Lyanna Unbound - ISSUE 2: HUNGER

LYANNA UNBOUND

by

Jessica D

ISSUE 2

HUNGER

Cam walked down the stairwell that led toward the basement. The takeout bags he carried swayed and strained with the weight of all the food. There must be some party going on down here, given this was the second large order going out to this address. For some reason Marcia had refused to make the second delivery. He'd messaged her to find out why, but she'd just said the place had 'weirded her out'.

It was probably the cop cars and flashing lights outside that had freaked her out. Cam lived in a dive like this himself, and it wasn't exactly out of the ordinary to have the cops showing up at least once a week for some shit that was going on. He'd asked the old dude on the front desk what was happening, but he just said something about the top floor and that he didn't need to worry.

Cam shuffled down the last few steps with the bags and turned, pushing his back against the door to open it.

The trance music he was listening to throbbed and pulsed through his Beats.

THUMP, THUMP, THUMP.

A dank, musty-smelling hallway led to a single door at the far end. A single wall lamp seemed to struggle to light the space, the corners hidden in shadow. Okay, maybe this was what Marcia was talking about.

Cam strode to the far end, nodding his head to the music and dumping the bags at the door, the cartons of Chinese food nearly spilling out. He stretched his sore shoulders out, then rapped his fist against the door.

THUMP, THUMP, THUMP. Cam tapped his hand against his thigh in time with the rhythm of the music.

"Come on, come on," he muttered under his breath. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, checking the order. It had already been paid for, but at least he could try and get a tip for hauling this lot down to some dingy basement.

THUMP, THUMP, THUMP, TH--

"Leave..." The music stopped, the hushed word whispering into his ears. Did that... did that just come through his headphones? Cam quickly pulled them down so they hung around his neck.

"Uh... hello?" He leaned in, bringing his ear closer to the door.

"LEAVE!" This time the word echoed through the hallway, seeming to come from nowhere... and everywhere. Cam skidded backwards and spun around, power walking his way back the way he came. He glanced over his shoulder at the door behind him, speeding up a little more.

"Fuck this!" He opened the door to the stairwell and bounded up, taking two steps at a time.

THUMP, THUMP, THUMP...

This time it wasn't the music.

It was his heartbeat.

* * * * *

"Can you describe the two... monks?"

Detective Isla Montgomery looked up at the condo's security guard. She flicked her notebook open and clicked her pen. They stood in the hallway, just off to one side of the open door to the penthouse suite. The uniforms were busy inside securing the scene, taking photos and collecting evidence. Every now and then there was the chirp of a radio, as they liaised with the officers down on the first floor.

"Ninja monks," the man said, his voice wavering.

Isla raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"I'm telling you. They had this crazy Assassin's Creed shit going on!"

Isla felt a tap on her shoulder and turned. It was her partner, Walker, holding a plastic evidence container. Sealed inside was the weapon they'd found on the floor. About fifteen inches long. Uncommon. Possibly gang related.

"Get it down to the station. We're going to need to run prints on that," Isla said, tapping the lid of the container with the end of her pen.

"Yes, boss." Walker nodded and marched off down the hall. Isla returned to her notebook, flicking back a page for the security guard's name.

Daryl Jones.

"Now, Mister Jones. These... ninja monks. Can you describe them for me?" she repeated, turning back to find him pacing up and down.

"No."

"No?" Isla sighed, tugging on the lapels of her jacket. With the balcony door still open in the penthouse, it was starting to get cold.

"I told you they had these hoods on and shit. I couldn't get a good look at them," he said, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Either he didn't feel the cold, or he was nervous about something.

"Not even when you heroically fought them off and sent them fleeing out the balcony door?"

"One of them had a mask..." he added, gesturing up to his face.

"Where did you grow up, Mister Jones?" Isla asked, tilting her head. It seemed to catch the man off guard.

"Hmm? Oh, over on the east side. The Kennington estate? They tore it down a few years back. Good fucking riddance!"

"No kidding, my family was over at Sycamore," Isla said.

"Well, how about that. Two estate rats upped and got into law enforcement," Jones said, straightening his security ID badge.

"Yeah... right." Isla had to bite her tongue. Apparently, detective and security guard equated to the same thing in this guy's books. "The reason I asked is because you remind me of my younger brother."

Jones leaned his arm against the wall, a grin spreading across his face. "Really? Well, he sounds like a handsome motherfucker."

"Maybe..." Isla shrugged. "But he would also make shit up just to try and get noticed."

Isla watched with satisfaction as the man shrank back like a deflating balloon. "Well, when I say fought them off, what I mean is--"

"Do you know this man, Mister Jones?" Isla reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out her phone. She tapped in her PIN code and held the screen up. Jones leaned in, his face screwing up as he focused on the image.

"Uh-uh," he said, shaking his head. "You think he might be one of these guys?"

"We don't know yet," Isla said, turning the phone to look at the man again. Caucasian, brown/greying hair. Strong jawline. Handsome, for an academic. "This is Doctor Elliott Freeman. He's been renting the penthouse here for the past week."

"Like I said, haven't seen him."

"You're the security guard for the building... and you don't know who's been living in the penthouse?"

"Hey, look, Detective Sycamore. I don't need to know everybody. I've got something even better. I've got contacts." Isla watched as Jones stood a little taller, looking annoyingly pleased with himself again. "If you want to know what's been going on around here, you need to talk to Agnes."

* * * * *

@MurderMattersPod I'm pretty sure someone's just been murdered in the penthouse above my apartment. Cops are here talking with my security guy. Top floor cordoned off. Will update through the night!

Agnes tapped 'send' on her phone. This was unreal. She'd always secretly wished that something interesting would happen at the condo. Well, she didn't exactly want somebody to have to die, of course. But if they had, well it wasn't like there was anything anyone could do about it now. Except try to solve it!

She gazed over at her computer -- an old-school tower PC with terabytes of storage for saving... everything. And screw the cloud. That was the government's way of keeping tabs on everyone. Probably. She thought about hitting up the Websleuths forum, but part of her wanted this to be her mystery.

"We can crack this, can't we, princess?" Agnes said, giving Roxy a tickle under the chin.

BZZZZ!

The door buzzer chimed through the apartment and Agnes leaped up from the sofa, sending the tiny dog shooting off her lap. Roxy landed on her feet and spun round letting out a disgruntled bark.

"Sorry, baby!" Agnes went to go to the door but paused. She quickly grabbed her phone.

@MurderMattersPod Someone's at the door. If I don't message back, something's happened to me.

Right, okay. Agnes unlatched and opened the door.

"Hey, Agnes!"

"Oh, Daryl... Hi!" Agnes smiled up at him, instinctively reaching to take her glasses off, but thought better of it this time. "Are you okay? I was worried about you."

"You... were?" Daryl said, and Agnes wondered whether she caught a hint of a smile from him. "Listen, Agnes... this is Detective, uh..."

"Montgomery," came a voice from the hallway. Daryl moved to one side and a woman stepped forward. She looked older than Agnes, or maybe just world-weary. Black, with tell-tale creases around her lips from too many cigarettes. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she wore a grey suit with a white blouse, fitted for her fuller figure.

"Come in, detective." Agnes stepped back and welcomed them both in with a sweep of her arm. "I'm Agnes... Agnes Belmont." She could feel her pulse quicken at the unexpected excitement of it all. And shit, Daryl was here as well! Agnes smiled to herself as she closed the door behind them.

Detective Montgomery strode into the living room, casting her eyes around like any good investigator would when walking into a new situation. She paused when she caught sight of Roxy staring up at her from the floor. She took a step back when the Yorkie suddenly jumped up at her.

"Oh, I think she likes you! But don't worry about princess Ro-Ro," Agnes said in a high register, stepping forward and leaning down to scoop Roxy up under one arm. "She's an ally of truth and justice! Aren't you my baby? Yes you are, yes you are." Roxy's tail wagged and she leaned up to lick at Agnes' cheek.

"I, uh, actually came here to speak to you," the detective said.

"Right!" Stupid! Agnes felt her cheeks warm and glanced over to Daryl.

"I said you'd be able to tell us about the dude who lived upstairs," Daryl said, stepping forward.

"Lived, as in past tense, as in something happened to him. What happened? He was stabbed, right? I didn't hear any gunshots. Oh, no... strangulation. That would explain the struggle."

"Miss, nobody's been killed," Detective Montgomery said, holding up her hands.

"Oh."

"We're looking for an Elliott Freeman," she said, producing her phone from her jacket pocket and showing it to Agnes. "We understand he's been renting the penthouse for the past week."

Agnes looked down at the photo. "He's kind of cute."

Did she just say that out loud? In front of Daryl? Uh!

Detective Montgomery slipped her phone back into her pocket. "This isn't a dating app, Miss Belmont. This is an investigation."

"Of course! I totally respect that... I do!" Agnes stammered, convinced she'd made an utter fool of herself in front of the detective. "So, uh, what happened?" Agnes shifted Roxy to her other arm.

"Two armed assailants were discovered in the penthouse by Mister Jones here."

"Ninja monks," Daryl said. Agnes frowned but then her heart sank. She walked slowly back over to the sofa and flopped down onto the cushions.

"Ninja monks..." she repeated to herself. Great. The Websleuths would never buy that. And certainly not Murder Matters. They'd just think she was making it up.

"I'm sorry, I don't think I can help you," Agnes said flatly, staring straight ahead. "I never met the guy." She reached up, tucking a strand of brunette hair back behind her ear. "I just liked him because he was quiet..."

Agnes looked up, catching Detective Montgomery glaring at Daryl for a moment. "Well, Agnes... if you hear anything, here's my number," she said, turning and handing a card to her. Great. The pity card.

Daryl planted his hands in his pockets. "Maybe we can try Mrs. Higgins across the hall. She's usually got her nose in everyone's business around here..." he said.

Agnes' eyes widened at the sound of that old crone's name. "No!" she almost shouted, startling poor Roxy again. She'd be damned if that witch was going to steal her investigation! "Wait a second. After you'd gone upstairs, I started writing in my journal the times of the noises I heard upstairs. That can help you with your timeline, right?"

"Right." Detective Montgomery smiled at last.

"While you two are doing that, I better call Leon," Daryl said, reaching into his belt holster for his radio.

"Oh, the maintenance guy?" Agnes asked, flicking through the pages of her journal.

"Yeah. Someone needs to break the news that he'll need to clean all this shit up."

* * * * *

KSHK.

"Yo, Leon."

KSHK.

"Leon... you there, bro? You gotta pick up. There's some crazy shit going on."

Leon's radio sounded distorted and distant on the mould-stained kitchen counter. The TV in the basement room was louder -- some old-school British sex comedy about a horny repair man.

"Allo luv, I've come to take a look at yer plumbing!"

"Ooh, you randy bugger!"

Leon sat staring blankly at the glowing screen, the flickering image illuminating her pale face in the dim room. She scooped her clawed hand into the carton of chow mein, grabbing another handful and stuffing it into her mouth. She chewed ferociously, glancing over to the boxes strewn on the worn leather sofa beside her. She poked a taloned finger into a spring roll, bringing it to her mouth before she'd even finished swallowing the last mouthful.

"MMMF, CHOMFF, SLUURP."

So fucking hungry.

Leon reached for her third large soda, leaning her head back and draining it into her mouth. She could feel her long jet-black hair hanging over the back of the sofa. She belched, wiping the back of her scaled hand across her mouth.

Leon searched desperately beside her, but the takeout cartons were empty. She swept a powerful arm, the rubbish flying and hitting the wall opposite. At least the food had been a distraction. A distraction from herself. From what she had become.

She looked down, seeing her ample cleavage rising and falling with her breathing. She swept a finger across the swell of her left breast, wiping at a stray blob of sweet and sour sauce and bringing it to her mouth.

"Mmmm..." Leon sighed, her eyes closing as she sucked her chitinous, scaled finger clean.

She was still aware of the choker around her neck -- its glowing purple jewel highlighting the curves of her new body in the darkness. The strange warmth it produced seemed to spread down through her, until it pooled somewhere low in her body.

Since Leon had found the choker -- or had the choker found her? Since the choker had attached itself to her, painfully transforming her into... what? A woman? No, that was too easy. Too clean. Whatever she was, was certainly female. And somehow it demanded to be thought of in that way. But who ever heard of a woman covered in living, armoured scales like some seven-foot cockroach? Purple-hued scales that caught the light from the TV. That she could feel when she stroked her fingers across their hard edges.

Since transforming into... this, Leon hadn't once tried to remove the choker. All she could think about was the need within her. The hunger. The desire.

She sighed, her hands drifting over her breasts. They were held in more of that wretched scaling, like she was wearing a living bodice, or corset. Her frustration grew until a tickling sensation played about her chest.

KTCHK, KTCHK, KTCHK...

The carapace shifted across her body, sliding and rearranging itself to expose her breasts. They bobbed free, their gentle softness bared. Her pinkish-grey nipples dimpled in the cool air.

"Yesss," Leon sighed, as she scooped them in her hands, feeling their delicate tenderness, the warmth seeping into her palms. Her gaze drifted back to the TV as she felt herself.

"Ooh, you really do know what to do with your hands, don't you?"

"That's why they call me a handyman, luv!"

The characters on the TV droned their drivel, but there were now bodies moving on the screen -- skin, flesh, tits... the man's backside rising and falling rapidly as jaunty music played.

Leon closed her eyes, lifting, squeezing, massaging herself. An overwhelming pleasure surged through her, despite the roughness of her scaled hands -- or were they talons?

She rolled the clawed tips of her fingers around her stiff nipples, then lightly pinched, eliciting a gasp and a new thrill.

The light from the TV reflected and danced across the chitin on her legs and abdomen. The woman in the scene was on top now, her tits bouncing madly as she took control of her own pleasure.

Leon slowly parted her thighs, hooking her right leg over the arm of the sofa beside her. She slid her hands along the inside of her thighs... wondering if... Yes!

KTCHK, KTCHK.

Her scaled armour dutifully slid aside, rippling across her body.

Her hand found the soft centre of her desire, tracing the contours of her wet flesh.

"Mmmm." Leon's moan reverberated through the room. The overhead light, the lamps... they all grew bright and flashed around her.

* * * * *

Daryl looked up as the lights flickered in Agnes' apartment. Jesus Christ, Leon. At this rate the whole building was going to fall apart at the seams.

He looked over at Agnes, who was sat on the sofa, letting the detective copy over her notes into her own notebook.

Daryl could feel the shape of the ivory-hilted dagger under his leather bomber jacket. It was tucked within his inside pocket, the sharp edge threatening to bore a hole through the lining. He willed it to stay in place. The last thing he needed was it dropping out onto the floor in front of the good detective. There was no way he was handing it over freely. It was the coolest shit he'd ever seen. Besides, she already had the Turtle dagger.

Daryl looked down, watching as the dog circled on the living room rug, panting heavily. His gaze returned to Agnes, finding that she was already watching him. They held each other's gaze for a couple of seconds. Daryl could feel his pulse begin to race. Fuck, she was cute. She turned her head away, blushing, and it was the most adorable fucking thing he'd ever seen. Why hadn't he asked her out before? What's the worst that would happen? Grow a pair of balls, man, and do it!

He found he was taking steps toward the sofa. Daryl's heart thumped, his blood feeling warm in his body somehow. Agnes stared up at him as he approached, biting her lower lip, her hand resting near her collarbone.

What was the point in pretending? They were both fucking adults here. If there was something between them, shouldn't they just be able to... explore it? Agnes' notebook fell from her lap and she leaned her head back against the cushion of the sofa. Wait, did he have a fucking hard-on now? Fuck it. It didn't matter.

The detective suddenly jumped up from the sofa, making room, as Daryl slid into the seat where she'd just been sat.

"I, uh... I think I should probably leave you two alone now," she said, though Daryl wasn't really paying much attention to her. Instead, he gazed into Agnes' eyes. He brought his hand up and she leaned in, pressing her cheek against his palm, sighing and closing her eyes.

"Okay, I'll, uh... let myself out." The detective began to move toward the door. With some difficulty. Daryl glanced back, smiling to himself when he saw what the problem was. The dog had attached itself to her leg and was fucking going at it. "No... bad dog!" she said, limping along and trying desperately to prise it off of her.

Agnes turned Daryl's face back to her and closed her mouth over his. "Mmm," she whimpered softly against him. Daryl placed a hand on her waist, shifting position and leaning her back a little on the sofa.

Finally, the detective managed to push the madly humping dog off her leg and made for the door. "I'll... let you know if I have any more questions." She pulled the door shut after her, leaving them alone. About fucking time too. Daryl reached up, gently removing Agnes' glasses for her.

"God... I've wanted this," Agnes whispered, just before they kissed again.

* * * * *

"Uhhhhh!"

Leon threw her head back, her legs spread wide as she rubbed herself on the sofa. Her fingers strummed in a steady rhythm, her body writhing. Moist, wet, flowing. Desire. Sex. Fucking. She needed it all.

Her fingers caressed and stroked her new clit, teasing and coaxing it from its hood, throbbing and stiff. She let a hooked digit slip between the lips of her aching, urgent cunt.

"Mmmm!" Despite how lethal her taloned fingers appeared, there was no pain, and the raking, stroking and scratching of her wet walls only elicited more gasps and moans.

The air grew warm and humid, and it almost seemed like her body -- her senses -- were bleeding out into the room. Through the sofa, through the walls and ceiling... out through the structure of the condo itself.

There were two couples now in the rooms above starting to fuck. She could feel them. No, three now.

Her finger worked faster, pushing deeper, wet slapping, thrusting, searching...

DRIP, DRIP, DRIP...

Leon lifted her head, her heavy-lidded eyes looking up at the wall opposite the sofa -- the sofa that she'd had to drag back into position after kicking it clean across the room. A dripping, dark liquid began to seep through the cracks in the walls, draining down. Every corner. Every seam. Even rising up through the floorboards, gurgling, and bubbling. The walls seemed to bow outwards, swollen and pregnant. She could almost see hands trying to reach through to her. The TV played out a macabre scene of depravity and torture, with a soundtrack of laughter, moaning and crying.

She closed her eyes tight, but she couldn't stop herself. She could feel everything. Five couples were fucking now... even more were making out -- their energy cycling through her. Another finger slipped inside of her pussy, searching for release. Or the universe. Alpha and Omega.

Vines rose up through the floor, gnarled and twisting, creaking and cracking, splintering the floorboards. Creepers climbed up the throbbing walls, spreading, pulsing with life. The lights flickered and strobed.

"OHHHH!!"

Her breath howled like the wind, a throaty, cavernous wail that shook the earth. Her body juddered and spasmed, writhing in an impossible ecstasy.

* * * * *

The lights flickered again, along with a tremor that caused Agnes' collection of porcelain squirrels to rattle on her bookshelf.

"Oww!" Agnes winced as she felt something sharp digging into her side. "What is that?"

Daryl suddenly pushed himself off of Agnes. He sat bolt upright and stared down at her, looking as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over him. "Fuck. Sorry!" He slipped his hand beneath his leather jacket, slowly pulling something out of the inner pocket.

Agnes sat up and took a deep breath. She reached for her glasses. As she slipped them on, she could finally see what Daryl was holding -- a curved... sharp-looking... knife!

"Oh my god, oh my god!" Agnes leaped to her feet. She scooped Roxy into her arms. "This is it! I'm gonna be the victim in my own murder story!"

"Agnes!"

She began to back up, her backside nudging against the bookshelf behind her. One of her squirrels fell, smashing on the floor. Roxy started barking. "I'm not even going to live to get to see the Netflix documentary! First, he forced himself upon her... and then--"

"Woah, what the fuck -- I don't know what that was just then, but it wasn't that!" Daryl said, looking desperately panicked.

Agnes began to pace back and forth, with Roxy now simmering down to a quiet growl in her arms. "No... you're right." She looked back at Daryl apologetically, pushing her glasses up her nose. "Sorry!"

Agnes could still feel her heart beating, along with a warmth in her cheeks, and... other places. Her mouth felt sore with beard-rash from kissing Daryl. It had all happened so suddenly, so... intensely. If they had kept going, would they have...

"I'm not normally like that, by the way," she said, pointing at her empty seat on the sofa. "I'm a romantic. I like to be wined and dined, and swept off my feet..." Agnes turned, staring at her books -- an eclectic mix of true crime and trashy romance novels. Who was she kidding? When was the last time she'd ever found someone to wine and dine her? Still, she loved the idea of it.

Daryl looked up from where he sat on the sofa, slowly pulling an embroidered cushion across his lap. "Look, that isn't what I'm usually like either... I mean, fuck... maybe sometimes. But... I didn't want it to be like that. I--"

"Daryl?"

"Yeah?"

"Will you stop pointing that thing at me!"

For a moment Daryl glanced down at his lap, but then remembered the deadly weapon he was waving around in his hand.

"Jesus... yeah, right." Daryl cradled it in his palms. Agnes could now see the handle of the knife. Ivory, perhaps? Carved. Ornate. Ceremonial. "One of those monk dudes upstairs dropped this," he said.

Agnes let Roxy back down onto the floor. She seemed suddenly exhausted and trotted off to her bed in the corner of the living room. "Daryl, do you know what you've done?"

"I know! I fucking know!" Daryl said, staring at the weapon. "I took evidence from a crime scene..."

"No, I didn't mean that," Agnes said, adjusting her tousled hair. "You've just found the first clue in the Mystery of the Penthouse!"

* * * * *

Leon lay on the sofa with her eyes firmly shut, concentrating on her breathing and hoping against all hope that this had just been some crazy nightmare. Maybe Daryl had spiked her beer earlier. Yeah, that was it... She was just tripping balls as part of some prank.

KTCHK, KTCHK, KTCHK.

She finally opened her eyes, in time to see the platelets of purple, shining chitin creep back into position across her breasts and lower body. She held her hands up above her head, flexing her taloned fingers, using one to stroke matted strands of jet-black hair out of her face. Her eyes darted around the room. Everything was back to normal. The walls weren't leaking. The floorboards were intact. The TV droned in the background.

"Remember, if you ever need me to give your pipes a quick seeing to, just give us a call!"

Leon somehow found the energy to push herself to her feet, shaking as she felt her way along the back of the sofa. Was she really wearing some sort of high-heeled boot, or were those actually her feet? She felt a wave of sickening vertigo from being too tall. Staggering over to the mirror, she leaned forward, drawing an intake of breath -- still shocked by her porcelain, doll-like appearance. But most disconcerting of all, those baleful, glowing yellow eyes.

Leon's body still buzzed and vibrated from what had been the most intense orgasm of her life. That hadn't been some shameful shower-jerk to the memory of her ex-girlfriend. It had been full-bodied, powerful... and fucking amazing. And so what if she'd had to grow tits, a pussy... and claws to experience it? She sighed, letting her fingertips graze against the upper swell of her cleavage.

"No!" Leon muttered, her voice rasping. It took all of her willpower to reach behind her head, fumbling through her long hair to find the choker. Please work, please work...

Leon stumbled about the basement room, knocking her head against the low archway that led through into the kitchen area. A chunk of plaster fell to the floor. She clattered through the kitchen, the emptied contents of the cutlery drawer crunching beneath her feet. Her hands scrabbled at her neck. She couldn't find it. The clasp of the choker was gone. This... thing was somehow a part of her!

Suddenly, she felt a quivering sensation pass up her spine, to the base of her neck. With a sigh, the choker uncoiled from her neck and fell to the floor.

CLINK!

Leon stared down at the choker, its purple jewel gleaming up at her. Her back suddenly arched and she convulsed, a searing heat racking through her body. A swirl of black, acrid smoke rose up around her, stinging her eyes.

"Ahh!" She covered her eyes with her palms, doubling over, her nostrils flaring from the fumes. Her bones creaked, flesh itching and burning...

Just when he thought he couldn't take any more... it stopped. Leon was left listening to the sound of his own ragged, but familiar breathing. He pulled his shaking hands away from his face and looked down.

"Huh?" He stared down at his body. His body. His old, oversized, stained t-shirt draped over the scrawny coat-hanger that he called his body. "Ha ha!"

Leon spun round, his sneakers squeaking on the floor, as he sought out the mirror once more. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief. He'd never felt so pleased to look so fucking average. He ran an honest-to-god normal hand through his straggly hair and let his palm run against the coarseness of the stubble on his cheek.

Thank fuck.

Leon turned, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes. When he opened them again, he found himself staring down at the choker on the kitchen floor. It seemed to smoulder with a final few wisps of that foul smoke that had filled his lungs.

"What the fuck are you?" Leon found himself saying aloud, partly to enjoy the sound of his own voice again. He crouched down, afraid to touch it again. He gazed deep into the glowing purple jewel hanging from the choker and before he knew it, he found himself standing with the wretched thing resting in the centre of an outstretched palm.

"Screw this!" Leon quickly marched over to the old wooden workbench that he used whenever he had to fix something up. He pulled open one of the drawers and stuffed the choker inside, slamming it shut again.

Leon paced back and forth, flexing his fingers. He sat down on the sofa, steepling his hands in front of his face, his right leg jiggling. The TV screen hissed static in front of him. He scratched at the back of his head then stood up again. His eyes fell upon the drawer, and he could almost picture the choker in his mind's eye.

And fuck, if he didn't really want to wear it again.

* * * * *

Cam pulled around in a wide semi-circle, cutting across the main road. The streets were slick with rain from earlier and shimmered with the reflected light of his scooter's single headlight.

He pulled up a block short of the restaurant, wanting a moment to himself before picking up another order for delivery. He planted a foot down against the curb to steady himself and killed the engine. Up ahead, the city glowed and pulsed with nightlife. Back here, under the glow of a single streetlamp, he felt on the edge of the world, peering in.

At least he wasn't working tomorrow. He'd be able to go out and be a part of something, instead of delivering bags of fucking MSG to crazy-ass bitches in condo basements. Okay, it had only happened once tonight, but that had been enough. He'd made deliveries since then, but the experience had stuck with him for longer than he thought it would. He should find Marcia. See what she had made of it all.

In the distance he could hear girls laughing, the honking of a car horn, the smashing of glass... It merged with the ambient soundtrack in his headphones perfectly. Less so, the huffing and panting of two grown-ass men in the alleyway just behind him.

Curiosity got the better of him, and Cam used his feet to roll his scooter back a few metres, peering into the gloom. Holy shit. They were going at it alright, just not in the way he'd imagined. Two hooded figures grappled with each other, thrusting and kicking. They moved with precision. Some sort of martial arts. It was fucking sick! One of them did one of those sideways spinny things like Darth Maul! The other one held something metallic in his right hand that glinted in the dim light.

They were probably filming something for TikTok, but Cam figured it was worth posting a reel himself. He hit record on his phone and held it up. One of the hooded men pushed the other to the ground, bringing the metallic object down to bear on him. Wait, was that a fucking knife, or a sword or something? Whatever they were doing, it was dope as fuck. They made it look real. The man on his back struggled to hold the knife back, managing to turn it around on his attacker, his hands shaking until...

THUNK!

The sound was sickening and made the hairs go up on the back of Cam's neck. The man on top went limp and the other heaved him off, lying there for a moment to catch his breath. He finally scrabbled to his feet, his hood slipping back from his head, the lamplight glinting against the glasses he wore and outlining his shaved head. He looked straight up the alley towards Cam, then bolted quickly in the opposite direction, disappearing into the darkness. The second man remained motionless on the ground, as a pool of blood began to spread out from under him.

"Oh, shit," Cam mouthed, his trembling finger stopping the recording. He took a deep breath to steady himself, then dialled 911.

LYANNA UNBOUND

HUNGER

WRITTEN & DIRECTED

by

JESSICA D

END CREDITS MUSIC

'Human Behaviour'

(Hooper/Björk)

Performed by Björk