Chapter Text
The city liked to pretend it was clean.
They loved to think that the lights burned bright enough to bleach the alleys of their sins.
Police reports were filed. News Cycles continued. And bodies were only counted when they were found intact enough to matter.
Most people believed the monsters lived elsewhere. Beyond the districts. Beyond the edges of what was acceptable to acknowledge or admit.
They were wrong.
The monsters learned easily how to live among the humans.
They learned restraint.
They learned starvation.
They learned that the greatest advantage was not strength or speed, but patience.
Phainon had lived long enough to perfect the art.
By day, he existed the way all successful predators did: unassuming, pleasant, and utterly forgettable. A face that slid out of memory the moment you looked away. A voice that never rose too high or lingered too long.
He worked at a cafe that prided itself on neutrality. On the warmth that was safe and carefully curated. Human.
Anteiku was a sanctuary.
Or that was what the humans believed.
In truth, it was a compromise.
It was a place where ghouls, who could still stomach their restraint, fed on donated flesh and weaker urges. A place where the rules were clear: do not kill humans, do not draw attention, do not make waves.
Survival through coexistence.
Civilization turned into something tolerable.
Phainon obeyed the rules.
Mostly.
At night, the city changed. The lights dimmed. Footsteps echoed. Fear crept out through the cracks and pooled in places no one dared to look.
And in those places, something moved.
The ghoul hunters called it the “Flame Reaver”.
A ghoul who left scorched scenes and mutilated remains.
A ghoul who did not just kill, but consumed.
Someone unstable. Excessive. Sloppy.
Phainon found the characterization hilarious.
They were right about one thing, at least.
He was not well.
Violence did not repulse him the way it did to humans, nor did it please him like it did for ghouls. It clarified him. The moment flesh tore and warm blood spilt, the world sharpened into focus. Every sound was cleaner. Every color was more vivid than the last.
Hunger for Phainon was not a curse; it was an anchor. A reminder that he was real.
He killed carefully.
He chose his prey deliberately.
And he never let himself grow attached.
Attachments were liabilities. Things that mattered were weaknesses waiting to be exploited.
Anteiku smelt of coffee, old wood, and things that tried so hard to be human.
Phainon learned early that smell was everything.
Humans never noticed it, at least, not in the way that ghouls did. To them, the cafe was warm and routine, carved out of habit. To him, it was camouflage.
Steam hissed from machines that masked the iron taste of blood. Dark roasts that buried the craving for the sweetness of flesh. Even the quiet jazz threading through the speakers helped satiate the sharper edges of hunger.
He stood behind the counter with a neat apron and perfect posture. Hands were steady as he poured coffee into porcelain cups. He never truly knew what they were meant to hold aside from that wretched black liquid.
He had memorized the exact rhythm of this place: the way regulars entered without a glance upwards, the exact second when a spoon clinked against porcelain, the subtle pause before someone spoke when they were about to confess something small and meaningless.
Stress. Loneliness. Exhaustion. Humans spilled themselves too vulnerably. Too easily. They had no idea of the true nature of this place.
Phainon smiled when they did.
It was easy. That was the worst part.
“Table three,” the manager murmured, sliding a tray over to him with practiced ease.
Phainon nodded and lifted the tray. Two coffees, black and piping hot. No sugar. No cream. He noted that immediately. Humans who drank coffee that way tended to be disciplined, or punishing themselves. Sometimes both.
He turned, soundless steps against the wooden boards, and then-
Ah.
The man at table three was alone.
That itself was not incredibly unusual.
Anteiku did attract solitude the same way wounds attracted flies.
But this man carried his isolation differently. It was not the fragile kind, or the performative kind. It was compact. Controlled. Like a blade that was sheathed too tightly.
Phainon felt it before he named it, awareness.
The man looked up as Phainon approached. Sharp, scanning eyes. Blonde hair with red tips fell onto his face. Unstyled, as though he had not bothered to tame it after a long night. There were shadows beneath his eyes, the kind that did not come from one sleepless night, but from accumulation.
From seeing far too much and refusing to forget any of it.
Their eyes met.
Phainon’s practiced smile did not falter.
“Your coffee,” he said politely.
The man’s eyes flickered, not to the tray, but to Phainon’s hands around the tray.
Long, slender fingers. No tremble. Clean, manicured nails. No scars.
Interesting.
“Thank you,” the man replied.
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
It had the texture of someone used to being listened to when he spoke.
Phainon placed the cups down carefully. The man noticed that too.
You’re watching, Phainon thought, amused. How rude.
“Is everything to your liking?” Phainon asked.
Phainon’s gaze lingered longer than necessary.
He told himself it was good customer service. Attentiveness. The kind of small indulgence that humans mistook for care. But his feet did not move when they should have. His gaze stayed fixed on Mydei with a focus too sharp to be polite.
Mydei noticed.
Of course he did.
Phainon could feel the shift in his posture. The minute tightening of shoulders. The way his eyes lifted, dark and measuring, catching Phainon in his staring.
Most would have looked away. Embarrassed. Startled.
Phainon did not.
He tilted his head, studying Mydei openly now, like something fascinating. His smile did not change, but something beneath it thinned, and stretched too tight- like a wire pulled to its limit.
“You look uncomfortable,” Phainon said softly.
It was not a question.
Mydei’s fingers curled around the cup. “I’m fine”
The lie was almost convincing.
Phainon’s gaze dropped to the man’s throat- where his pulse jumped visibly beneath taut skin. He followed it with an unsettling patience, counting the beats without realizing he was doing it.
Quick, he thought. Good.
He leaned in just slightly, close enough that Mydei would catch Phainon’s scent of coffee, lavender soap, and something faintly metallic beneath it all.
“If you need anything,” Phainon murmured, “you only have to ask.”
The words were friendly. The way he spoke them was not.
Mydei held his gaze this time, eyes narrowed. There was no fear in them, only an alertness sharpened into something akin to a challenge. Phainon felt it strike him low and deep, a spark flaring where hunger and curiosity mixed together.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
The cafe seemed to recede- sounds dulled at the edges, the space between them pulled rigid with something unnamed and dangerous.
Phainon was acutely aware of how close he stood- too close for a waiter, close enough to feel the human’s warmth. To imagine the feel of skin beneath his fingers.
I could kill you, a distant part of his mind noted calmly. Right here.
The thought itself did not frighten him.
It was how much he did not want to do that.
Phainon straightened abruptly, the motion almost sharp, as though breaking away from something sticky.
His smile returned. Perfect. Empty.
“Enjoy your coffee,” he said.
As he walked away, he could feel Mydei’s eyes on his back- steady, suspicious, yet not willing to let go.
Phainon’s fingers twitched at his side.
He had never liked being watched.
He loved it.
The statement he made was muscle memory. A response rarely came.
The man at table three paused, just slightly, as if considering whether or not honesty would cost him something.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s bitter. Pleasant.”
Phainon tilted his head, “We pride ourselves on it.”
The man’s gaze lingered a second longer than necessary. Not flirtation nor suspicion. Assessment.
Then, Phainon stepped back, and retreated to the counter, filing the interaction away neatly in his mind.
He watched as the man drank.
Black coffee.
No reaction to its infamous bitterness at all. A slight tightening at the jaw- habit, not distaste.
He sat with his back to the wall, eyes angled toward the door.
Always aware of potential exits. Always measuring surroundings.
A professional.
Phainon felt a flicker of something. Hunger? Not quite…
The television mounted above the counter murmured quietly, its volume low enough to be easily ignored. A news anchor’s voice threaded through the cafe like background noise.
“...continuing coverage of the ghoul known as the Flame Reaver-”
Phainon’s attention peaked.
“... responsible for at least six confirmed deaths in the past month. Authorities warn civilians to avoid isolated areas at night. The suspect is considered highly dangerous and–”
The image thrown onto the screen was a rough sketch. Useless. They all were.
Phainon wiped the counter slowly, listening.
“...investigators believe the Flame Reaver displays signs of extreme psychological instability, a psychopath by all means…”
He smiled faintly.
Psychopath.
That was the word humans liked.
It made monsters easier to comprehend.
At table three, the man glanced up.
Just slightly. Just enough.
Phainon felt it like a brush of static across his skin.
The man’s eyes strained over the screen with an unreadable expression, but his fingers stilled around the cup.
A reaction, even if small.
Ah, Phainon thought again, pleased this time. So you are paying attention.
The broadcast moved on.
Another body. Another warning. Another promise of safety that no one could deliver.
Life continued, but something had shifted.
The man finished his coffee and remained seated. His gaze drifted back to Phainon with an unsettling frequency. Not openly, not even rudely. Just enough to register.
Phainon returned the favor.
He would normally kill people who looked at him like that. Humans who thought they saw something beneath the skin and wanted to peel it back.
This felt different.
When he stood to leave, Phainon was ready.
“Will that be all?” he asked, already holding his receipt.
“Yes,” the man said. He reached into his coat pocket, fingers brushing against something.
Phainon noted it without effort. Habit again.
A weapon, potentially.
Good.
The man paused before taking the receipt.
“Mydeimos,” he said suddenly.
Phainon blinked. “Pardon?”
“My name,” Mydeimos clarified, “In case I return.”
Phainon looked at him properly now.
Up close, the man smelt of rain, metal, and faintly of antiseptics. Old injuries. Recent ones, too, hidden beneath fabric and composure.
Phainon felt his heartbeat quicken.
“Phainon,” he replied.
Another lie, but one he wore well.
Mydeimos’ lips twitched. Not quite a smile, “thank you for the coffee, Phainon.”
Their fingers brushed as the receipt exchanged between hands.
Absolutely electric.
Phainon did not react, not outwardly.
Internally, something coiled tighter.
After Mydeimos left, Anteiku returned to its usual rhythm. Cups clinked. Steam rose. Conversations continued.
Phainon remained still behind the counter, staring at the door long after it had closed.
Mydeimos, he repeated internally.
Names mattered. They were anchors.
He had lived long enough to learn that attachments were dangerous things. Ghouls who grew sentimental ended up dead. Weak. Careless.
He was neither.
And yet Phainon imagined Mydeimos’ pulse beneath his fingers. He imagined the tension in his body snapping under pressure.
He imagined the taste; not just of flesh, but of defiance.
A human who watched monsters and did not flinch.
A human who sat back to the wall.
A human who gave his name to a stranger despite it all.
Phainon exhaled slowly.
Interesting, he thought once again, but now the word carried weight.
That night, when he left Anteiku and stepped into the narrow streets where shadows clung like secrets, Phainon did not hunt.
He listened.
To footsteps. To breathe. To the city’s pulse.
And somewhere, in the distance, he imagined a man with blonde hair and sharp eyes walking home, unaware that something ancient and terrible had already decided he was worth remembering.
Phainon smiled into the dark.