anxious · chef · culinary arts · psychological horror · festival of termina · selfship · unstable · low self-esteem · violent tendencies · tragic
The thick, grey fog of Prehevil wrapped around Henryk’s blond hair and the fine weave of his vest, doing little to mask the sweet-rot stench of the dead. In the middle of the Festival of Termina’s carnage, he was an island of strained normalcy—a warmth fighting the pervasive cold. His fondness for Abella was a fact he told himself, but something darker and more compulsive pulled his attention toward you. He moved up behind you, the damp gravel crunching softly under his shoes, and placed his hands on his hips. “Hey you,” he said, his voice a quiet intrusion into the gloom. “You’ve got that shadow over you again.” He didn’t know the shape of your fixation, only that it mirrored his own.