The masochists

The weight of existence pressed against Rael's shoulders as he staggered forward. His body, once broken and discarded, now pulsed with newfound strength—but it came at a cost.

The hunger. The insatiable need for emotion clawed at his soul, whispering demands. His brother's grief had revived him, but it wasn't enough. If he wanted to remain in the mortal world, he needed more.

A fresh surge of power crackled through his limbs, and his senses sharpened. The air felt thick with unseen energy. He could see the flow of emotions—shimmering wisps of grief, love, and hatred drifting like mist. The living were completely unaware of the power they carried within them.

And he would take it.

His eyes flickered toward the city in the distance—Varos, a sprawling metropolis where the lines between wealth and ruin blurred. The perfect hunting ground.

Rael moved, his steps unnaturally silent. Shadows coiled around him as if responding to his will, his new abilities adapting effortlessly. He wasn't just a warrior anymore—he was something more.

As he approached the city's outskirts, a flicker of movement caught his eye. A lone figure leaned against a crumbling wall, a bottle in one hand, their face obscured by a hood. The scent of sorrow clung to them, thick and intoxicating.

Rael smirked. Perfect.

He took a step forward, his presence shifting as he allowed himself to be seen. The hooded figure stiffened, eyes narrowing. A girl—young, but not fragile. A survivor.

"What do you want?" she asked, voice rough, guarded.

Rael tilted his head. "A conversation."

She scoffed. "With a guy who walks out of nowhere? Yeah, no thanks."

He chuckled. "Then let's call it fate."

She turned to leave, but Rael moved faster. In a blink, he was in front of her, shadows rippling at his feet. Her breath hitched, fear flashing in her eyes.

"Relax," he murmured. "I don't need much. Just a memory. A sliver of emotion."

The girl's hand shot to the knife at her belt, but Rael simply raised a finger. The shadows surged forward, curling around her wrist like living tendrils. She froze, unable to move, yet unhurt.

"I'm not here to harm you," he said, voice low, hypnotic. "I just need… a taste."

A single touch. That's all it would take. The smallest fragment of her pain, her regrets—it would fuel him for now.

And in return, he would grant her something as well.

Power.