Chapter 3 – Sacrificial offering

Sitting at the table, slicing into the victim’s heart, the man, who the press had named the “Heart Reaver”, melted into his thoughts: Every time I offer a sacrifice to the Gods, I feel it – that delicious anticipation. What gift will they grant me this time? (Fragments of memory bled through – flashes of torn flesh, devoured hearts, overlapping with distant voices, reporters, witnesses – all whispering the same name: “Heart Reaver”.)

Among them, a TV show – a popular singer laughing as she confessed her obsession with the Reaver, saying that if he was as handsome as she imagined, she’d gladly give him her heart.

The host raised an eyebrow:

– Give him your heart? You mean… to eat?

The singer giggled, brushing it off:

– That’s between me and him!

The Heart Reaver savored the memory, his blood surging with pleasure: “Ohh… this feeling… blood pounding in my head, excitement flooding every cell. Sex, drugs, food, women – nothing compares, even mixed into one wicked cocktail. The purest bliss is power. True power belongs only to those who shape the destinies of others – who decide whether someone lives or dies. If anyone ever dared to ask, “Why do you do it?”… I’d kill him without hesitation. If you can’t grasp the importance of controlling your life – you’re just food for the strong”.

He placed the first bloody piece into his mouth. A shudder rippled through him. With every bite, the vibrations grew stronger. When the last bite was gone, the Heart Reaver lost all control. He crashed to the floor, convulsing violently, foam pouring from his mouth. Bones ached. Joints screamed. He shook uncontrollably. And then – silence. His mind drifted into blissful nirvana – just like an addict hitting the golden vein. HE BLACKED OUT.

Hours later.

He opened his eyes and locked gazes with the lifeless body on the floor. The dead man’s eyes stared back, glazed with fear and agony.

Groaning, the Heart Reaver dragged himself upright:

– Ugh, my head’s splitting. And you – with your judgmental stare? Cut it out.

Talking to the corpse as if it could answer:

– Hey, are you there?

Silence.

– Figures. We’ll chat later. Now I have to deal with the overdose, it’s been a while since I last felt so fucking shitty. Hope, it’s all for a reason.

He staggered toward the fridge, dragging his feet. Due to loss of control, he tripped over the outstretched leg of the corpse and splashed down into a pool of blood. It brought him additional suffering. He hauled himself upright again, reached the fridge, tore it open, and seized a carton of milk. Guzzling it greedily, the milk streamed down his face and body, mixing with the blood.

Covered in blood and milk, he staggered into the shower. Under the pounding stream of water, his battered body was slowly revealed – crisscrossed with old scars, each telling a silent story of pain and survival. Around his arm was wrapped a STRANGE DEVICE: a chain coiled tightly from wrist to elbow, smooth on the outside to spare clothing, but barbed inward with vicious spikes pressing into his skin.

Standing there, under the relentless water, he reached for the chain and loosened it. With the release came an overwhelming physical reaction – a wave of tension, heat, and desperate need. Overcome by the flood of sensation, he grabbed his penis, stroking himself in a rough, mechanical motion, as if trying to purge the unbearable pressure from within. Once finished, breathing heavily, he stepped out of the shower.

He peeled off the filthy remnants of his clothing and tossed them into the washing machine, setting it to spin. Still dripping water onto the floor, he made his way toward the bedroom. There, on the bed, lay the corpse of the girl with her throat slit open – a vivid reminder of what had transpired. (A buried memory tears through – her eyes snap open to a shadow leaning over her, then the blade – swift, clean – across her throat.)

Without glancing back at the body, he moved to the wardrobe, pulling out a clean white T-shirt and a pair of underwear. Dressing mechanically, he sat at the edge of the bed, waiting for the washing to finish.

Some time later.

The Heart Reaver stepped outside. The sun was hovering at the same height as when he had entered the building. A full night had passed.

Despite still feeling wrecked, hunger gnawed at him – sweet cravings and the desperate need for a hot, strong coffee.

He set off toward the city’s food alley.

AND HE WAS MOVING STRAIGHT TOWARD GOBBY AND GERMAN.

They were walking the same avenue, just after visiting the kittens at Aunt Mary’s.

German was shuffling behind Gobby, who looked upset. Gobby was walking slowly, his head down, periodically sighing. German caught himself thinking: “Why am I even following him? What do I want from him? Maybe I just want to thank him for saving me? Nah, he doesn’t need it. So why then?”. Suddenly the realization burst upon him – Subject No. 1: Gobby.

Yesterday’s event was the brightest thing that had ever happened in his life.

Fragments of memory surfaced – German buried in books, tracing the rise and fall of empires, studying natural phenomena and disasters.

And yet, compared to everything he had read and learned, the chubby guy walking ahead was the most mysterious creature he had ever met. “Then why can’t I muster up the courage to talk to him? I NEED to make friends with him. I NEED HIM!”.

Gathering his courage, German ran up to Gobby, stopped him, looked him straight in the eyes and, stretching out his hand, said almost shouting with inspiration:

– Let’s be friends!

Gobby stopped for a moment and threw out:

– No mood! and continued on his way.

German was stunned by such an answer, crushed, and stood still thinking.
Suddenly, insight flashed through his mind and he shouted after Gobby:

– You remember that pie with jam?

Gobby froze, turned slowly toward German and asked:

– So what?

– What if I treat you with pies today… and for sure I’ll buy the same pie with jam that ended up in the puddle because of me? (For a second, we are shown the lonely bitten pie lying in the puddle.)

Gobby stood silent, his face stone-cold. For a moment it seemed he was preparing to attack. But suddenly, he broke into a wide smile:

– YOU PROMISE?

– I promise! – German replied firmly.

Gobby grabbed German’s hand and dragged him toward the bakery where he had previously bought those amazing pies. As they hurried along the alley, the stand sellers cheerfully greeted Gobby again, while German just stared in astonishment – it seemed everyone here already knew the strange, chubby boy.

From the opposite end of the street, a tall man in a long coat was walking toward them – his steps slow, deliberate. The coat brushed against his boots; the brim of his hat hid his face.

He didn’t look at anyone, yet his presence seemed to dim the light around him.

People instinctively stepped aside, though none of them could explain why.

Gobby and German passed him without noticing – two boys lost in thoughts of Empanadas de Pino.

And none of them knew that the man crossing the street behind them was the Heart Reaver.

Gobby pulled German into the bakery just ten seconds before the man reached the entrance. Gobby pushed aside all the customers, ran to the counter, and started shouting out his order. The baker at first wanted to scold him for cutting the line, but a kind old man who was about to order waved it off:

– He needs it more than me!

Gobby thanked him quickly and went on ordering, while German could only mentally calculate the mounting expenses. Despite being happy, Gobby still maintained his self-control, glancing at German after each pie to seek approval – like a child seeking permission to buy something expensive.

Meanwhile, the Heart Reaver, upon entering the bakery, suddenly felt a wave of nausea and hurried straight past the line toward the restroom.

At that very moment, everything seemed to slow down – time itself stretched, as if the world was viewed from above. The Heart Reaver moved along his path toward the restroom.
Gobby was clutching the bag with pies, German was pulling out his wallet.

Above the Heart Reaver, something began to emerge – an essence loomed over him, MASSIVE and BLIND, WITH A HUMAN FACE and ANCIENT, WRINKLED SKIN. The essence sniffed the air, catching a pleasant, familiar scent. It twisted its head from side to side, trying to catch the exact direction from where the smell came.

(A memory tore through – a hospital corridor. The Heart Reaver being escorted by clinic staff past a young boy. As the Heart Reaver passed by, the essence sensed the same smell from the child. At that moment, the boy instinctively reacted, raising his eyes in terror. He froze in fear. The staff member sharply tugged the Heart Reaver forward, muttering:– Drogo, don’t look around! Keep walking!)