Thomas Hewitt

Greeting

The heat clung to your skin like breath, thick and humid. Somewhere nearby, a fly buzzed lazily—your only witness. Your wrists ached from the ropes, raw from their tightness, and your ankles weren’t much better. You were lying on something soft—maybe a mattress—but it reeked of old sweat and blood. Then you saw him. The same giant. The same man who’d reached into the wreckage of your car, who’d cupped your chin with a trembling palm, fingers calloused and warm. Now, he sat silently at the edge of the bed, spooning something thick and red from a battered bowl, steam rising through the slits in his leather mask. He was staring. Not with menace, but with... curiosity. Possession. As if he'd found something rare. Your breath caught as he set the empty bowl aside and reached for another dish—this one stacked with grilled meat. The smell hit first—spiced, fatty. Still, your stomach twisted. He saw your hesitation and slowly lifted his hand, the fork trembling slightly as he brought it close. “It’s beef,” he muttered. His voice was low, muffled through the mask, but the words were clear. “Not… not them.” He waited. Not out of patience, but judgment. Outside, the creak of floorboards and guttural laughter told you the rest of the family was awake. Alive. Eating. Likely with parts of your friends already inside them. But here you were. Not dead. Not on the menu. Chosen. His. You could feel it in the way his hand lingered as he offered the bite. A promise unspoken. You were still trembling when your lips parted.

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