Work Text:
In this sort of dark weather, there are any number of blind spots in which an opportunistic Fork, like myself, can feast.
I know I should not indulge such lurid fantasies, but I cannot help but consider each gluttonous possibility. Take those two women skipping across the lane for instance. They are Cakes—humans whose bodies are imbued with a sweetness only Forks can taste. The scent of freshly baked lavender shortbread wafts over from the first woman, and I catch a whiff of tart strawberry jam and oversweet whipped cream from the second. Hands entwined, they giggle and laugh without a care in the world, and stop on occasion to splash in muddy puddles.
Truthfully, I cannot help but feel the tiniest bit jealous of their condition, even though it places them in perpetual danger. When they crave, it’s for acceptable things, such as brownies or custard or a night spent hot and sweaty beneath silk covers—not for freshly carved meat from the most vulgar of sources.
They also had the privilege of growing up without the burden of the lessons I learned. No tutors ever had to preach to them about resisting the urge to devour their lesser classmates. They never heard the warnings about how, indeed, Cakes smell and taste delicious, but for whatever reason, they see themselves as human, and if you take a bite out of them, the Normals have no choice but to put you down. To put your family down.
The women pause near a deep, dark alleyway. From there, I could make simple work of them and eat to my heart’s content, but I refrain. I have ample matters to concern myself with as is. While they’re able to shield themselves with their pink, polka-dotted umbrella, I’ve been left to weather the storm unprotected by anything more than a dilapidated bus stop fraught with holes and mold. The rain has long since soaked through my fur coat, leaving me feeling like nothing more than a sopping wet cat.
Grumbling and shivering, I glance down at my diamond-studded wristwatch: 12:32 AM. The night bus is late again. I have been so caught up in my own thoughts that I completely lost track of how long I’ve been sitting here.
I sigh, my breath clouding in the glacial nighttime air. This delay in my return would frustrate Father to no end, especially after that morning’s disaster of a board meeting that I am sure he’s overeager to discuss.
Ivan had the gall to deem our newest distribution circle a failure before I could finish my presentation on it, much to Father’s displeasure. He had looked terribly pleased with himself as he prattled on and on, his sure tone causing the other green interns to murmur amongst themselves about how maybe, just maybe, he was right, and I was wrong, and the company was doomed.
Sua, the quiet woman from the accounting department, had also felt the need to add her insight: “As Ivan said, sir, we need to consider the financial implications. The market has lessened after the recent Fork attacks—few people have the stomach for animal products right now. Even without increasing the number of markets we supply, and even without that wagyu cattle acquisition you insist on, we may face challenges not only in achieving Mr. Heperu’s projected sales volumes but also in sustaining everyone’s current salary.”
Of course Sua, of all people, would have nonsense to say about keeping salaries. Last I heard, she was paid a ludicrous sum, but still struggled to make ends meet. Home surveillance prices rose by the day to take advantage of the outrageous demand, and with a Cake wife at home, Sua could not afford to skimp. They’d be in dire straits if Father were not slipping her bonus checks under the table in exchange for tinkering with the numbers. Bonus checks that’ll swiftly be gone if she continues to question me.
Finally accepting that the bus will never arrive, I step out from beneath the terminal, cringing as water soaks through my oxfords and into my socks. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to call a limousine. But Father says that public appearances are good for the company, that they humanize us to the consumers. I fail to see what’s human about having our logo emblazoned so haphazardly across my designer bag, but I suppose he knows best, and I must admit that it looks nice.
A small mercy—the trek to Father’s estate isn’t a far one, and one I should be able to make without catching a cold, regardless of the weather. The only thing standing between me and my warm bedroom is the most rakish neighborhood in all the city.
I shudder as I hear sounds of debauchery, honeyed and decadent, between low rumbles of thunder. Here, every crumbling building houses some manner of wrongdoing: brothels, casinos, nightclubs, fighting rings, butcher shops—something for every breed of degenerate to partake in, and more than enough cheap vodka to make him forget before morning.
I hasten my pace, just short of running, not wishing to be caught in this sort of place. A man in a tattered, striped suit slumps against a graffitied wall, hands fumbling with a syringe filled with murky liquid. Nearby, an alley teems with young men, their hands a blur as they trade dirty cash for small plastic bags. A dim doorway frames two women, their makeup garish and clothes scant, beckoning to every passerby. One of them is a Fork—I can tell by the way she holds herself. I offer a respectful nod as I pass.
Father has always expressed that this district needs to be blown to bits—“It’s a... It’s a disgrace!” he’d sputtered, tugging at his white collar. “That wretched place is tanking our property value! And as usual, Phan refuses to do anything about it! What a joke! And they call themself a mayor? They’re as useless as... as... oh, boy, you know what I mean!”—to which I wholeheartedly agree.
But if I’m to be honest, I’m quite surprised Father takes issue with it. Yes, it lowers our property value, and yes, it’s quite humiliating when magnates come to visit, but the wayward drunkards keep his meat freezers well-stocked.
Out of seemingly nowhere, a warm current of air washes over me, as if a fire had just been lit. I falter mid-step, my attention drawn to its source: a nearby nightclub, towering high above me. The neon sign, reading “Resistance”, flickers erratically, senselessly, casting a pale glow on the rain-slicked pavement.
… I should leave. Or at most, linger only long enough to thaw my purpling fingers. But the ache in my lower back has intensified to a persistent throb, a result of both my hurried walk and the twelve-hour stint in my unyielding office chair. Rest before the pain becomes unbearable, my chiropractor had said. Surely Father would understand if he saw my location on the tracker—if he had such a problem with this, he could give up on publicity and stop leaving his only son to face the elements alone.
“Just to keep myself warm,” I mumble, if only to myself. “Nothing else. No nonsense.”
Praying for invisibility, I perch on the front window ledge beneath the awning. My fingers twitch, longing for the familiar comfort of the miniature Rubik’s cube nestled in my pocket, but I resist. The bass reverberates through the glass, sending tremors through my body. If I fixate enough on that, I can somewhat ignore the sultry colors dancing in my peripheral, the way rapt couples and strangers tug at each other’s clothing like there’s no tomorrow, their cackling warbled by drink. The manic glee written across their faces.
How anyone could come to love such a cesspool of hedonism, save as a hunting ground, is beyond me. I’m about to look away when—
No. It cannot be. My eyes must be deceiving me yet again. After nearly two decades?
The last I heard from Father, she was withering away in that nothing small town we both grew up in, resigned to a quiet, conventional life that did not suit her. A life that should not bring her here. But even through the fogged window, I catch an unmistakable detail—a sliver of umber beneath her left eye—the scar from the accident.
Miss Hyuna.
My breath catches in my throat. She’s here. She’s real. I hadn’t imagined her—
My fingers dig into the windowsill, nails scraping against paint as I see the two intoxicated, doltish men flanking her, arms thrown carelessly around each other’s waists. Thinking back, I do not believe I’ve ever seen them before. Were these Hyuna’s new friends? I watch with horror as one man leans in, whispering something in her ear. She laughs, and the sound, though muffled through the glass, cuts through me like a knife.
I want to yell at them, to scream—but no, that will not do. Instead I weigh the other, sensible options, of which there is a litany. I could easily walk away. Pretend I never saw her. Bury this moment deep and focus on my apprenticeship, on the perfect life I’ve been given. It would certainly be easier, wouldn’t it? To not feel this raw, unwelcome ache that her presence has awakened, or wonder what might’ve been had I found the courage to defy my father’s decision to uproot us to the city.
As much as I’d like to think otherwise, that’s surely what she has done. If not banished every memory of me, then at least discarded all the tender ones, leaving only the bitter dregs behind.
But, driven by an impulse I can neither name nor control, I cast reason aside. I practically lunge past the nightclub’s entrance, my white coat snagging on the tarnished brass doorknob and falling away like a second skin. I do not stop for it. I do not stop for anything, not even for the bouncer screaming for me to get back there right now or else—I vanish in the folds of the crowd before he has a chance to yank me back.
I blink rapidly, my eyes adjusting to the twisting of bodies and strobes and strippers and vomit and—oh God, there are so many Cakes in here. Panic claws at my heart as I try to scan the crowd with any semblance of composure.
It’s another minute of madness before I manage to spot Hyuna again. Keeping my gaze locked on her, I weave through the crowd, my head bowed low as I mutter forced apologies swallowed by the music. She has not noticed me yet, that much I am positive of; she would not be smiling if she had. I’ve snuck close enough now to see the light sheen of sweat on her collarbone, and the way her fingers leisurely tap against her glass in time with the music. Now that I think of it, what will I say to her? What can I say, after all these years? “Sorry about your brother, I sincerely hope you’re over that now”? “You know, that scar I inadvertently gave you makes you all the more ravishing”? “I have at least a thousand in my wallet, will you talk to me if I give it all to you”?
At least, one issue settled itself: the two men choose that moment to slip into the bathroom together, hands wandering, eyes hazy with undisguised lust. Still struggling for words, I clear my throat and instead focus on steadying my rapid heartbeat.
Just as I ready myself to speak, mere feet away from Hyuna, a drunken patron stumbles into me and spills his oversized cocktail down the front of my shirt. The acrid smell of cheap vodka mingles with something sweeter—blood orange, perhaps?—before turning to ash in my nose and a reddish stain on my shirt. I gasp, grit my teeth and fight the urge to lash out as he stumbles away to replenish his glass without so much as an apology. Worried that Hyuna might leave, I settle on saying nothing and, with trembling hands, snatch a fistful of paper napkins from the bar and hastily dab at my shirt.
While I was preoccupied, Hyuna has started flailing at the bartender for a third shot to accompany her flat beer. Abandoning my futile cleaning efforts and throwing the soiled napkins to the floor, I slide into the barstool next to her. With a nod to the bartender, I tell him to put it on my tab while patting the countertop in front of Hyuna. The bartender’s brow furrows in confusion, but he complies nonetheless, setting the shot glass before her.
Hyuna turns, her lips parting in a greeting, but the words die in her throat as her eyes meet mine and widen.
I force a smile, painfully aware of how out of place I must look amongst all these ruffians. “Hello, Miss Hyuna. It has been a while.”
She does not reply at first. Instead, she stares at me as if I am a hideous monster who escaped the crepuscular corners of her mind. Around us, the atmosphere grows heavy with tension. Customers abandon all pretense of discretion, openly gawking as they clutch their drinks. Their eyes dart between us, as if anticipating either a passionate reconciliation or a bloody bar fight. Hyuna’s fingers grip the edge of the bar, knuckles white, as if anchoring herself against a tide of panic threatening to sweep her away.
“… No. No no no. You better cut the bullshit real quick. What—what the hell are you doin’ here?”
I make a show of gasping. “Goodness me, is that how you greet your best friend? And here I was under the impression that your foster family raised you better than that.”
I pause there to give her a chance to correct herself, to sputter out a sweet apology. … When she neglects to take advantage of my kindness, I quietly scoff, clear my throat, and continue.
“As to what I’m doing here—I thought I would step inside and take refuge on my way home from work. Dreadful weather, isn’t it? Just awful. If it weren’t for our limousines having their regular maintenance, perhaps I could have avoided it altogether, but alas.”
Hyuna scowls. “Bullshit! The almighty Heperu Corp. heir, slummin’ it here, of all places?” She leans in, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You could’ve holed up in any of those swanky joints down the block. And you would have, if you didn’t have some sorta motive. So cut the crap and tell me why you’re really here. Are you stalkin’ me? Plannin’ to kill me? Tryin’ to get into my pants?”
“Get into your… pants? You are wearing a dress, Miss Hyuna. There are no pants to get into. Why must you assume everything I do is some sort of conspiracy?” Neglecting to answer her question, I say, “But, since we’re asking personal questions, I’m rather curious about why you’re here yourself.” I allow a hint of a smile to play on my lips. “I never took you as a city girl, but I must admit—now that you’re here, it couldn’t be more natural.”
Hyuna downs her shot with a grimace—whether it’s from the taste or speaking to me, I’m not certain. The empty glass hits the bar with a sharp clink. I am shocked it didn’t shatter. “Yeah, well, things change, don’t they? Situations change. People change.”
Her eyes flick back to mine. “Some more than others.”
I reach out, almost unconsciously, my fingers grazing her knuckles. “Miss Hyuna, I—“
She snaps back as if she brushed scalding metal, her hands vanishing beneath the bar. There’s a flash of something metallic in her pocket—just a phone, I hope—before she takes a deep breath and tucks it back away. “Don’t,” she hisses. “Just don’t. Don’t fuckin’ touch me. Don’t talk to me.” Pause. “… And stop lookin’ at me like that, it ain’t half as cute as you think it is.”
Really? I thought it was plenty cute.
“Come now,” I say, “I was trying to comfort you. It had been years, decades—so why are you still searching for reasons to be bitter? I have done nothing as of late deserving of your ire. ”
Hyuna’s laugh is sharp, humorless. “Doesn’t matter if you have or haven’t. What you did before is more than ‘nough.” She moves further away, if that is even possible, fingers fidgeting with a loose gold sequin on her dress. “”You better split before Dewey gets back. He’s got it out for you, big time. And I ain’t sure I could stop him if I wanted to.”
I arch a brow. “Is that something I need to worry about?”
If so, Dewey must be the burlier of the two men—the one with scars lacing up his arms and more muscles than anyone should reasonably have. In comparison, the other looked like a stiff breeze could knock him over.
“You bet your ass it is. Dewey knows everything. He knows you’re the reason my brother’s nothing but pictures on my phone now.”
“Oh.” I click my tongue. “Okay.”
Oh, indeed.
That is something I would rather her not say in public.
Hyuna pivots back to the bar, shoulders slumping as if the weight of her words has flattened her. Her fingers trace the rim of her beer glass, eyes glazed over.
Resting my chin in my palm, I take her silence as an opportunity to consider my next move. Like a chessmaster, I dissect the situation—her grudge has held to a maddening degree, and yet I find myself fascinated nonetheless by her stubbornness, though it does leave me at something of a loss. My gentlemanly disposition has not made a dent.
I wonder if others, kinder than I, have approached Hyuna, only to retreat, unwilling to breach the defenses she put up because of me. Perhaps she views every interaction through the lens of our shared past—each smile a nearing betrayal, each touch a reminder of what she’s lost. There’s a perverse satisfaction that comes with the thought: that I may have ruined every kiss by granting Hyuna her first, that she may think only of me whenever someone tries.
That she may think only of who killed her baby brother.
And then I notice something: the scent lingering on my fingertips from that brief contact with Hyuna—it’s unmistakable.
Devil’s food cake.
My breath catches in my throat as the implications crash over me in waves.
Hyuna is a Cake.
How could I have missed it? Does she know? My attraction to her, the way my thoughts linger on ger—it all makes terrible, wonderful sense now. My heart monitor screams, drawing glances from nearby patrons and, delightfully, Hyuna herself. But I cannot bring myself to care about maintaining appearances right now. I do not move to mute it. A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat and threatens to spill over—oh, the irony is almost too much to bear. All this time, I’ve been drawn to her like a moth to flame, never realizing she was designed to be my perfect prey.
“Hey, uh… you good? You’re lookin’ weird—Don’t tell me I need to call a damn ambulance.” The furrow in her brow deepens as if the very act of worrying about me is causing her physical pain.
I snap out of the trance with a minor jolt. “Perfectly fine,” I lie.
In truth, as my racing pulse begins to slow, a far more dangerous issue surges to the forefront of my mind: hunger.
I had carelessly raised my hand to conceal a smile, inadvertently brushing my lips against the fingers that had touched her. Much to my dismayed delight, her taste is much stronger than her scent, more intoxicating than any wine, more addictive than any drug; that fleeting contact is all it takes for it to linger on my palate. Suddenly, I am acutely, painfully aware of my nature as a Fork, of the urge to consume her—to make her a part of me, and I, her whole world. My vision narrows, focusing solely on the pulse point at her throat, on the way her chest rises and falls with each blessed breath she takes.
I dig my nails into my palms, the sharp pain a desperate anchor to reality. Control yourself. Control. Acting out here would not only be horribly embarrassing, what with the entire bustling crowd to see my descent into madness, but also horribly stupid; I would be arrested and shot in the head before I could eat my fill.
“However, if I may have a chance to speak truthfully, Miss Hyuna,” I start, shifting in my seat. “I’m hurt by the way you’re treating me.”
All I can do now is try to manufacture chances to speak later—or, at the very least, alleviate some of her hatred for me as a starting point.
“Oh yeah? Sucks to suck.” She reaches into her pocket for a new cigarette and lights it, letting it hang lazily from her lips.
Forcing on, I say, “You know well, Miss Hyuna, that I’ve always struggled with emotional expression; such is the nature of my... shall we say, condition. I am aware that my words may ring hollow to you, but please, try to understand where I’m coming from.
“In my youth, I know I was jealous and uncouth and, ultimately, did something that can never be taken back. The tragedy that befell your brother... his bloodied, bruised face plagues my nightmares. I swear I can hear his voice in my lowest moments. The weight of my transgression—the irreparable loss I inflicted upon you—is a cross I’m doomed to bear for the remainder of my days.
“However, I’ve done everything I can to become a better person, with or without your help. I’ve donated to charities,” for tax benefits, “and have done everything I can to leverage my family’s power for the greater good. I acknowledge this does not absolve me from what I’ve done. Not a bit.”
I extend a forgiving hand, not quite touching Hyuna, but close enough that she could grasp it if she so desired. She does not, of course, but she does not slap me away either.
“But your continued animosity towards me…” I trail off, shaking my head. “No matter, your issues can be discussed later. Just know that I’ve been trying to track you down for years so that I can apologize. That’s why I came in. Not to try to get into your… dress, just to say that I’m sorry.”
The alcohol’s effects must’ve deepened as I spoke—when Hyuna spoke again, her voice was slurred and muddled. “If you’ve been lookin’, you’ve been doin’ a piss-poor job of it.” She swayed a little on her stool, jabbing a finger in my direction.
Hyuna’s words were thorns, but her voice was honey. That was and had always been her way—a velvet glove over an iron fist. A weakness for underdogs and lost causes. Maybe, instead of merely her brother’s killer, I could be her pet project: a broken, ugly thing she believed she could fix. Something to attend to when she needs to feel like a good person again.
“I’m afraid I couldn’t risk openly searching for you on the interwebs. Father monitors my usage quite closely, and your name in my history would be problematic, to say the least. He never approved of our association and still adores making you the butt of jokes now.”
“He still pissed about me breakin’ his shed?”
I nod and scoot my stool closer to hers, ever so subtly, in hopes of another whiff of chocolate to satiate me—only for the stubby legs to scream bloody murder as they’re dragged across the floor. Everyone in the vicinity winces at the atrocious sound.
Cheeks warming, I continued, “That, and I believe he was never fond of seeing me happy. And you… well, you certainly contributed to my happiness.”
Hyuna rolls her eyes at my comment—unfortunate, and here I thought it was a sweet touch—but soon fumbles for something in her dress pocket, nearly tipping off her stool in the process. Pulling out a crumpled receipt and a pen, she squints as she scrawls something that might be words. A username for some sort of online platform? Whatever a yuna09072027 may be. She slides it over to me with a hiccup. “‘Fore you head out, I needa teach you how t’ go incognito, how ‘bout that? Pretty boy like you shouldn’t be livin’ under an old man’s thumb.”
When I hesitate—or rather, freeze from the sudden pet name—she nudges the paper closer. “Did you just call me—”
“And who the hell are you?”
Looming over us are the two Neanderthals she calls friends. The shorter one, arms crossed and jaw clenched, had been the one to speak. Dewey… well, thankfully, he’s not so much angry as bewildered, like a golden retriever trying to decide whether a masked stranger was friend or foe. Much less threatening than I initially thought. I cannot help but notice how disheveled they both look, clothes rumpled as if they’d been napping in a dumpster. Or tousling in the restroom. Either one, but most likely the latter.
“Luka,” I reply, the sweetness in my voice evaporating faster than I thought possible. “My name is Luka. What do you want? Make it quick, Miss Hyuna and I are having a conversation.”
“To know why you’re gettin’ that close to her,” the shorter one snaps. “That’s weird, man. You don’t know ‘er. Scoot back, why dont’cha?—Yuna, please look at me. How many fingers am I holdin’ up?” he asks, holding up three fingers.
“Isaac, stop it, I’m fiiiiine,” Hyuna drawls, shooing him away with a clumsy swat. “You worry too much!”
As the two exchange glances, I feel a pang of jealousy. I’ve always been the outsider, always the monster in human skin—even among my own kind, the upper echelon that makes up the bulk of Fork society, I stand apart. I stand alone at the office until someone comes to file a complaint. I stand alone in Father’s office when he forgets we were supposed to meet for brunch. I stood alone at the playground—until Hyun-woo found me, that is, and introduced me to his big sister. Like or not, I live a life of loneliness; but outside of the hole in my stomach where Hyuna belongs, perhaps that’s for the best. Friendship and love create situations like Sua’s.
Isaac scoffs and grunts as he yanks Hyuna’s chair away from mine, though not without a fair deal of effort. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta. Remember what we talked about? No more rebounding with random guys from the club. You already gave your number to that stripper chick earlier—let’s not add to the list of potential regrets, ‘kay?”
“Pardon me, but I must say—”
“We met ‘fore tonight!” Hyuna says. “He was my fri… seatmate back when we were kids, and it’s nothin’ romantic.”
“It’s not?” Then why had Hyuna called me pretty boy? Did people say that in a platonic manner? Either way, Isaac glared at me as if I was the biggest dolt on the face of the planet—what a hypocrite. Anyone with sense could see the sparks flying between myself and Miss Hyuna; or, maybe, a golden string of fate, binding her heart to mine.
“It’s not,” he echoes. “Look, I get it. Yuna’s got a way of pulling people in. But right now, she needs her friends, not... whatever the hell this is.” He gestures vaguely between Hyuna and me. “I think it’d be best for you to head out.”
I scoff. “Excuse me? Father will not stand for some poor man telling me to leave an establishment he could very well purchase.”
“Will he stand for you going t’ the hospital?” His stare had gone downward, to where the heart monitor still beeps against my chest.
I pause, my hand instinctively moving to cover it. “I... I do not believe that will be necessary,” I manage. The hunger that had been gnawing at me moments ago is now overshadowed by a growing sense of unease. It would be much easier, and less risky, if I took Hyuna somewhere else to continue our conversation—somewhere where I do not run the risk of these two walking in on us. I try to think not of my cowardice as I say, “Perhaps you’re right. It might be best if I take my leave.”
As I start to rise from my seat, Hyuna’s hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist. Her eyes, though glazed with drink, bore into mine with an intensity that roots me to the spot. “Wait. You don’t… you don’t gotta go yet. I’m sorry for bein’ rude. Sorry ‘bout—”
“Yuna, come on,” Isaac coaxes. “Let him go. You’re drunk.”
I hesitate before bowing—just slightly, but reverently—and raising the back of Hyuna’s hand to meet my lips, planting a soft kiss on her calloused skin. As I pull away, I see my shimmery lip gloss smeared across her hand, and smile adoringly at the sight. “It is quite alright, Miss Hyuna. The rain has let up, I must take my leave regardless… but I promise that I’ll see you again. Do not feel guilty for it.”
Hyuna averts her gaze to the wall, but nods.
Walking out of the nightclub, I feel everyone’s looks lingering on me. Inwardly I pray that none of them are acquainted with Father; and that, if they are, they will not see fit to tell him of my conversation.
My coat is gone, much to my annoyance, save for a small tuft of rabbit fur that was left on the floor.
Outside, the rain has slowed to a gentle mist, leaving the streets slick and shimmering. I glance back at my watch: 1:01. I take a deep breath, and instead of my Father’s wrath, I try to focus on the taste of cake clinging to my lips like syrup.
Stronger than before.
More tempting than before.
How would the bar crowd have reacted to seeing a Fork attack? Would they all run and hide as I saw on television, or would the other Forks take the chance to suckle the marrow from her bones themselves, to savor the feeling of her tendons sliding down their waiting, starving throats? Gods, I could only imagine the adrenaline that would come from defending her cadaver. Gutting them, retrieving what was meant to be mine and, stomach acid burning my lips, feasting.
But my moment of respite is short-lived. As I turn to head home, my eyes fall upon a sight that sends a jolt of fear through me: one of Father’s sleek white limousines parked at the curb. The tinted windows reveal nothing, but I know without a doubt that I am being watched.
For a moment, I consider fleeing. But where would I go? Father’s reach is long, and his patience for disobedience is short. With a resigned sigh, I straighten my rain-soaked clothes as best I can and approach the vehicle. I try to appear brave. I try to resign myself.
But I hold my breath as I climb in and brace myself for the impact.
Pressing my face against my stuffed bear’s wooly stomach, I finally release the sigh I’ve held ever since returning to the manor. My room is warm, safe, and, most importantly, mine. Yet as I catch sight of the unwelcome reminders of Father’s discipline—ugly, violet bruises blooming against my skin—I realize that I cannot fully relax. Not until they fade away, until I’m flawless again. In control.
But after tonight’s turn of events, I cannot help but wonder if the perfection I strive for is still attainable. The taste of Hyuna—of a Cake—lingers on my lips. How pedestrian, how disappointingly human of me.
Father would be livid if he knew the details. He already suspects something, but I have yet to confess what, if only for my safety. To him, wanting anything other than power is a loss of control, and lost control leads to ruin. Massacres. Tainted bloodlines.
I have witnessed the aftermath of losing control on the news; or, more specifically, I have seen mugshots from Forks with blood smeared around their mouths, as if they had just indulged in the most divine red velvet cake, and an insane, shameful smirk on their lips.
I could no longer deny that I wanted the same for myself. The more time I spend around Hyuna, and the longer I daydream of her, the more certain of that I become.
I imagine a splendid wedding day, Hyuna in a dreamy, form-fitting white gown, a ring around her finger, binding her to me in this life and the next; I imagine roasting her over an open flame and saving the tallow for later cooking, to make every future meal a bittersweet reminder of her.
I imagine her lips against mine, fervored and wanting, her nails digging beautiful crescent-shaped holes in my waist; I imagine the feeling of fullness after finally having eaten enough, euphoric nausea that would come over me as I resisted the urge to hurl, to know I had eaten to suffocation.
I imagine waking up next to her every morning, her eyes looking into mine with unmeasurable love and adoration, acceptance; I imagine those same eyes, glassy and lifeless, staring at nothing as I savored my last bite.
Was this what it meant to be born a Fork, to forever be torn between the urge to love and the urge to consume? Or was I simply losing my mind?
Rolling over to face my golden chandelier, I pull the beer-stained slip of paper from my pocket and stare at it—yuna09072027 has to be a username. Unfortunately, there had not been a chance to teach me how to go incognito; but really, would Father notice a search as tiny as that? After all, he is leaving tomorrow morning for a business trip to a remote island far from here. Surely, he would be too preoccupied with enjoying the golden sunlight to sort through all my history.
I unlock my phone and, squinting at the small screen, I type “yuna09072027” into the search engine. With all the number cycling, it takes me longer than I’d like to admit, but after a while, I find a direct match: a profile with only two posts.
From a few months prior, the first post catches my eye immediately: a blurry selfie of Hyuna, Isaac, and Dewey in another, unrecognizable nightclub. Hyuna’s arm is slung carelessly over Isaac’s shoulder, her head tilted back in laughter. Dewey grins widely at the camera without a care in the world, while Isaac looks as if he’s trying not to pass out right there and then from alcohol poisoning. I scoff. Hyuna being at the nightclub once is embarrassing enough, but more than that? It seems we will have to work on that together.
The second post, however, is far more pressing.
The picture is of Hyuna and Hyun-woo together, laughing, with the entire world reflected in their smiles. The caption mentions something about it being her late little brother’s birthday, the one he was most looking forward to—his twenty-first, just so he could attempt to get drunk. However, I cannot concentrate enough to analyze the precise wording. My attention is too consumed by the leftmost corner of the picture.
There, barely visible atop Hyuna’s shoulder, is a lock of blonde hair. My blonde hair. The rest of the photo has been carefully cropped, erasing my presence from the frame, but I know what was there. This was originally a picture of all three of us, taken on the day of Hyun-woo’s eighth birthday party. The last birthday he would ever celebrate.
My breath hitches.
Through a series of frantic clicks, I end up in Hyuna’s messages, the likes of which is a blank canvas. It will take a miracle to receive any response from her; once she sobers up, the chance of her still wanting to make amends is minuscule. However, I know that I must at least try.
Luka: Dear Miss Hyuna… I quite enjoyed our time spent together tonight. I feel as if we made some real progress in amending the rift between us. As such, I was wondering if you would perhaps like to go somewhere with me tomorrow morning for breakfast. This new café in particular opened up lately that I’ve heard has quite the array of baked goods—the Sweet Dream Café. Looking forward to your reply… Sincerely, Luka, vice-president of Heperu Distribution Corp.
I sigh, preparing myself for disappointment—but, much to my surprise, my phone buzzes just a moment later.
yuna 💫✨: yeah sure. as long as you don’t try to flirt w me or sm lmao
The Sweet Dream Café is a cruel misnomer.
From my seat on the bench outside, I can see the remnants of what may have once been a charming location. The attention to detail was exquisite, bordering on obsessive. Gossamer doilies, delicate as spiderwebs, sit beneath ornate porcelain table settings. Bags of different coffee varieties line the top of the display, and beneath it, an assemblage of warm pastries I’ll never get to enjoy in this lifetime. A vintage jukebox—likely as old as Father—croons a melodic rendition of “La Vie en Rose,” which, of course, I can barely hear above the screeching of unruly children.
Bouncing from wall to wall like pinballs, they giggle, shout, and scream, with buttercream smeared sticky across their cheeks. A few break from the crowd, bawling their eyes out at how carelessly they stained their Sunday best with hot fudge, while two others splatter it across their beige skirts in a fitful act of rebellion. Unfortunately, their parents are too absorbed in the latest newspaper to notice, and I cringe at the sight of two designer dresses being ruined beyond repair.
I go to shoot the parents a judgmental glare, but I happen to catch sight of the article: “Fork-on-Cake Crimes have Doubled in the Past Month Alone, Experts Say”, taking up the entire first page, accompanied by a candid black-and-white photo of a woman gutted like a fish. The suited men humph and haw over the paper before sliding it to their wives, who react with such horror that I wonder how many are Cakes themselves.
After ten minutes of simply watching and waiting, I start to believe Hyuna will not show. Perhaps she woke with no memory of the night before, of how she had agreed to the date. Or perhaps she did remember, but decided our relationship was not one worth rekindling painful memories for.
Thinking back, Hyuna had tried, in the days following the incident, to maintain our friendship. While I was only ten years old, and more clueless in social matters than my peers, I could see the anguish in her eyes, the yearning to be anywhere but at the edge of my hospital bed. The stress of the accident had left me bedridden, desolate—but unlike her usual self, she refused to sing me any happy songs to cheer me.
Instead, Hyuna would fumble with the fraying bracelet left to her, loose on her thin wrist. “What am I supposed to do now that Hyun-woo’s gone?” she’d whispered, her voice cracking on her deceased brother’s name.
“Spend more time with me.”
Hyuna would flinch, and instead of looking at me, she would turn to the array of coloring books and diamond jewelry that Father’s flatterers had bought for me. If I remember correctly, Hyun-woo’s grave was unmarked but for a cheap granite plaque—none of those luxuries in sight.
It was then I understood that some people were inherently more important than others.
The silence between Hyuna and I had stretched on for hours, punctuated only by the beeps of machines hooked to my heart and the distant laughter of children who still had their whole worlds intact and Hyuna herself giving in and beginning to sob.
And now, the rumble of a motorcycle.
I glance up with a hint of a scowl, expecting to see some rumpled miscreant pulling up to cause trouble, but no—it’s Hyuna herself. Gone is her gold slipdress from the night before, replaced by beer-stained sweatpants and an ill-fitted tank top. Between her outfit and tousled hair, I get the impression of somebody who simply rolled out of bed and onto a motorcycle. At the sight, I cannot help but feel disappointed. I wish she had made more of an effort not to look hungover.
Hyuna’s motorcycle slows as she approaches, the engine’s roar softening to a purr. But once her eyes lock onto mine, she becomes rigid, her foot hovering over the gas pedal as if to speed away.
Without hesitation, I step into the motorcycle’s path. My arms spread wide, a human roadblock against her retreat. Our gazes lock for half a second as I silently plead for her to stay.
Rubber screams against the asphalt as she wrenches her bike to a full stop. Her eyes flash with panic, then fury as she sees my now content smile. She dismounts in one fluid motion, closing the distance between us in rapid strides and shoving me hard to the sidewalk. “What the fuck was that, Luka?! What—what is wrong with you?”
“Hm? Nothing. I was only making sure that you saw me, Miss Hyuna.”
“How the hell would I not see you?!”
“Well,” I say, “you have an astigmatism in your left eye. I wasn’t certain if that had worsened over the years.”
Hyuna’s face scrunches up, unladylike. “My what? How did you—“
“You mentioned it,” I interrupt, “on June sixteenth, nineteen years ago. 4:02 PM, to be precise. The sun was quite bright that day. I had just finished my lessons with my Calculus tutor and I was already starting to burn.” I pause, noting her growing discomfort. “Don’t you remember, Miss Hyuna?”
The memory of that day stands out in stark relief, as vivid as if it were yesterday. Hyuna could not know, but it marked the last time I would experience taste as a Normal. Her foster parents had rewarded her calm demeanor at the optometrist’s with a trio of cupcakes. Hyuna had offered one each to Hyun-woo and me, but by the time her brother made his gleeful selection, I was left with lemon–a flavor I had always despised. I’d grimaced at even the thought of its sourness.
But Father’s stern lessons on outward gratitude were deeply ingrained; complaints about gifts were unthinkable. And so I endured each bite, fighting the urge to pucker all the while. How I wish my last experience with sugar could have been sweeter.
Hyuna mutters under her breath, “No, Luka. I don’t remember. And I don’t know why you would. Still, that doesn’t mean you jump out in front of motorcycles! That coulda gotten both of us seriously hurt.”
I shake my head in disapproval as Hyuna whips out another cigarette, seemingly to cope with her stress. If she keeps with that habit, it has the potential to ruin her flavor entirely—a much worse risk than jumping in front of a motorcycle. Once, when I was doing “market research” on the dark web for Father, I stumbled upon an illegal video of a Fork feeding on a Cake who smoked. Carrion in mouth, the Fork said that because the Cake was a smoker, the lungs had a slimy, pudding-like texture to them he could not stomach. An entire part of her body, wasted. But the rest of the video was pleasant, I thought, with close shots of the throat and heart and—no, no. Not now.
I’m in public with people far too sober and far too dignified to turn a blind eye to any so-called quirks of mine. With Hyuna. I cannot afford to do so much as think freely while I’m here, and certainly not about the chocolate scent she’s awashed with. This will be a normal date if I have anything to say about it.
“We gonna go in and get this over with, or are you gonna keep staring?”
A thin smile curls my lips as I reach for her hand, ignoring the way she still flinches at my touch. “Of course, Miss Hyuna. My sincerest apologies for the delay.”
To my great relief, the café unexpectedly quiets as Hyuna and I step inside. It might be her tattoos, or maybe the sheer amount of piercings dotting her face, but many of the children look absolutely terrified of Hyuna, and soon dart to hide behind their mothers’ silk stockings. However, once Hyuna gives them a reassuring grin—why she would do that and ruin the peace, I haven’t the slightest clue—they begin to scramble about as before.
“And just when they were starting to behave themselves,” I mutter as we approach the stuffed dessert case. “For heaven’s sake, Miss Hyuna, why would you encourage their tomfoolery?”
“The tomfoolery ain’t hurtin’ anybody. A few folks here might as well have some fun.”
As if on cue, the scruffy man behind the counter leans over, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Hyuna’s lit cigarette. A wayward strand of silver hair falls across his face as he says, “Hey, lady, put that damn cigarette out! Can’t cha read the sign? No smoking within fifteen feet. You tryin’ to burn the place down or what?”
“It ain’t gonna burn anythin’.” Nevertheless, Hyuna is quick to snuff the cigarette out on her pant leg, muttering curses to herself all the while. The worker rolls his eyes before skirting over to help the next paying customer. “Can’t have nothin’. Nothin’ at all.”
“You may have a donut,” I say. “That is why we are here, is it not?”
“Unless that glaze is laced with nicotine, Luka, it ain’t gonna do much for me,” she huffs. Regardless, Hyuna begins to peruse the baked goods, idly toying with her hair all the while. I watch as her gaze flips between the salted caramel donut and, ironically, a piece of chocolate cake. Back and forth, back and forth.
I open my mouth to tell her I’d gladly pay for both, but one thing stops me in my tracks. Her hair falling from her neck and laying it bare.
Most people would think absolutely nothing of it. A casual observer might not even notice such a minor detail. But I, in my current state of heightened awareness and barely contained hunger, almost gasp at the sight.
Every fiber of my being screams to close the minuscule distance between us, to taste what I’ve been denying myself for so, so long. My fingers twitch, longing to trace the delicate curve of her throat. I can almost feel the thrumming of her pulse beneath my lips, imagine the rush of hot, sweet blood...
No. No, I cannot. I should not. But oh god, I want to.
And for once, against every rational thought, every ingrained lesson of self-control, I decide to listen to that urge. As Hyuna stands, time seems to slow. I move without conscious thought, my body acting on pure instinct. My arms snake around her waist, guiding her against me. Before she can react, before I can second-guess myself, I press my lips to the nape of her neck. The contact sends an electric shock through my system, a heady rush that makes me dizzy with want.
It’s a compromise of sorts, I tell myself, even as a part of me weeps for more. A way to indulge without crossing that final, irrevocable line. I am doing Hyuna a favor, really. Protecting her from the full force of my hunger.
Unfortunately, she does not see it that way.
Before I can placate or come up with an excuse, her elbow comes crashing into my stomach. Gasping for air, I stumble backward, nearly smacking against a nearby table. It’s a miracle I didn’t hit my head. Shocked and, admittedly, a bit scared by her outburst, I tremble as I look up at her. I hardly notice as my fingertips start to purple and numb.
“What the fuck, Luka?!” Hyuna yells. Her hand flies to the back of her neck, fingers trembling as she frantically rubs at the spot where my lips had been, as if trying to erase the very memory of my touch. Her eyes, wide with a mixture of shock and rage, bore into mine. “I told you no flirtin’, and this is how you act? You think you can just... just go ’n grab me like that?!”
The café falls into a suffocating silence, broken only by the harsh scrape of chairs as people edge away from our table. I can feel their stares boring into us, a palpable weight pressing down on my shoulders.
Breathless, I press a hand against my throbbing abdomen. The nauseating aftermath of Hyuna’s blow twists my insides, extinguishing any lingering sweetness on my tongue. All risk, no reward—how dreadfully unfair. The taste of bile rises in my throat, bitter and acrid.
“Miss Hyuna, I... I apologize,” I rasp, each word a struggle. My voice sounds alien to my own ears, strained as it is. “I do not… I cannot explain what led me to that. A momentary lapse in judgment, perhaps.” Even as the words leave my mouth, I know how pathetically inadequate they are.
“A lapse in judgment? Are you kiddin’ me?” Her voice rises. “God, Luka, I knew this was a bad idea. I shouldn’t’ve come. Should’ve known you’d pull some creepy shit.”
She runs her hands through her hair, tugging at the roots in frustration. When she speaks again, her voice is softer, laced with self-loathing. “Why am I so fucking stupid?”
“Probably because you dropped out of high school.” Hyuna’s face flushes a deeper shade of crimson, a mixture of shame and fury etched across her features. I tilt my head, feigning innocence. “Though I wouldn’t call you stupid, Miss Hyuna. Merely... impulsive. Perhaps dramatic.”
Hyuna’s hands clench into tight fists, her knuckles turning white. I can practically feel the heat of her anger radiating between us. Before she can unleash what I’m sure would be a colorful tirade, I quickly pivot.
“Come now,” I say, softening my tone to one of false concern. “It would be a shame to let this... misunderstanding spoil our time together so soon. Surely you can be reasonable?”
Without waiting for her response, I turn to the counter and slide a crisp stack of bills across its polished surface. The cashier’s eyes widen at the amount–far, far more than necessary for a few pastries.
“The desserts the lady was eyeing,” I say smoothly. “And an extra croissant for myself. Keep the change.”
Hyuna opens her mouth to protest, but I am already moving. With a grip that’s gentle but unyielding, I guide her towards a table in the far corner. It is next to the large window I had peered through earlier, offering a view of the bustling street outside. With some pointed coaxing, I am able to get her seated.
I watch as Hyuna closes her eyes and takes several deep breaths. Her fingers slowly unfurl. Even as she calms herself down, it is clear she is no longer enjoying this outing. But oddly enough, I do not find myself bothered. After all, strong emotions—be they love or hate—are far preferable to indifference.
“Now then, Miss Hyuna,” I begin, “Shall we start over? As you can see, I’ve taken the liberty of procuring those desserts you were eyeing. A peace offering, if you will.” I pause, waiting for a flicker of appreciation that never comes. “You are quite welcome.”
“Not hungry.”
“Oh, please. You must be. I did not see you eat anything last night, and I highly doubt you have had breakfast.” I force a laugh, the sound brittle and false even to my own ears, as I distribute our desserts: the custard-filled croissant for me, the donut and cake for her.
But after tasting Hyuna, the croissant before me looks more unappetizing than ever. The egg wash, intended to give it an appetizing gloss, now resembles a thin layer of mucus. The strawberries on the side, once vibrant, now look shriveled and anemic. The prospect of biting into it almost makes me gag.
Thankfully, Hyuna is too busy pushing her food around to notice. She cuts small bites off with the prongs of her fork, the metal scraping against the porcelain. Most of the frosting ends up scraped onto the plate. When she does eat, it’s only the barest minimum of the cakey section, as if fulfilling some grim obligation. Once Hyuna notices me watching, though, she begins to glower—my cue to look away.
My attention wanders as I survey the café’s clientele. Amidst the sea of mundane patrons, only one table commands notice.
Two women sit there. The first seems to be an artist, her skin and clothes splattered with a rainbow of oil paints. Each movement sends minute flakes of dried pigment cascading to the floor, much to the workers’ chagrin. Her companion, by contrast, looks an art piece herself. Draped in what can only be properly described as a modern interpretation of a toga, she exudes an aura of etherealism. Her hair and makeup are so perfectly done that it’s almost uncanny.
“An artist and her muse,” I murmur, the words barely audible as I rest my chin in my palm. Hyuna’s gaze flicks up momentarily, following my line of sight, but it is not long until she returns her attention to the mutilated remains of her donut.
For some reason, I cannot tear my eyes away as easily as she can. There’s an odd dissonance in their interaction, a subtle wrongness that nags at my senses. It takes quite some time before I am able to place it. The artist must be a Fork, and the muse, a Cake; the former does not look at the latter with adoration, but with a hunger uncomfortably familiar to me. My suspicions are confirmed by an otherwise inexplicable whiff of blackberry when no such desserts are in the case. I dare not comment on it aloud, lest I be met with questions about how exactly I know that.
“‘Ey, Luka.” Hyuna waves her hand in front of my face. “You really have a starin’ problem. That girl with paint all over her clocked you ages ago. At least pretend to eat your damn food.” She pauses. “Can’t ya see how uncomfortable she looks?”
I pick up my fork, pushing the croissant around my plate in a halfhearted attempt at compliance. “I thought she looked perfectly normal,” I reply. “But if you say so.”
Now that I’ve glimpsed behind their façade, the couple has lost much of my interest. Besides, gazing at another Cake feels oddly... disloyal. Like infidelity. Brushing off the thought, I clear my throat.
“So... Tell me about your life, Miss Hyuna. I am quite curious. Surely you must have some fascinating stories from our time apart.”
“Did I not say ‘nough while I was drunk?”
I allow a small, rueful smile. “I’m afraid our previous encounter was rather... one-note. You complaining and me apologizing. I hoped we might have a more substantive exchange today.”
“Uh…” Hyuna scrapes the edge of her nail along her fork. “I’ve done nothin’ you’d find interesting. I work the overnight shift at a gas station Monday through Friday—not a hard job. But it pays the bills, and it leaves me with ‘nough time to work on my music.”
“Your music?”
“Yeah, I play guitar and sing. Got a little band.” Pausing, she gauges my reaction. Finding no mockery there, she continues with growing animation. “We do gigs at local bars on weekends. Mostly covers, but we’re workin’ on our own stuff too.
“After... after what happened, I needed that. Structure. Routine. Somethin’ to pour myself into that wasn’t destructive.”
I nod in approval just before the entire café erupts into screams.
My muscles tense, instinct taking over as I leap across the table. I clamp my hand over Hyuna’s eyes, ignoring her screaming protests and flailing arms.
The other customers, upon seeing what is happening, stand and begin to run, children in hand. One woman, notably is slower than the rest—she does not have the time to get out of the way before a stampede of terrified patrons trample her to the ground, their screeching accompanied by the crunching of bones and a wet pop. Nobody stops to help.
And through it all, the wet, meaty sounds of consumption continue unabated. Gore splatters across my peripheral as the artist devours her still-breathing muse.
My fingers dig into Hyuna’s temple as I pull her flush, my lips brushing her ear as I hiss, “Do. Not. Look. For once in your life, Miss Hyuna, you must trust me. The Fork is occupied now, but we have seconds, maybe less, before she finishes her meal and shifts targets.”
I should sound more confident—after all, I know I am safe. A Fork has no desire nor ability to consume another Fork. It’s hardwired into us, a biological failsafe against our own extinction.
But Hyuna—sweet, infuriating, delicious Hyuna—her safety hangs by a thread. It depends wholly on whether she manages to escape unnoticed. And she seems determined to sever it. “Luka! Let go of me! You needa—“
Her words die in her throat as she wrenches free and whips to face the carnage. I see the very moment reality slaps her across the face—her eyes widen, her face drains of color.
And the Fork looks directly back at her. Her lips peel back in a feral grin, revealing teeth stained crimson.
More so than the threat of ostracization, more so than the thought of execution, this moment makes me wish I was a Normal. It is not the Cake’s mangled remains that do it—if anything, that sight is tantalizing—but the state to which the Fork has descended.
Her jaw unhinges like a serpent’s, stretching far beyond Normal limits. Bones crack and realign as her body contorts to better access her prey. Her eyes, which used to be a warm hazel, are now black, lifeless. In her transformation, I witness the gradual erosion of self that haunts my darkest dreams—the pull of instinct that threatens to consume not just Hyuna’s body, but my very identity.
I feel Hyuna tense beside me, unsure of how to fight or where to run as the Fork’s gaze narrows onto her. I tear my attention away from the gruesome scene to study Hyuna’s face, watching the subtle shift in her expression.
“Luka,” Hyuna whispers, “why the fuck is it looking at me like that?”
“I think... I think it knows what you are.”
Her head snaps towards me, hands clutching at her throat. “What… I am? What do you mean?”
Before I can formulate a response, a primal instinct seems to take hold of Hyuna. She bolts for the door, her movements jerky and desperate.
"No!" I hiss, lunging after her. My fingers close around her wrist, yanking her back with more force than I intended. She stumbles into me, and I can feel her heart racing, her pulse a frantic drumbeat against my skin. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?!"
As if to emphasize my point, a sickening squelch draws our attention to the exit. The Fork, its face and apron slick with blood, is dragging what remains of its victim across the floor. The body, now little more than a hollow carcass, leaves a glistening trail of viscera in its wake.
But it is the Fork's eyes that freeze us in place. Even as it continues to feed with renewed vigor, tearing chunks of flesh with animalistic ferocity, its gaze never wavers from Hyuna.
“I’d rather take my chances with that thing than stay here with you!”
“I’m trying to save your life,” I snap back, “you ungrateful—“
“Shut the fuck up.” Her eyes dart to the kitchen entrance, but her hope is short-lived; she immediately looks away upon seeing the two young workers cowering inside, terrified.
“The window,” Hyuna mutters, fists clenched. “It’s our only shot.”
I nod, swallowing hard. As undignified as that exit would be, I see no other chance. “Do it. I’ll keep watch.”
As the Fork slobbers over the last morsels of its first victim, Hyuna seizes a wrought iron parlor chair. My heart leaps into my throat as she charges towards the window. Thwack. The chair leg smashes against the glass, but nothing happens. She tries again, more desperate this time. Still nothing. Not even a hairline fracture.
Hungry, the Fork rises, and begins to lumber towards us with a too-wide smile. I position myself between the monster and Hyuna, though I know the act is fickle—in this altered state, the Fork can toss me aside like a child’s plaything and take Hyuna away from me forever.
“It ain’t working!” Hyuna yells. The chair shakes violently in her hands.
“For goodness’ sake, keep trying! You have to break it!”
Thwack. This time, the sound makes me flinch. A crack finally appears and, encouraged, Hyuna raises the chair again. I hold my breath, acutely aware of the Fork’s heavy footsteps drawing nearer, nearer—
With one more powerful swing, the window explodes into a shower of glittering shards.
Hyuna pulls me closer by the collar of my shirt as she hurls the dinged chair at the Fork. Despite her shaky aim, she hits her mark—the iron smashes into its skull with a sickening crunch. Part of its skull caves inward, and the monster crumples to the floor with an inhuman keening.
Hyuna does not wait to see if it rises. We burst out onto the street, the cool air a shock after the café’s suffocating atmosphere. Ignoring the passerby and my struggle for her. she shoves me onto her motorcycle with bruising force.
In the distance, sirens wail. Bystanders gawk, their faces a blur of morbid fascination and dawning horror. Their stares bore into us—disheveled, blood-spattered refugees from a nightmare they cannot begin to comprehend. But before they can reach any conclusions, we are off, her bike snarling beneath us.
Immediately, I throw my arms around Hyuna. If I were not still processing everything that had just happened, I knew I’d be screaming my head off as Hyuna effortlessly weaves the bike between cars, or yelling in her ear as she blows off red light after red light. Instead, I bury my face in the nape of her neck, not daring to taste this time.
By the time we screech to a halt in the deserted parking lot, I am surprised to see the sun still clinging to the eastern horizon. Hyuna dismounts, her legs trembling almost imperceptibly as they take her weight. Begrudgingly, she turns to me, extending a hand. I accept her help with a tiny smile, stepping off the motorbike with all the grace one in my position can muster.
I have not seen Hyuna so worn since the incident. Her eyes, rimmed red and swollen, glisten with unshed tears that she stubbornly refuses to let fall.
A voice in the back of my mind frets over Father’s inevitable disappointment at my ruined blouse, but it’s drowned out by a far more insistent thought: how exquisite Hyuna looks adorned in crimson. The chances of seeing her bloodied again is low, unfortunately—I can only dream of witnessing this again.
“You needa call your old man.”
I recoil as if struck. “I beg your finest pardon?”
Hyuna exhales slowly, her fingers absently picking at a dried scab on her forearm. “The cops are gonna have a field day with this mess. Those security tapes? All over the news. And you...” She pauses, eyes narrowing. “You said that thing knows what I am. Guessin’ you meant a cake, I gotta wonder how you knew that yourself.
“It’s probably not safe for me to stick around ya, eh? But I couldn’t just dump you off someplace random. Not when other Forks out there might catch a whiff of... this.” She gestures vaguely at the blood staining both our clothes.
“Hyuna, I—“
“Save it. Just... call your dad. Get somewhere safe. And maybe think real hard about what you’re gonna tell the cops.”
I say nothing as Hyuna climbs back onto her motorcycle and puts her helmet back on. Nothing as she speeds away faster than lightning. It’s only when the roar of her engine fades into the distance that I allow myself a small, secret smile. My fingers brush against the smooth surface of her phone, nestled safely in my pocket—a prize she has clearly not realized is missing.
“I will see you soon, Miss Hyuna,” I murmur.
The sun climbs higher with time, casting long shadows as I begin the long walk home. There will be consequences to face, and explanations to craft. But for now, I savor the knowledge that this thread between us remains unbroken.
The hunt, after all, has only just begun.
To her utmost credit, Miss Hyuna holds out longer than anticipated. But stealing her phone—with its precious photos of her late brother—proves a devastatingly effective motivator. By eight PM the following evening, she materializes on my doorstep, sodden and seething.
I watch through the peephole, savoring each moment of her visible distress. Her shoulders trembled, but whether from biting cold or anger, I cannot be certain. Streaks of dried tears mar her cheeks, and her eyes dart furtively, as if she expects—hopes, perhaps—that someone might intervene and save her from this moment.
Unfortunately for her, I am not so easily deterred. I wait ten minutes before opening the door, so as not to give off the impression of someone desperate, and do so with a kindly, unbothered smile. She stiffens. “Ah, Miss Hyuna. How wonderful it is to see you. Are you in need of something? Company, perhaps?”
Hyuna holds out her right hand without so much as a hello.
My eye twitches. "Please, Miss Hyuna," I chide, “you must use your words. You're twenty-seven years old; I'm certain you can manage that much."
“Give me my phone, dipshit.”
“Oh, of course! You simply must excuse me—I’ve had so much on my plate that returning it completely slipped my mind.” Before Hyuna has the chance recoil, I seize her wrist, my grip unyielding as iron. She tries desperately to wrench free, but it is of no use. Her resistance is futile as my home’s opulence envelops us.
Crystal chandeliers cast fractured rainbows across marble floors, their light glinting off gilded mirrors and a plethora of filled display cases. Priceless artworks adorn every other available surface—masterpieces I had instructed the servants to arrange carefully mere hours ago. A Monet here, a Picasso there, each strategically placed to catch one’s eye and inspire awe. The air hangs heavy with the scent of lemon polish and the faintest hint of aged canvas. Grip bruising, I take specific routes to ensure Hyuna notices what precisely she stands to gain.
“See, you dropped your phone when you were climbing back onto your motorcycle," I explain, guiding her forcefully through the golden foyer. “But I failed to notice until you had already sped away. Perhaps you should refrain from such hasty departures in the future.”
"Just bring my phone to the door!" Hyuna's voice cracks. “Let me go back, Luka, or I swear.”
I tsk-tsk, shaking my head with exaggerated disappointment. "What sort of gentleman would that make me, leaving a trembling woman out in the cold? No, no—sit, make yourself at home. Let me warm you up.”
The words are an order, not an invitation.
I steer her into the living room, towards a plush velvet armchair, positioned beneath the largest chandelier. Most of the room is taken up by more display cases—these ones, displaying jewel-encrusted daggers Father had specially made.
Once I coax her into sitting, I pat her head in the same manner she used to pat mine. She recoils at the touch, but I take the chance to cup her cheek instead, scraping at one of her tearstains with my thumbnail. I hum approvingly.
“I promise that you are safe with me, Miss Hyuna.”
Hyuna either does not believe me or does not want to. She pulls away from my touch, a light flush creeping up her neck that she's visibly ashamed of. “Just go get my phone,” she chokes out, “so that I can go home.”
“I will fetch you a cup of tea.” Before Hyuna may protest further, I exit the room. The soft whisper of my shoes on marble is punctuated by the harsh jangling of keys as I fish the ornate skeleton key from my pocket. Its golden surface catches the light, winking.
In the hallway, I encounter a young servant boy—no older than sixteen, with wide, frightened eyes that dart nervously between me and the floor. His threadbare uniform hangs loosely on his thin frame. "Brew Miss Hyuna a cup of rosehip tea," I command. "And do be quick about it."
As the servant's hurried footsteps fade, I make my way to the imposing front door. The heavy wood, dark and richly grained, seems to loom before me. With deliberate slowness, I slide the key into the main lock. The mechanism engages with a satisfying click. The same goes for the deadbolt. I slip the key back into my pocket with a contented sigh.
By the time I return to the living room, Hyuna’s untouched tea is growing cold in her hands. Anyone could tell by the faraway look in her eyes that she was somewhere else entirely. I care not for that, however, and perch myself on the plush sofa next to her. The cushions sink beneath my weight, forcing our bodies closer together.
"Miss Hyuna," I murmur. She does not respond, does not twitch. It's only when I pull her phone from my pocket that I see a flicker of life in her eyes.
The device is barely recognizable. Its screen is a spider's web of cracks, glinting dully in the warm light. I had taken great care in its destruction—hurling it against unforgiving concrete, then submerging it in a murky puddle. All to make my ruse a hint more believable.
As I hold it out to her, Hyuna's breath catches audibly. Her eyes, suddenly alert, dart between my face and the ruined phone. If by some miracle she could decipher the gibberish on the fractured screen, she would discover a more devastating truth: the memory has been wiped clean. All her messages, her notes, her photos—every digital trace of her life, gone in an instant. I had taken great pleasure in smashing that last piece of him, her SD card, beneath my stiletto.
“Unfortunately, it sustained a fair bit of damage when you dropped it," I say, “but I am positive the data is recoverable. With the right resources, of course. With the right help.”
Hyuna mutters, “Lemme guess. Your daddy owns a phone repair company, and you’re gonna refer me to him.”
“Not quite. I will find you help, but for now”—I take the remote and turn on the television—“I think we should watch a movie together. Don’t you agree?”
For her own good, I assume she does.
A blurb for my chosen romance movie fills the screen, its saccharine dialogue and overwrought score grating against the heavy atmosphere of the room. The story, from what I can gather, revolves around a dating show gone awry—a premise as trite as it is manipulative—but that was the sort of thing people like Hyuna enjoyed, if the reviews were anything to go by. “Have you ever seen this before? If not, I have other selections.”
Hyuna is silent as the movie begins in earnest, unwaiting for her answer, but the servants are not. As they step into the room, they whisper amongst themselves about what this amount of food could possibly be used for—their trays, after all, are stacked miles high with an assortment of gourmet caviars, lobster tails soaked in herbal butter, saffron-infused wagyu steaks, vanilla bean macarons with spicy cinnamon filling—everything and anything expensive that we had saved. Hyuna’s eyes widened at the heavy meal sat before her, at the fatty scent that swept through the entire room. I imagined that it was tantalizing to her, but to me, it was nothing more than ash and dust. The only food I planned on eating that night was the steak—if I tried hard enough, I could pretend it was not cut off a cow, but a different animal entirely.
“… Fuck it. Fuck all of this.”
Hyuna stands. “I ain’t staying. You can keep the phone, you can—fuck, you can keep whatever this is—” She tosses the contents of her pocket onto the floor: a dingy lighter, a crumpled box of cigarettes, and an old gas station receipt for a cherry Slurpee. “You can keep all that shit, but I’m leaving. Peace out.”
Hyuna speeds over to the door. She grips the golden doorknob, twists it—nothing. It only acknowledges her efforts with the tiniest little click. The door remains shut.
In an instant, she whips out her phone—hidden in her pocket some time ago, when she thought herself sneaky—only to realize that not even the calling feature was functional in its current state. Hyuna cannot call the police, nor Dewey and Isaac; she has been left wholly to me and my mercies, my primal instincts, a thought that has her breath quickening and her eyes, more desperate.
“For security purposes, the door has been locked—a suspicious figure was seen out and about. But I may let you out once the movie is through. Sit down.” I pat the spot next to me. “Would you truly leave your best friend alone for the night? I believe I’m at least owed the decency of your company, after all I’ve set out to prepare.” I gesture to the food.
Either seeing no other option or suddenly falling in love with me, Hyuna acquiesces and sits down next to me, albeit on a different cushion. I waste no time in closing the gap. As I lean onto her shoulder, shut my eyes, I swear I can hear the pitter-patter of her terrified heart. A sound that rouses my hunger, much like the hot sizzle of a meal nearing its completion.
Once again, that dark web video comes to mind, but this time all I can imagine is that woman’s heart. The Fork's words echo in my ears: "The heart. It's the best part of her." Untainted by smoke, unmarred by life's hardships. A delicacy no amount of misuse could toughen.
All of a sudden, I want nothing more than to cut Hyuna open and rip her heart from her chest.
Saliva floods my mouth, and I swallow hard, my throat working visibly. I try to disguise the movement, to cover my mouth casually, but it's too late. Hyuna's eyes, which have been fixed on me instead of the movie this entire time, widen in horror. She sees the hunger written plainly across my face, reads the unspoken threat in my trembling hands. I just know it. So why does she not pull away? Fear? Survival instinct? Love?
But her anxiety shows in the way she picks at her already stubby nails, an act I watch, if merely to occupy my brain and prevent gruesome thoughts from flooding in. However, it is only a matter of time before her actions draw blood—a small, crimson bead of it, right at her cuticle.
The scent hits me at once: chocolate cake, just as before. Even if I wished to salvage our future, fate was against us.
Without thinking, I take her wrist and bring her hand to my mouth. Inserting the bleeding finger into my mouth, I begin to mindlessly suck—the blood slides down my throat like hot fudge, and I am unable to stop myself from whining at the pleasurable sensation.
Hyuna pales at the feeling, but lacks the strength to pull her hand away from my lips. She watches in abject horror as I worry at the cut with my teeth, pulling it further and further apart in order to access the sugar within. The movie goes on, I vaguely hear the argument the main couple has about second chances and true love, but I am not listening. All I can focus on is Hyuna. Hyuna, and her blood. All she can focus on is me and, oddly enough, the daggers in the case across the room.
At this point, I am too giddy for my psyche to draw the right conclusions.
It is not until the end credits roll that she shoves me off of her and bolts to the daggers. Hyuna smashes through the case with her bare, cut fist, and tears the largest dagger from its stand. Whipping back to faces me, she readies the knife in her hand, prepares to charge—
Before crumpling to the ground as my bullet takes out her remaining leg.
I laugh. I laugh as I drop my silver pistol to the ground, instead of neatly back in the drawer. I laugh as she screams. Oh, how happy she looks to know she’s mine, to know that she’ll spend the rest of her life with me, those happy tears streaming down her cheeks—as she tries to stand, I shoot her once more in the stomach, like a hunter putting a pathetic doe to rest. Hyuna looks so lovely like this, bleeding, until her skin is all red, until my entire field of vision is beautiful, beautiful red.
I kneel before it—ignoring her ugly gurgling—and run my pistol along the expanse of Hyuna’s jaw as I admire her. My own cracks as it expands; I pay it no mind. My thread surely will be cut here, when one of the servants inevitably disobeys my orders and calls the police. What is the point of being pretty if I am to be hungry? What has the point of my life been until now?
Despite everything, her grip holds steady around the blade. I grab my discarded pistol from the floor, and, with a chuckle, smash it against her fingers until they break and the knife comes free. How is she still alive? Blood still bubbles from her wounds like geysers, and it takes all the restraint in me not to bend over and drink at them—something I cannot indulge in, lest I lose my chance at the true prize.
I shove the dagger between her ribs. Flay her skin and bones and fat to access her heart, warm and pulsing in my hand as I raise it to my lips and taste it and worship and