should linger—and yet, from the gaping wound of her throat, a sound slithered forth, jagged and unnatural, something no longer human.

Then came the cursed energy.

Thick, suffocating waves poured from the exposed column of her neck, unfurling into the air like a black storm, coiling and twisting before sinking into his skin. He felt it burn as it permeated him, felt the weight of something far more binding than words.

A promise.

A curse.

A fate he had not foreseen.

Through bloodstained lips, her final whisper echoed, disjointed, but with such absoluteness that it was like the future was cemented with the utterance.

“I will find you again, Ryomen Sukuna.”

questions, comments, thoughts are welcome! i might polish this up some more later and decide if it's worth working on the full fic

[theconstitutionisgayculture]

No, you know what, this needs its own post.

THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS HOARDING WEALTH IN A MODERN CAPITALIST ECONOMY*

Wealth is not finite. Wealth is a representation of what someone is willing to give up in order to get something else. In modern economies, we use money mostly to represent our time and labor. That's why we get paid in money. Our time and labor has no intrinsic value. It's worth whatever you can get for it. Which is why the value of money fluctuates and why a guy flipping burgers doesn't make the same amount of money per year as a doctor. Some labor is more valuable than others. People who earn money can then trade their own money to you so you will perform a job they can't or won't do themselves. This is capitalism in a nutshell. Private entities trading privately held wealth for goods and services. It's impossible for wealth to be horded because more wealth can always be generated by trading time and labor (money) for goods and services, or vice versa. If you create a good others want but don't want to make themselves, you generate wealth by selling that good for money.

Do you see? "Hoarding wealth" is a nonsense phrase. It's a jealous child lashing out because someone else has something they don't want to work for. You are not owed the wealth of others simply for existing. People have the right to keep their wealth and do with it what they please. Put another way, saying that someone is hoarding wealth by not giving it to the people who "need it" is no different from saying that someone is hoarding grass because they fence in their lawn. It's a ridiculous concept.

(*and in all honestly, I'm 99% sure this goes for every economy ever, but I'm qualifying it so some pedantic nerd doesn't go "well actually in 2300 BC in the Sumerian satrapy of Ibollu they used teeth as money and the Vizier knocked out everyone's teeth and kept them in a jar under his pillow, so there)

[age-of-wonderbeasts]

nobody talks about how adora literally revived catra from the dead.

We don't often see the healing capabilities of she-ra's powers throughout the series, but what we do see shows A LOT of growth on adora's behalf.

Season 1 episode 4 Adora/She-ra struggles to heal the plant life in Plumeria, and instead resorts to solving the issue by doing what she does best, fighting. She is new to the She-ra mantle, so she doesn't have full control over her powers, but we also see the expectations placed on her by other people because she is she-ra. adora doesn't know how to heal trees, this doesn't come naturally to her.

In the following episode Adora heals the Salineas sea gate a lot easier than her attempts with the trees. this could be seen as Adora slowly understanding the magic of she-ra, or that because the sea gate is a piece of machinery, she finds it easier to heal, or "fix" than any living creature.

we also see Adora struggle with healing later in season 1 when glimmer is "cursed" by shadow weaver and is "glitching." Although played off as a joke (nature of the show being kids tv), adora cannot use the sword or the power of she-ra to heal her. Still, she has not held up the mantle of she-ra for long, so her understanding of healing, which completely juxtaposes her entire upbringing and everything she is used to / knows she is good at, is limited. This is something Adora isn't naturally gifted at.

Then, in season 3 episode 1, Shadow Weaver makes her way into brightmoon, and is essentially dying. She convinces Adora to heal her, which she does, and she becomes less weakened by her lack of magical energy. However, Shadow Weaver's magic is not fully restored, as seen in the rest of the show, she still needs to absorb magical energy to use it, a lasting effect of the obtainment spell as no other sorcerer requires this.

So we have seen a progression in Adora's healing abilities through she-ra. I would like to reiterate that healing goes against everything Adora was raised to be, everything Adora thinks she is. healing will not and does not come naturally to her as it goes against her very identity.

but in s5 ep 5, save the cat, catra dies. All the way dead. Adora's eyes and emotion in the moments when Catra is chipped are ones of pure horror. Absoloute terror. Enough to bring back the magic of she-ra without the sword the first ones made to control her. (We had already seen she-ra in the previous episode, but this is the first big she-ra appearance post sword breaking in season 4).

So as Catra is in Adora's arms, either dying or dead, we see Adora transform into this new, self-actualised she-ra form that is more representative of Adora as a whole, merging the two characters from 2 seperate entities to one character who basically gets taller and stronger from time to time. And with this, comes all of she-ra's powers.

And on this ship, as they're flying away from Horde Prime, Adora/Shera holds a dead Catra in her arms. And the sheer raw emotion, the guilt and fear of losing her, the hope of bringing her home, the realisation that she can't lose her, never hated her, loves her, it takes over. We see both their bodies glow as Adora brings Catra back from the dead. The growth of adora's healing capabilities is fully realised here. Here, she is a fully actualised, powerful she-ra, and her character development is [almost] fully realised. The fact she is able to heal her friend/lover completely, bringing her back from the dead, when in the first season she couldn't heal a tree is really a testament to not only Adora's physical growth in terms of power and magic, but her emotional growth as a person. It shows how her values have changed, how her principles and ideology have become so much more, transcended the expectations of "warrior" placed upon her. She has become more than what they expected of her. She is now, in this moment, a fully realised she-ra.

And I think the fact she becomes Adora as soon as Catra is healed shows her consideration for her. She knows catra will want to see her face, her true face, because that's what she knows. That's her home.

I love them so much

[kawaiijohn]

Observant Vessel Danny au 😍🥹

A Body that is No Longer His

Rating: T

Content warnings: Danny gets kidnapped and used. Themes of abuse in general. Dehumanization (referring to Danny as an 'it' despite that NOT being his pronouns SMH)

Summary: In which Danny becomes a vessel for the Observants; not of his own free will, but to save his own skin.

This has been sitting in my inbox for like three years, I'm so sorry. I hope you enjoy @modordracena

Read on Ao3 and give me comments?

---

“I didn’t even do anything! Not this time!!” 

Danny yells as Clockwork blocks his small form partially– their cape acting as a shield between him and the very angry horde of Observants who had chased him to Long Now from his school.

“You are a dangerous Liminal entity operating without a proper overseer!” One of the eyeballs responds.

“We have allowed your shenanigans to ensue for far too long– you are dangerous!” Another of the eyeballs adds.

“Gentleghosts, please. Come into my foyer and take a seat– surely we can talk this out civilly without needing to yell at a mere ghost child?” Clockwork deflects as chairs appear between them and the Observants. Danny can tell the Ancient is seething internally and barely keeping calm at the moment.

The lead Observant, taller and with a larger amulet around its head, floats forward, vanishing the furniture between it and Clockwork with a wave of its hand. 

“A mere ghost child? Clockwork, you must think us blind! You have defied our orders several times over to take  proper responsibility for this abomination long enough!” 

Clockwork hisses through their teeth and guards Danny more thoroughly, painfully gripping the boy’s arm to shove him deeper under their cape.

“Proper responsibility? Forcing compliance through manipulation is not responsibility! It teaches nothing of what Daniel needs to learn, and only instills obedience through fear, compliance through domination! It is cruel and unusual to put a child through abuse to prevent what may happen some day in the far future–”

The head Observant waves its hand and Clockwork becomes silent– their mouth moving before they fall resigned at attempting to speak. It approaches the duo with a darkened eye.

“We have seen enough potential futures to know that the Liminal child will lead the Realms to ruin– should it not be guided with a firm hand, which you continually refuse to supply. Your hands-off  ‘ teaching ’ strategy is nowhere near enough to prevent such compounding tragedy! Either you can rescind your guardianship by choice, or we can take the Liminal by force to do with it as we see fit.”

Clockwork glowers at the eyeball and looks down at Danny– their face torn by a level of emotion he normally never sees in the ancient. They mouth an apology silently before hugging Danny tightly and relinquishing their hold on him. Danny blinks in confusion before Clockwork prostrates themself before the Observants.

“Clockwork? What are you–”

Suddenly sound returns to the Ancient with a wave of the lead Observant’s hand– gears that had been silenced suddenly coming to life with a soft tik-tok accompanied by the sensation of sand sliding between his fingers.

“Do not End him– please. I beg of you. He is only a boy– Please, I can’t lose someone else , great Observers.” Clockwork begs with more emotion in their voice than Danny has ever thought possible– tears of sand fall from their red eyes as their gloved hands scrape against the floor. “Please–”

“Oh our dearest Clockwork, we know it to be hard to do the right thing when it comes to the things we care for–” The lead Observant floats ominously towards Danny, who tries to futilely back away. “– but sometimes a guardian needs to find something more suitable for their charge, lest permanent damage be done.”

Danny watches in horror as a clawed, green palm closes in on his vision, before everything goes black.

---

“So why haven’t you guys like… wasted me yet?” Danny asks from the hanging cage of his cell. His feet dangle through the gaps as he is displayed like a prize songbird in the middle of the Council of Eyes– an apt name for a fuckton of Observants. “It’d probably be easier than arguing for a million years.”

“We are trying to decide which fate will bring the most good to the Realms, which if you were not a C student, you would have likely remembered.” One of the eyeballs– the one with the most nasally voice– responds.

Danny groans. He shouldn’t be suggesting the Observants kill him off, but he always has a darker sense of humor when he’s stressed, sleep deprived, or bored. And currently, he’s all three.

The Council has been holding him in a Liminality absorbing cage for over a week now; keeping him trapped in his human form and bored out of his damn mind. He feels as if he’s watching the most boring episode of ghost C-Spann in the universe. Hey! Who knew ghost politics were just as boring as human ones?

“Why not use it as bait for the most violent offenders of the law?” one Observant suggests.

“And risk losing a bargaining chip on our first try!” another retorts.

“I still say we should toss it to one of the lostlands and rinse our hands of the whole thing!” a third adds.

“And what, risk time locked realms using it for themselves! It would cause utter anarchy!”

Danny scratches idly at his scalp as the eyeballs treat him like a tool or pet more than a person. The dehumanization was grating his last nerve three days ago.

“Why not just let me go? I’ll stop meddling with ghosts and stay in my own town forever!” Danny calls down to the rabble, causing them to start arguing even more when one of the Observants briefly considers it.

He wants to go home– he misses Tucker and Sam. He misses Jazz. Hell, he even misses Mr. Lancer and his book-isms more than he thought was possible.

Danny listens to the council drone on and on for what seems like hours before his eyes grow heavy and he falls asleep curled in the bottom of his cage.

Danny is awoken by the sound and feel of his gilded cage lowering to the center of the courtroom.

---

“It has been decided!” The head Observant begins, its voice booming as the other eyeballs grow silent. 

Danny swallows nervously as it begins to approach his cage with a key. “What’s been decided?” 

“Your fate, Liminal child.”

Danny feels palpable dread as the door to his prison is opened and he is grabbed by the wrist to walk to a dias in the middle of the room. “Wait- don’t I get to make a case for myself? A trial?“

“Liminals are abominations by definition–” the lead Observant answers. “You shan’t be afforded the same rights as other ghosts, as your existence itself is a crime against nature. Be glad we are not exterminating you outright.”

Danny wants to retort but the collar it clasps around his throat stings in a way he hasn’t felt since he last passed through a ghost shield in his human form. He hadn’t seen it being carried by another Observant, had no time to respond before he began to feel it working magic into his body painfully.

“Us Observants shan’t ever step foot on the material plane– the ‘ real world ’ as some more… modern ghosts refer. So what a boon it is to be handed a tool of mediation on a silver platter such as yourself, young Phantom.” The lead Observant looms over him, a smug look in its eye as it brings Danny to a kneeling position from where he’d ended up curled on the floor.

“Firstly, you are to obey our every order to the fullest of your ability. No working around the rules like that rebellious Clockwork.”

Danny feels the words wrap around his Core like a vice, choking out a gasp as it begins to hurt. 

“Wait wha-”

“Second, you must act with dignity and class when on duty– no immature gestures or words, no improper use of power or authority.”

“Stop–” Danny whines as the next command morphs into a chain around his Core, more painful than the last.

“Third, you are not to leave our sides unless ordered. We cannot have you wandering about between realms with power as dangerous as yours.”

Danny wracks out a sob as he realizes he may never see his loved ones again.

“Fourth, you are not to use your ghost form unless directly ordered by the council– you have poor control of it and it is a liability when you have displayed proper use of your Liminality in a human shape.”

Danny feels a part of him close off behind a barrier he feels snap into place. He screams out in pain and feels his limbs begin twitching. Ice forms along the ground at his feet and crawls up the prisoner’s robes he’d been dressed in. 

“Please, don’t do this– I can… I can be good, I promise!”

“And fifth– from this day forth you belong to the Council of Eyes, body and spirit.”

Danny hears the last command and feels an immaterial tether, like a leash, form between the cursed collar around his neck, and the gnarled talon of the head Observant. 

He tries to protest, but feels consciousness slipping before the world goes dark.

---

“By the power of the Council of Eyes, you are under arrest–” Danny feels his mouth move without his input. “Come quietly or forfeit your right to fair trial.”

The ghosts he’s cornered stare at him incredulously before laughing.

“What sorta game are you working at, twerp? Go back to yer parents n’ play dress up with your little friends instead of meddling in business that ain’t yours before we make ya a ghost like us.”

“Yeah, twerp– ain’t no business the living got meddlin’ with the dead!”

Danny wants to roll his eyes so bad, but the compulsions don’t allow for any sort of ‘immaturity’ while he is on duty. Jackasses. 

The duo of gangster ghosts are currently meddling with a major historical event, trying to prevent a shooting by taking the weapons from the stash hours before the timeline crucial event.

Danny himself thinks it’s fine to prevent this event– what with it being a murder and all. But the eyeballs were insistent that the best timeline requires this JFK guy being assassinated. Isn’t death supposed to be bad? Isn’t this guy a president? Why are these ghosts using unstable time portals to prevent it?

Danny tugs idly at the oversized Observer robes that dwarf his slight form. He’s certain he can’t cut an intimidating figure for any ghost, especially since he’s been forbidden from going ghost in the human realm as to not rouse suspicion.

“Come quietly or forfeit your fair trial– this is your final warning.” The words spill out of his mouth again instead of any witty banter he wishes he could actually say– the orders these eye jerks give him make everything nerve wracking and boring at the same time. 

“Oh yeah? And what do you plan on doing to us, punk–”

“Not like he can do anythin’ with them scrawny arms!”

The duo of ghosts laugh loudly at him and Danny’s eyes begin leaking tears. He was told to End these particular ghosts if they refused to come quietly, despite every ounce of protest he put up on the contrary.

“Please, I don’t want to hurt you two– just come with me and you won’t be Ended–”

One of the two slams an oversized hand into Danny’s temple and sends him reeling into the wall of the room, rattling a stack of books and making dust motes fly in the air. Being hit always hurts worse when in human form– 

Danny raises his hand, summoning a scythe made of gears and crystal. The tears in his eyes begin to turn to frost and crust over his black eyelashes as he summons his ghostly aura. The duo of ghosts look at him with fear, then renewed excitement as they realize they no longer have to hold back against a fully mortal kid. 

Danny sighs and enters a proper battle stance (not the improper ones he’d been using for a year) 

“By the power of the Council of Eyes, you are being detained. Do not resist or suffer immortal injury.”

---

“Here’s your time fugitives, Sir.” Danny treats the title like a slur as he slams the prism housing the troublemakers’ cores on the head Observant’s desk.

His boss master appraises his injuries as it vanishes the prism with a wave of its talons. Danny is bruising like a peach already. His back is sore from being slammed into a stack of something hard and angular. His hair is singed from ecto blasts he couldn’t properly dodge with limited mobility. 

His boss master seems to smile with its eye and gives Danny a condescending pat on the head, causing him to hiss when its thumb brushes against the cut on his cheek. Damn Observants trying to punish him for existing every step of the way.

“Oh Phantom, you’ve impressed me– much more cut and dry than your last mission. Maybe you’ll earn a visit from your old guardian if you keep up the work–”

Danny physically perks up at the mere tease of being offered seeing Clockwork again– he has no idea how much time has passed, but seeing someone who treats him, sees him as a person and not a thing, is something he desperately needs before he breaks again.

“Do not get overly excited– you are old enough to temper your enthusiasm, Phantom. Lest we rescind our offer prematurely.” The head Observant chuckles as if it’s a funny joke.

Danny sheepishly bows into himself. “Sorry, sir. I’ll temper myself better…”

The Observant looks at Danny as if to ask him to continue.

“I’d really get to see them if I do a better job?”

The Obersvant pauses, its expression falling into one of tired disappointment. “I do not know if you are ready to see them if you feel the need to ask a pointless question, Phantom. Do not push me like you so enjoy to.”

Danny silences himself and tries to stop the look of disappointment from overtaking his features. His attempt earns another fond chuckle from the Observant. It simply pets Danny on the head once again and coos. 

“Oh, Phantom. I was merely… joking. I simply did not know Liminals could be so… interesting. Not until you came along. Good job, Phantom. You are dismissed.”

Danny takes a quick bow before rushing off to his quarters. His heart races as he rubs tears from his eyes and tries to stifle the sniffles. 

His heart is a traitor.

Danny curls up in his bed, and if he cries himself to sleep that night, there’s nobody around to hear it.

Who would like being praised by their slaver?

A freak like him, that’s who.

[www-proxxicles-com]

BUGS BUGS BUGS! But the good kind.

Alrighty, let’s go through all the mobs and their features! Left to right, top to bottom, image one through image two. Since this’ll take FOREVER, use the read more! Look forward to a part two focusing on even more bugs!

SNAIL

Snails spawn in forests and swamps. Snails leave a harvestable trail of slime that can be affected by their food- make it bouncy (by feeding them blueberries), fast (raspberries) or honeyed (honey bottle). Snails come in various shades of browns, grays, greens and ruddy berry colors.

GIANT WATER BUG

Spawning in the beaches (any body of water, really), water bugs are defensive and will attack if you get close. When tamed by obtaining their eggs, water bugs make for good guard dogs- they can be commanded to stay, follow, wander, and by shift-clicking- set to neutral, passive or aggressive. GWBs come in shades of browns and blacks.

SLUG

Slugs spawn in jungles, and leave behind trails that can be used to make redstone components with upgraded signal strength. They come in shades influenced by real-life slugs- pictured is the rare banana slug.

MEALYBUG

Ah, mealybugs, the bane of any farmer. Spawning on crops, mealies eat and suck at crops until they’re sated. However, if you’ve befriended any ants, these bugs become a source of hearty honeydew, which when bottled makes for an incredible food source. Mealybugs only have one color- a dusty, pale white.

FLY

Flies spawn around carrion blocks, buzzing around and being general nuisances. Flies can be tamed by feeding them rotten flesh, and can swarm around attackers on command, descending down from the heavens to make enemies’ lives living hell. Keep an eye out for the rare tsetse and horse flies, larger and more dangerous breeds. Flies have two variants- brown and dark grey.

LIGHTNING BUG / FIREFLY

During the nighttime, look out for fireflies in the distance (since they only spawn during the night). Fireflies can be bottled and tamed with fruits, and can be placed down for a light show. Non-entity fireflies spawn around Naturality’s frog species and certain grasses, if you want the two-pixel variation. Fireflies can be dyed both as entities and as bottles, and dyeing them colors their lights. Fireflies come in a few different variants, all based on real-life species.

COCKROACH

Cockroaches spawn in Naturality’s new caves (the limestone cave and the sunken jungle) as well as in the new beach grottos. Cockroaches can be used as clean-up-crews, consuming detritus and fertilizing farms as they make their way around. Smaller cockroaches have a tendency to swarm players just like flies, and all cockroaches can be tamed. Cockroaches come in a horde of variants based on real roaches, like B. giganteus (giant cave), B. dubia, M. longipennis and B. germanica (German).

MAGGOT

Maggots are the larvae of flies, found in carcasses. They can be itemized and used to tame other creatures, if you’re a monster.

DRAGONFLY

Dragonflies spawn around bodies of water, attacking other insects to eat their fill. They can be tamed and their wings used to upgrade elytras. Dragonflies also can be used as the poor man’s elytra- allowing you to hover and slow-fall. Dragonflies come in some green and blue colors, and one iridescent one.

APHID

Another crop-destroyer, make a farm and the aphids will come. Unlike mealies, they can’t be harvested, only itemized or used in fiber and wood farms after being tamed with offerings of plants. Aphids have one variant- green.

ISOPOD

Isopods spawn in forests, and are used to culture molds and other fungi. They’re basically crustacean puppies. Also see my prior isopost for more colors. Pictured is the rubber duckie variant- the true amount of isos is a secret :)

BUTTERFLY

Butterflies spawn nearly everywhere during the day, and during the night are replaced with moths. Butterflies are basically bees, only instead of honey, they’re used to obtain nectar, which functions as natural potions that give different effects depending on what flowers they come from. Moths, on the other hand, work as glares- they dislike darkness and will point it out if given some nectar as a treat. Butterflies come in a horde of variants.

LADYBEETLE / LADYBUG

Ladybugs and other beetles of their ilk spawn in the plains, and are useful for their shells- which can be made into tough armors. Ladybugs suck at crops, and if tamed will trawl through your fields, picking only the good bits out.

GIANT ISOPOD

Giant isos spawn in the deep seas, and make a living cultivating mosses in the depths. Perhaps you could gain their trust and use them for your own good? The ways of these depth-dwellers are a mystery. They come in three variants- light, dark and pink.

Congrats! You made it down here. Have a cookie 🍪

[thecloudsaremyhome]

All of this is up to you dear followers but they will all be eventually made Im just wondering which one you want me to do first once April starts. Of course I'm still busy juggling multiple fics at the same time so it might take a while! But I love how so many of you love my works! Sending all of you lots of love! Have a good day/night!