The alleyway was steeped in filth.
It stank of sweat, piss, and old blood, the kind that had long since dried and crusted over, blending seamlessly with the grime coating the cracked pavement. Shadows slithered between the walls, shifting with the flickering neon glow from the distant street.
But none of this mattered.
All the girl could focus on was the monster leering down at her, his fingers gripping her bruised jaw with a mockery of tenderness.
"As this isn't working out, we could always auction you off. I bet that French bastard would love to—"
The thug's words never finished.
The air changed.
A subtle shift—so minuscule it would have gone unnoticed in any other circumstance. But here, in the tension-strung quiet of the alley, where every sound mattered, it was deafening.
A presence had arrived.
Not sudden, not abrupt—rather, it was as if the night itself had grown a pair of eyes and stared.
Soft footsteps echoed against the concrete, each one measured, unrushed, yet somehow carrying the weight of something inevitable.
The gang turned instinctively. They weren't sure why they felt the need to look, only that their bodies reacted before their minds could process the fear curling in their guts.
And then—
He emerged.
The dim glow of a distant streetlamp framed him in a soft halo, the contrast stark against the inky black of his silhouette. His presence was an anomaly, an aberration, something that did not belong in the normal order of the world.
Kaneki stood at the alley's mouth, his posture loose, almost casual. His hands were in his pockets, his shoulders relaxed—yet everything about him screamed predator.
His gaze swept across the scene, slow and deliberate. His eyes, dark as the void, locked onto the girl first, lingering just long enough to register the state she was in.
Then, just as languidly, he shifted his attention to the thugs.
A slow blink. A breath.
And then—he smiled.
"Ahhh… well, isn't this interesting?"
His voice carried no urgency. No anger. No disgust.
Just amusement.
Like a scholar finding an insect pinned neatly beneath glass—something curious, something trivial.
The gang's leader, the one still crouching by the girl, scowled. "The fuck do you want?"
Kaneki's smile deepened, though it never reached his eyes.
"What do I want?" he repeated, almost as if tasting the words. He took a step forward, his shoe landing in a puddle of some long-forgotten spill. The sound was soft, unremarkable. Yet to those watching, it may as well have been the toll of a funeral bell.
Another step.
Another.
The gang unconsciously backed up. It wasn't a retreat—not yet—but their bodies, on some primal level, recognized something was very, very wrong.
Kaneki tilted his head slightly, as if amused by the reaction.
"You're all so tense," he mused. "Relax. I'm just… curious."
A pause.
His smile faded.
And the air plunged.
The warmth bled from the space. The ambient noises of the street—distant chatter, the hum of electricity, the occasional honk of a passing car—became muted, like sound itself had decided to hold its breath.
The thugs felt it.
A pressure.
It wasn't physical, but it pressed against their skin, seeped into their lungs, coiled around their throats like invisible chains.
It wasn't killing them.
But it was reminding them how easy it would be.
Kaneki stepped closer, the heel of his shoe clicking against the pavement.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Each step rang louder than the last, a rhythm synchronized with the wild drumming of their pulses.
And then—he stopped.
Right before the leader.
Up close, his presence was immense. He wasn't taller, wasn't broader—but his existence weighed more. Like standing before something unknowable, something beyond comprehension.
The thug swallowed. His throat was dry.
"Say," Kaneki murmured, his tone still light, still playful. "Do you believe in fate?"
The question was absurd. Out of place. Unnecessary.
But the man didn't answer.
He couldn't.
Because Kaneki was still staring at him.
And his eyes—
They were darker than the shadows behind him.
Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. The gang leader's throat bobbed, his jaw tensing as if he wanted to spit out some defiant retort, but he couldn't.
Wouldn't. That was a risk he wasn't keen on daring. His tongue was knotted in self preservation.
Kaneki didn't move, didn't speak, didn't breathe in a way that made sense. His presence was a weight, a whisper of something eldritch pressing against the seams of reality, demanding acknowledgment.
The other thugs fidgeted, their fingers twitching toward weapons hidden in jackets, at their waists.
Kaneki saw it.
He smiled again—slow, deliberate.
"Oh?" His voice carried a note of amusement, smooth as silk, sharp as the edge of a blade. "Go on. Try."
It wasn't a challenge.
It was an invitation.
One of them—the youngest, too green to recognize the grave they were digging—lunged. A flicker of movement, a flash of steel, the ugly gleam of a rusted switchblade catching the weak neon glow.
Kaneki didn't step back. Didn't flinch.
The moment stretched—then collapsed.
A wet sound. A breathless gurgle.
The thug staggered, the knife still gripped tight in his hand—but something was wrong. His eyes widened–the gleam in them flickering as if ready to snuff out –mouth opening as if to scream, but the sound never came, streams of crimson flowed from the corners of his lips, dripping to the ground.
Because Kaneki's hand was inside his chest. Firm and True. Not through force. Not through raw, brute strength.
It was precise. Surgical. Effortless. The clothes on him offered little to no resistance in protection; it was just that, fabric.
Fingers curled around something warm and trembling. A heart. Still beating. Still struggling. Smooth, yet strong.
Kaneki tilted his head, watching as if debating whether to let it continue.
The gang leader choked on his own breath, horror dawning too late.
The others didn't move.
They couldn't.
Not when Kaneki's gaze flicked up to meet theirs, his blackened eyes gleaming with something ancient. Something hungry.
He tightened his grip.
A shudder. A final, pathetic twitch.
Then—Shhk!
He pulled his hand free, and the body collapsed like a puppet with cut strings.
Silence.
Kaneki exhaled, watching the heart in his grasp. Still warm. Still dripping. Still beating, not aware that its duty had long since ended the moment there was an invasion.
With slow, deliberate care, he brought it to his lips. His nose wriggled and he took a dragged sniff. It was aromatic. Enticing. Rich in essence. He licked his lips in anticipation.
And took a bite.
The wet crunch of flesh and cartilage echoed in the alley, louder than it had any right to be.
The remaining thugs trembled.
The girl's face became ashen and her eyes contracted. Her breath was held, praying that her presence wouldn't be registered by the monster.
This—this wasn't the knight in shining armor that she had hoped would swoop in to her rescue. This was something else. Something worse. A beast, drawn to the commotion like a predator stirred from its nocturnal prowl.
Kaneki chewed thoughtfully, his teeth slicing through flesh with practiced ease. Each bite was plump, soft, and easy to chew, the texture eerily similar to something familiar—fruit, perhaps. A ripe mango, split open in the dead of summer, its juices—no, blood—dribbling over his tongue, warm and thick.
He let the flavor settle, rolling it over his taste buds, cataloging the layers of iron, the faint saltiness, the subtle sweetness that lingered beneath the rawness of the meal.
Exhaling softly, he tracked the morsel's descent, his awareness extending beyond the simple act of consumption. His throat, his stomach, the subtle shift of his organs—everything processed the meal with an efficiency that felt… natural.
No nausea. No resistance.
Only acceptance.
Deep inside him, something pulsed.
It wasn't hunger—not in the way a starving ghoul would feel, desperate and clawing. No, this was awareness. A slow, methodical awakening.
His kakuhou, nestled deep within his back, stirred.
A faint hum, like the distant thrum of a second heartbeat, shivered through his spine. It wasn't painful, nor overwhelming—just a presence, an undeniable knowing that something within him was shifting, responding.
He lifted a hand to his chin, absentmindedly stroking away a stray droplet of blood as his mind cataloged every sensation. The kakuhou's reaction, the way his body absorbed the nutrients, the energy settling beneath his skin—it all fascinated him.
Kaneki didn't just eat.
He studied.
A thread of consciousness unraveled, weaving through every nerve and muscle fiber, recording how his body adapted to the meal. How it accepted the flesh. How it welcomed it.
And beneath that?
A quiet hunger remained.
Not urgent. Not uncontrollable.
But patient.
Waiting.
He let his gaze drift downward, settling on what remained of the corpse. Still warm. Still useful.
His fingers twitched.
Will it be the same next time?
Would another meal trigger the same reaction? Would different flesh yield different results?
The thought intrigued him.
The need intrigued him.
Because now, the question wasn't if he would feed again.
It was simply when.
Then, as if only just remembering their existence, he looked at the rest.
"Now…" He licked the blood from his fingertips, eyes half-lidded in satisfaction. "Shall we continue our little chat?"