mmummydust

[mmummydust]

I Named Her Hunger

CHAPTER 5: My blood is red and unafraid of living

Characters: Cortney Azazel, Rowan Greer, Tim Wright, Brian Thomas, Tobias Erin Rogers, other plot characters

Warnings: Sswearing

I’m liquid smooth, come touch me too

And feel my skin is plump and full of life

I’m in my prime

Being the victim of a control freak eldritch creature was the most exhausting thing Azazel had experienced. From what the other woman told her, this was just the mild shit he could do. In fact, he barely did anything to her. Only ‘presenting’ himself and making sure Azazel was aware of his existence and his intentions as well.

“He’s studying you.”

She had explained after the student was a little more aware of her surroundings. It only proved to make Azazel shake in her boots. Just the surface of his actual intentions and capabilities to bend the mind to his will and preference.

What she had learned from all of this was that his visits always had after effects. Nosebleeds, headaches, coughing. Probably this being her first ever visit, her symptoms were worse. A nosebleed like the one this morning was something to be worried about. A window popping up on her laptop screen suggested otherwise.

“It’s normal. The bleeding will stop.”

“You will not die.”

How nice of her to be the main source of information for Azazel.

She stirred her coffee, watching the spoon spin in a slow, hypnotic loop. Movement for the sake of movement. Her eyes burned, not from tears, but from the weight of sleeplessness and knowing. That sick kind of knowing you couldn’t unlearn.

Rowan’s voice cut through the quiet. “You’ve been doing that for ten minutes.”

Azazel blinked, as if waking up mid-thought. “Yeah.”

“Talk to me,” Rowan said, not unkindly. “Please.”

There was a long pause.

“I think,” Azazel began slowly, “I’m being…. uhm, studied?”

Rowan raised a brow. “By who?”

“I don’t know, Ro. I’m so tired.”

There was silence again, but this time it was heavier. Thicker. Rowan leaned back, fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the side of his mug.

“Tell me everything,” he said. “I mean it. Everything. Don’t protect me from whatever you think I can’t handle.”

Azazel hesitated, her eyes flicking to the counter where a sweet looking lady stood and waited to serve more customers. “It’s like…” She inhaled. “Have you ever felt like you were being prepared for something? Not warned. Not guided. Just… made ready.”

“Azazel…” Rowan muttered, a pitiful expression on his face greeting Azazel’s desperation. It only made her feel even worse.

“Azazel!”

A cheery voice greeted her as the warm arms of Mira engulfed the blonde in a warm hug. Azazel flinched at the sudden touch, not expecting her to have such a loud entrance. Dammit, Mira. Sweet perfume invaded her nostrils, engulfing the woman in one of her favourite scents that Mira owned.

“Hey,” She mumbled, returning the hug half-heartedly. “Don’t scare me like that, girl.”

“Mira, for the love of God, stop running like that whenever you see your friends!”

Ah, Faye. She was starting to ask herself where she was. The brunette appeared in her line of sight and sat down next to Rowan as she placed two cups of coffee on the table. The steam curled up from the ceramics and, maybe if Azazel wasn’t so damn hyper focused she would get hypnotised by them.

“You look like shit,” Faye said, tilting her head to the side. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

“I’m not sure I’m up for anything,” Azazel admitted, brushing her hair behind her ear. “But if I stay home, I’ll rot. So…”

As response she only received a nod, scooting to the left on her booth to let Mira take a seat next to her. Bad idea, but a little optimism wouldn’t hurt. Especially now. After that whole encounter she felt quite anxious and paranoid, always looking at the corners and doorways in case a certain someone decided to show up again. She doubted He would make an appearance in public, but her mind told her otherwise.

It was cloudy when they left the café. Not the kind of cloudy that promised rain, but the kind that dulled everything. Typical April weather. At least it wasn’t raining. None of her friends had brought an umbrella and none had a car.

Going to eat at this terrace was one of their traditions. Every month they would make time to meet up like this and spend their evening together. It had become something akin to an escape from reality, being allowed to forget about any external stress and focus on their little outing.

Azazel sat down at a free table, right at the edge where the earth met a pretty lake. The water was still, a perfect, glassy reflection of the pale sky above. Trees lined the far shore like silent sentries, unmoved by the breeze. Mira and Faye where quick to claim the other seats as Rowan had went to greet a relative at a table close-by. They chattered as they set their bags down, scanning the laminated menus like it was the most important decision of their week. Rowan took a chair across from her, leaning back like usual as he, once more, chose the chair that kept Azazel in his direct line of sight.

“So,” The albino woman said, already smiling in that sharp, mischievous way. “Do we go full comfort food, or pretend we’re respectable human beings?”

“I’m voting for fries and beer,” Azazel said. “We deserve that much.”

They all hummed in agreement, a chorus of approval laced with exhaustion. Shared fatigue from a semester that had already frayed everyone’s nerves at the seams.

Azazel chuckled softly, resting her chin in her hand as she watched the water shimmer in that dull, diffused light. The breeze carried over faint laughter from other tables and the occasional clink of glassware. For a second, she could pretend things were fine. That the spiraling sensations hadn’t dug their claws into her. That her mind wasn’t becoming more fragile with each passing hour.

“You seem better,” Mira said suddenly, her eyes soft but searching. “I mean… last week you kind of disappeared on us.”

Azazel hesitated. “I had to sort through some stuff.”

“That stuff being academic or personal?” Faye asked, raising a brow.

Azazel gave a half-smile. “A bit of both.”

They ordered without much thought, the comfort of routine guiding their decisions. Mira flirted with the waiter. Faye rolled her eyes. Rowan made some dry comment about being stuck with “immature people”. It was easy. Familiar. Like a scene she could step into and out of, wearing a version of herself she almost remembered being.

“Do you remember that weird guy from Lit class? The one who said Kafka was overrated and then got into a full debate with the professor?”

Faye groaned. “The one who brought up comic books like it was a valid counterargument?”

Mira was mid-story - something about that guy - when a flicker of movement caught Azazel’s eye. Across the terrace, near the corner closest to the alleyway and out of range of most conversation, sat three men. They weren’t looking at her. That’s what made it worse.

One of them had a calmness that clung to him like oil - slow sipping of his drink, gaze half-lidded like he was barely there at all. Tim. Another leaned forward on his elbows, chewing his lip as if nervous but smiling all the same, like he wanted people to see his teeth and the gap between the two in the front. Brian. The third, twitchy and talkative, played with his straw. This one, she didn’t know who he was.

Azazel’s fingers tightened around her glass. Her blood ran cold, then hot, then cold again. There was no reason she should recognize them. Not like this. Not out of context. Not without the masks. Stay calm. They can’t hurt you in a public place. Especially unmasked. Brian stared at her, his smile still stretched upon his face.

“Ooh, who’s that, Az? He’s cute,” Rowan asked, glancing back to where Azazel was staring, making Brian’s eyes dart between the two people now staring back at him.

“Like hell I know, Ro.” She answered, keeping her voice levelled although her heart was hammering against her chest.

Rowan hummed thoughtfully, clearly entertained by the tension. “Well, he’s either into you or plotting a murder. No in-between with that smile.”

Azazel didn’t laugh. She couldn’t. Her nails pressed into the soft flesh of her palm, hidden beneath the table. It grounded her, barely. The hum of conversation around them dulled as if she were underwater, her vision narrowing just slightly. The air felt denser. Too warm. Too still.

Mira leaned in. “Okay, you’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“That thousand-yard stare like you’re about to drop a prophecy or explode.”

Azazel blinked and pulled her eyes away from the men. “No way I do that.”

“Yes way,” Rowan said, not accusing - just observant, like always. “Is that someone you know from the case?”

Her lips parted slightly. The lie was right there, polished and easy. But something stopped her. Maybe it was the way Brian hadn’t stopped smiling. Maybe it was the way Tim finally leaned back in his seat, stretching like a predator pretending it wasn’t watching prey.

“No,” she said after a pause. “But I think they’re extroverted. Your type, Ro.”

Mira didn’t buy it. “If this is about that weird shit you were researching, maybe take a step back for a while.”

Azazel wanted to. God, she wanted to. But it was already too late. The noose was around her neck; it just hadn’t been pulled tight yet. “I’ll be fine.”

Lies again. Thin, shaking lies. Across the terrace, Tim raised his drink in mock salute - right at her. Slow. Smirking. Azazel felt her blood freeze. He knew she saw him. He wanted her to.

Rowan turned again, catching the tail end of the gesture. “Okay, that’s creepy.”

“Yeah,” Mira agreed, frowning now. “Let’s just ignore them. The waiter was better.”

They all burst into laughter, bringing Azazel’s mind back to the situation. She was forever thankful for how her friends always managed to bring her back to Earth.

The sky had darkened into black by the time they left the terrace, the kind of dusk that told everyone to go home. The check had been split, half-hearted jokes made about who owed who from last time, and the group had finally decided it was time to head out. Faye stretched her arms over her head with a long, content sigh. “Ugh, I needed this. Even if Mira tried to get the waiter’s number again.”

“He was into it,” Mira shot back, nudging her friend with an exaggerated wink. “Besides, flirting keeps the blood flowing.”

“I can think of other ways to keep the blood flowing,” Rowan muttered, hands in his pockets. His tone was flat, but his smirk gave him away.

Azazel offered a tired smile, just enough to pass for normal. Her body ached in a strange, soft way - as if her nerves had been plucked like strings and left to quiver. The unease hadn’t left since she saw them. It just burrowed deeper.

The walk back to the main road was slow and full of conversations. They moved in a loose cluster, shoes crunching on gravel and soft dirt. Mira complained about the cold. Faye offered to let her borrow a jacket and was immediately refused. Rowan lit a cigarette. The smoke curled up into the chilled air, sharp and fleeting. She stayed just a little behind them, her head bowed as if in thought. The encounter with her probably stalkers had shook her. She expected to see them the moment she entered her house.

“Hey, are you alright? Do you want me to walk you home?” Rowan offered, slowing his steps so he could let Azazel catch up with him.

She looked up at him, unsure of what to say. Of course, having some company while going home felt heavenly, especially after fear was once more instilled in her.

“Yeah, I’d like that.” She finally answered him, giving him a half-hearted smile. “You know, I was actually thinking of getting a dog.”

Rowan raised a brow, amused by her change of subject. “Really? That sounds very unlike you, I thought you hated how much saliva dogs leave all over the floor.”

That silenced the woman as she glared at Rowan, jokingly unhappy that he was pointing out her past words. “Maybe I changed my mind,” She said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Whatever you say, blondie.”

The others peeled off in different directions with waves and tired goodbyes. Only Azazel and Rowan remained, walking in silence for most of the way. When they finally arrived, Azazel agreed to text Rowan if she felt uneasy or if anything happened. Ever the gentleman he was.

⋆

Azazel turned the lock, then the deadbolt. Then she checked both again, pressing her palm flat against the cool wood for a second too long, like she could will it into a barrier strong enough to keep the world out. She turned on the light quicker than she would like to admit, feeling pathetic of doing such things, but her assumptions turned true. Three motherfuckers were in her living room. The same ones from the terrace.

Oh, piss off.

They’re sat so leisurely around her space, the twitchy guy lounging on her couch, Tim perched on the armrest like he owned the place, and Brian standing by the bookshelf while he flipped through one of the books.

“Seriously?” Azazel sighed, furrowing her brows. “You know, I would’ve let you in if you knocked and asked nicely.”

Brian huffed, clearly amused by her reasoning. Obviously they weren’t going to be nice and enter like normal people. They weren’t normal people anyway. The twitchy guy bounced his leg, drumming his gloved fingertips against his thigh in invisible rhythms.

“You have great snacks,” He commented, his lips stretching into a smile.

“I’m sorry? Who the hell are you anyway-” She tried to question with a grimace on her face, clearly disgusted by his words, only to be interrupted by him.

“Toby!” He exclaimed a little too enthusiastically.

Okay, bitch. Learn some manners, I guess.

“Mkay… How did you get in? I changed the lock.”Tim shrugged. “Locks are shitty. Especially yours. Plus, we have an expert.” His thumb motioned towards Brian, who gave Azazel a sinister smile. Fuck that tooth gap. Maybe if he wasn’t a criminal and didn’t look so sickly he would be attractive.

Azazel’s fingers twitched toward her phone. Still in her jacket pocket. No way she could reach it before one of them intervened.

“We’ve been informed you already have a… babysitter. I didn’t know Meliora would take the job so easily.” Tim said, fiddling with a knife he took out from his pocket. “You’re pretty easy to stalk anyway.”Meliora? Why did she feel like she already knew this name?

“Meliora? Is that the ginger one?”Tim burst out in laughter. “No way you didn’t know her name. Secretive, isn’t she? At least she was easier to get information from in the first few days, but you? Maybe you’d be easier to get rid of than we thought.”“Ugh! What the fuck? Is this how you foreshadow things? You’re as shitty as my locks.”

Tim cackled, clearly pleased with her disgust. He twirled the knife between his fingers like it was just a fidget toy and not a tool meant for something much worse.

Toby kept bouncing his knee, grinning like this was just some game. “You’re funny. I like you. It’s too bad.”

Azazel narrowed her eyes. “Too bad what?”

Toby leaned forward, eyes wide like a child about to share a secret. “Too bad this isn’t just a social call.”

There it was. The turn in tone that dropped like a stone in her stomach.

Tim straightened, slipping the knife back into his pocket with a slow, deliberate motion. “You’re smart, I can’t deny that. You’ve pretty much done all the shit we’ve told you to do. You figured out we were guiding you into more trouble, but you kept going.”“Dumb move, if you ask me.” Brian commented, finally leaving the bookshelf alone.

“And what? You just show up and… what? Tell me I’m stupid?” Her tone was acidic now, defensive heat bubbling up from the pit of her anxiety. “That’s your big play? No fuckass threatening like last time?”“You’re not really scared enough,” Tim replied, his voice suddenly flat. “That’s the problem.”

Brian took a slow step forward. Azazel flinched despite herself.

Tim smirked. “See, now you’re starting to get it.”

“He had already visited you. You know what you’re dealing with. There’s no escape now Azazel. But don’t think we’re on equal ground.” The blonde man said, coming forward to stop next to Tim. “You’re probably going to end up as a meal, anyway. Less end up alive than you think.”

“Keep going,” Tim encouraged Azazel.

It was some sick game, she figured. They found pleasure in seeing people end up like them or even worse. Over time, of course they would develop such a mentality and thirst for blood. They were the more aggressive synonym to what the government is. They live well and without worries and smile whenever others grovel at their feet.

“See where all of this gets you. It depends on her anyway.”“Her?” Azazel echoed.

Brian just smiled again. This time, he didn’t look amused. He looked hungry.

Toby gave her a wink. “Say hi to Meliora for us whenever she comes by.”

Ewgh…

They walked out the door just like that, throwing Azazel’s keys onto the table, not even in the ceramic bowl, right before they left. Azazel stood frozen in place, her breath caught in her throat. Say hi to Meliora for us. The name echoed through her mind like a curse. She didn’t even realize the door had closed until the silence pressed in around her.

Why did her name sound so familiar?

[mmummydust]

I Named Her Hunger

CHAPTER 3: I thought it would be fun and games

Characters: Cortney Azazel, Rowan Greer, Vexley Meliora, The Operator, other plot characters

Warnings: Descriptions of gore, swearing

I feel the reason as it’s leaving me

No, not again

It’s quite deceiving

As I’m feeling the flesh make me bad

The world came slowly back to Azazel as the muffled sound of her alarm pierced the silence. It became clearer as she finally opened her eyes, wincing as the weak throb of her head intensified the moment sunlight hit her face. Whoever cursed her to wake up like this must have had it out for her. The couch beneath her felt coarse against her cheek; she shifted, and a metallic taste blossomed at the back of her tongue. For a moment, she couldn’t remember how she’d ended up here - hair mussed, clothes rumpled, the world silent around her. A hand reached up weakly to clutch her head, her palm rubbing against something quite rough that was stuck to her skin, falling off in brittle red crumbs on the couch. Blood..?

“Oh my God,” She groggily mumbled, staring at where a scab had fallen from her forehead. It suddenly came back to her what had happened. The events of last night made her cringe. Now that she thinks about it, her attempt at immobilising her intruder was pathetic. So pathetic it disappointed Azazel how rusty her skills had got.

Her alarm rang again, the screen of her phone lighting up once more to let her dismiss it. Grabbing the device with little to no grace, she stopped the annoying reminder that she had to get ready for class. Her limbs were heavy, probably because, once again, she kinda got a reset in her brain. Getting knocked out was quickly becoming a theme, and she hated it. Getting up proved to be hell as her head throbbed, and even after she iced the little swollen spot and swallowed a pill on an empty stomach - bad idea - the pain seemed to only dull. She had to find some stupid excuse for her friends as she put a bandaid on the small wound. It wasn’t big, just enough to piss Azazel off because she couldn’t put makeup on. It was either look like a clown or look like a clown but worse. Concealer was her only salvation.

Her things were scattered onto the coffee table, and it pissed Azazel off. How nice of her guest to leave such a mess. Not only that, it was clear that she had looked through Azazel’s room. Her desk drawers were slightly open, the contents rifled through. Even the framed photos of her parents and an old class trip were misaligned. Creepiest of all, her plants were watered. She didn’t even remember the last time she watered them.

Azazel grits her teeth, stuffing her charger into her bag and jamming her phone in after it. The violation twisted in her gut - whoever that woman was, she hadn’t just broken in. She had studied her. It’s not like Azazel had anything valuable, so her intruder looked through her things to learn more about Azazel. What a fucking creep.

God, what am I supposed to tell Rowan? she thought, pulling on her shoes. That I tripped and fell into a concussion? That I’ve been stress-watering my plants in my sleep? She paused with one boot half-on, staring blankly at the door. No. Too weird. Get yourself together!

The longer she stood there trying to lie to herself, the more she felt it - that lingering sensation of being watched like the echo of someone else’s breath still hung in the apartment. She shoved the thought aside, yanked on the other boot, and grabbed her coat. Outside, the chill of the morning air slapped her awake. The city moved on around her, indifferent to her bruises. The walk to campus was mostly a blur - just the clack of her boots on the pavement, the hum of cars, and the tightness in her chest that refused to ease no matter how many deep breaths she took. Every shadow made her glance twice. Every sound behind her made her spine stiffen.

She was twenty minutes late when she finally spotted Rowan sitting under the familiar maple tree just outside the university. He always got there early, always picked the spot with the best view of the courtyard, and always had something warm in his hands - today it was a paper cup of what looked like chai.

“Goddamn Az. What the hell happened to your face?”

So much for easing into it.

Azazel forced a weak smile and walked over. “Good morning to you, too.”

Rowan stood, his brows drawing together as he examined the bandaid on her temple. “Azazel. Seriously. That looks like blunt-force trauma. What - did you walk into a wall?”

She chuckled at that, quickly regretting it as pressure built up in her head and made it throb. With a weak wince, she covered the bandaid with her hand. “I hit my head this morning right on the corner of my nightstand. I think I need to get a smaller one.”

“Well, no shit. Your mom keeps telling you to buy that round one and you keep refusing.”

He only received an eye roll as a response, Azazel finding the need to give bitchy teenager attitude even when she probably had a concussion. “Yeah, and everyone knows I’m stubborn when it comes to changing furniture.” She muttered, looking away.

Rowan handed her the chai without asking. She accepted it, hands warming instantly around the cup. He stood next to her in silence for a long moment, just watching the crowd filter past the courtyard. Then he asked, quietly, “You sure that’s all that happened?”

She hesitated, the question slicing a little too cleanly through her. For a moment she thought about telling him. But Rowan was steady. Safe. Normal. And she wasn’t ready to shatter that.

Azazel sipped the chai. “I’m sure.”

He didn’t believe her. She could tell. But he let it go - for now. “Come on,” he said finally, nodding toward the campus building. “Professor Choi’s already pissed. Let’s at least try to sneak in before she goes full banshee.”

⋆

By the time her last class ended, Azazel’s head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. The campus was starting to empty out - students scattering off to dorms, coffee shops, and late shifts - and the early spring sun had already begun its descent, casting long shadows between the buildings. She hadn’t said much during the lectures. Took half the notes she normally would. Her focus was shot, her nerves raw. Now, the sky was just starting to turn gold. Her boots thudded on the stairwell as she descended toward the side exit of the building. Her plan was simple: get home, eat something with actual nutritional value, and pretend the world wasn’t unravelling at the edges, but when she reached the bottom, her eyes caught a folded paper on the ground. Small. Square. In the middle of the way towards the door. She couldn’t just ignore it, not when curiosity always gets the best of her. Bending down, she scooped up the paper and unfolded it. She quickly folded it back up.

No. No, no, no.

That damned symbol was drawn messily onto it. Azazel refused to acknowledge it, quickly throwing it into the closest garbage, jaw tight as she pushed open the door and stepped into the dying light. She didn’t make it far as she made eye contact with a certain blonde man.

“The fuck happened to your face?”

Casual, amused, and unmistakable. Theo leaned against the bike rack, one foot on a pedal, hoodie half-zipped, and a cigarette lazily held between his lips. His blonde curls were messier than usual, blown about by the insistent wind, and his backpack hung from one shoulder like it weighed nothing.

Azazel exhaled, part relief, part irritation. “Why does everyone keep greeting me like that today?”

“Because you look like you lost a fight with a drunk man.” He pushed off from the rack and started walking with her, wheeling his bike beside him. “A drunk man with brass knuckles.”

She gave him a sideways glance, lips tugging into a faint smile despite herself. “I hit the nightstand. Nothing dramatic.”

Theo snorted. “Right. And I’m the Pope.”

They quickly fell into step, the sound of his keychains jingling from his belt loops providing a familiar sound for Azazel. This guy always had to make some sort of sound. Whether it was him whistling, or the jingle of how many chains he got attached to his belt, it made him interesting and very noisy.

“I was gonna hit the corner store,” he said after a beat. “Need energy drinks, and maybe something microwaveable that won’t kill me. You coming?”

Azazel hesitated. There was still a knot in her chest. She hadn’t forgotten about the note she had found. It stayed in the back of her mind, reminding her of her current situation. But Theo was safe. And right now, she needed to feel safe. Plus, the guy was huge. He’d take anyone who dared mess with them. “Yeah,” she said. “Some junk food sounds good right now.”

“That’s what I’m saying!”

The corner store was only a few blocks away, tucked between a laundromat and a vape shop with flickering signage. The bell above the door jingled as they entered, a too-cheerful sound that made Azazel flinch before she could stop herself. Theo didn’t notice - he was already beelining toward the back refrigerators. “Alright,” he called over his shoulder, “help me decide between death or heart palpitations.”

Azazel trailed behind, eyes scanning the aisles out of habit. Her nerves hadn’t calmed, not really. Every aisle felt a little too narrow, and the lights a little too harsh. Still, there was comfort in the routine. She grabbed a bag of spicy chips and a cold canned coffee, her version of self-care, then turned the corner to find Theo standing in front of the energy drinks like they were fine wine.

“You know,” she said while approaching him. “I doubt it matters anyway. The Egyptians believed the most significant thing you could do in your life was die.”

Theo gave her a deadpan look, shocked that she still used that reference. “Azazel, quit it. It's old, grandma.”

“I know. Get the summer redbull.” The answer she received in return was a happy ‘yummy’ as Theo put the can of future heart palpitations in his basket, snatching the bag of chips from her hands. What a gentleman.At the register, Theo chatted with the clerk like he always did - commenting on the weather like he was a bored retiree instead of a six-foot-something boy in a hoodie with fucking Hatsune Miku. Azazel watched them with her cheek resting against the edge of the gum rack, too tired to stand up straight, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly in her ears.

God, she felt ancient.

“Don’t fall asleep while standing, grandma,” Theo nudged her lightly with his elbow, sliding a pack of gum onto the counter with a grin. “I still need to get you home, y’know? No, I am not carrying you.”

“I’d punch you but there are cameras here.”

“Oh no, scary.” He pulled a dramatic face and then added more quietly, “You good though? You seem off.”

Azazel froze for half a second - just a flicker. She hadn’t expected him to say it aloud. She glanced at the clerk, who was half-listening and half-scanning their snacks. “Yeah,” she said, her voice a little too even. “Just a long week.”

Theo didn’t buy it, not fully. But he let it go, which was maybe the most Theo thing he could do. Outside, the sky had gone a deeper gold, tinged with orange. Traffic hummed at the intersection. A couple walked past, laughing. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked twice and then went quiet. Her friend was sipping on his energy drink while making sure his bike didn’t bump into trashcans. They fell into a comforting silence, letting the sounds of the city be their background ‘music’. It had become routine for her friends to walk her home. Mostly because their houses were in the same direction, but also because she had a bus stop close by. She valued these walks more ever since her life took a bad turn. Those guys took pictures of Rowan. What would’ve happened if she was alone?

“Alright Miss Cortney, this is where our last stop together is. Any tips for the carriage man?”

His antics were only met with a scoff from Azazel and a raised brow, staring at him expectantly. For a few seconds, neither said anything, and finally, Theo gave in and handed her the things she bought that were kept safely in his backpack.

“You’re no fun…” he grumbled, feigning offence like Azazel would fall for that.

“I’ll get you a pack of Red Bull cans next time, carriage man.” She patted him on the bicep, passing by him to walk on the short path that led to her front porch. “Thanks for walking me home!”

“Anytime, Az! Don’t forget about your promise!”

“I never said promise!”

Entering her home had to be the most adrenaline-inducing thing ever. At this point she expected some fucker to jump at her or wait for her to realise that she had company. Nowadays people forget about pleasantries and simply scare the lights out of you once you’re home. She should get cameras just for the sake of knowing when someone breaks into her home. Tossing her keys in the ceramic bowl like usual, she stood still for a bit. Nothing. The only sound in her house was the hum of the fridge. No other presence seemed to disturb her peaceful home. Her eyes scanned the living room automatically, flicking from the coat rack to the corners of the ceiling, half-expecting to see someone waiting in the dark. Finally, some time to herself.

She let out a slow breath, forcing her shoulders to relax as she set down the bag of snacks and grabbed the canned coffee from it. Dinner was just two slices of toast she scarfed down while standing, in a rush to get in bed and watch her favourite show. Her next lecture was in the afternoon so Azazel could wake up later than usual. Sleep took her rather quickly. Exhaustion was recently weighing on her whole body and, compared to how restless she used to be, now she would fall asleep faster than usual. A blessing and a curse.

⋆

Waking up with a dry mouth and the need to pee had to be one of the worst ways to wake up. Really, what was this recent thing for Azazel to have terrible mornings? Groaning softly, she sat up, blinking through the dark. The room was bathed in faint blue light from her laptop screen, paused on the Netflix home screen. Her throat felt like sandpaper and her eyes burned from too little rest, too much screen time. She checked her phone: 4:03 AM. The world outside her windows was silent. No cars. No crickets. Just silence.

Azazel rubbed her face and got to her feet, shivering at the sudden cold that clung to her skin. Her house was always a little drafty, but this felt worse - like the kind of cold that settled into your bones and whispered you’re not alone. She tried to ignore it, padding to the bathroom and flicking the light on. The fluorescent bulb flickered once before settling. Her reflection stared back at her in the mirror: puffy eyes, bandaid on her temple, hair an absolute mess. She looked like hell.

The sink gurgled as she splashed some water onto the small wound on her temple. Maybe she was just spooked. The note had rattled her more than she wanted to admit, even with Theo distracting her earlier. Maybe her brain was just creating shadows where there weren’t any. Typical paranoid mind. That’s what too many crime scenes do to you - and a bunch of motherfuckers pestering you. Now, she either was going insane, or her ears really started ringing for no reason. Like the kind of ringing when someone watches you. She wiped her face with a towel, wincing at the throbbing in her head that was slowly intensifying. One look in the mirror after she made sure no water was going to sting her eyes and Azazel froze.

She wished she could scream, but it felt like one of those shitty nightmares where you can barely talk above a whisper and all strength leaves you. It felt like her body refused to listen to any of her commands and it unnerved Azazel. There, behind her, stood a tall creature. Something Azazel had seen only in those entries from Marble Hornets, although it didn’t seem to be this tall. Her breathing sped up. Although it had no eyes, it was clearly staring at her. Waiting for some reaction other than her remaining on the spot. At this point she should start playing dead like those animals. Some sort of static started to fill her mind, pressure building up in her head like it was about to explode. Breathing also felt hard, and it wasn’t long before her brain, although almost like a whisper, thought that maybe she was having a panic attack.

It was there. No… He was there. Silent yet so deadly it could kill Azazel with just His presence.

He didn’t move. Not like it was needed. He simply was, standing in her dimly lit hallway - limbs too long, neck craned slightly like He was observing her from some cruel, inhuman angle. His featureless face seemed to tilt, and it was like the room itself recoiled around Him. The lights flickered once. Twice. Then steadied. Azazel felt like she was in those Poughkeepsie tapes, but instead of some creature crawling to her, said creature was standing in her hallway and waited. Waited for her to do something. The Operator remained where He stood, but something in the walls began to hum - that nauseating, mind-numbing static growing louder with every second. It wasn’t just sound. It was inside her. Inside her skull. Under her skin. A pulsing, droning frequency that made her teeth hurt and her vision blur at the edges. Like her very thoughts were being tuned by something alien.

Then - a flicker and he was gone. Azazel collapsed to her knees, gasping like she’d been held underwater. The nausea hit next, sharp and gut-twisting. She clutched the edge of the sink, half-expecting blood to drip from her nose. None came. Only silence again. Then her mind went blank as she passed out.

⋆

Pant pant pant

Leaves crunched under the force of thundering steps, boots decimating the poor nature as she ran through sharp tree branches in hopes of escaping from whoever was chasing her. Did she know who it was? Hell no. Just their silhouette alone was enough to send the woman into a frenzy and have adrenaline pump through her veins. They laughed and gasped for breath behind her, clearly out of breath just like her. But something was weird about this. They were both so slow. Some things were twisted weirdly, some were going against the laws of physics. What the hell was going? A scream was torn from her throat as she almost ran into a dangling corpse, tied by their legs. Their abdomen was cut open, rotting guts spilling from the cavity. She could see the ribs poking out of the opening, tainted in dried blood. No smell invaded her nose. But she could only imagine it.

She tumbled back and right into the arms of her chaser as they almost growled in her ear, holding her still as she struggled weakly. Since when was Azazel this weak? Unable to wriggle free out of some sicko’s grasp.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to kill you,” He growled, his voice deep and raspy, his breath hot against the shell of her ear. “How could I steal such a perfect kill from our precious Meliora?”

Meliora? She didn’t have time to ask who that was because in front of Azazel appeared her . Tall, emotionless, powerful.

“Azazel.”

“Sto- what… What is going on? Let me go! Please!”

Behind this Meliora, viscera covered the ground and trees, hanging from the branches like the velvet shedding from a deer’s antlers. Except everything belonged to humans.

“You’re so much prettier when you’re terrified.” Meliora stepped closer, slow, and Azazel could see the glint of a knife held in her hand.

“No. No, no, no, no… Please! Please!” She begged, the person behind her laughing hysterically at her pathetic attempts at getting some mercy. “M-Meliora! Please!””

Meliora stopped inches from Azazel, tilting her head. Then her hand shot up and plunged the knife into her abdomen. She didn’t feel pain - only cold. Pure, gut-deep cold that spread outward, numbing her spine, crawling into her lungs. She choked on a breath and looked down. Blood oozed out of the gash and stained her torso like ink..

“Shhh,” she cooed, cradling her gently as Azazel sagged forward. “Just a dream, right?”

Right?

The forest dissolved into black, and the laughter followed her down.

⋆

“Uuugh…”

Her ears rang as consciousness slowly came to her, finally ready to greet the world again. Moving was the first thing that her instinct said and wanted, but Azazel’s limbs were too heavy, as if she was ill and her whole body ached in that dull way. As out of it as she was, she managed to crack an eye open and realise that she was on her bed, the covers messy and definitely not on her, given how cold she was. She could tell it was morning by how the sun barely shined through the gap in her curtains, its rays falling upon her chilled skin to warm it. Comfortable. She felt really really comfortable. Even if the metallic taste of blood remained in the back of her mouth, or how disgustingly sweaty her skin was. Experiencing such a nice morning after she just saw God had to be the best. At the very least, she was alive and, at the moment, admiring the pretty sigh of her curtains allowing the April sun in. Her eyes squinted and slowly, painfully, she lifted herself onto her elbows. Her muscles trembled under the effort, and every breath felt thick, like she was still under whatever haze had dragged her down.

“Finally.”

The voice came from somewhere to her left. Calm. Detached. Azazel’s head turned sluggishly, like it was filled with water. Her stalker stood in the corner of the room, arms folded, leaning against the wall like she’d been there forever. No concern in her face. No softness. Just those ever-watching eyes. Azazel blinked, throat working uselessly before she managed a croaked, “Huh…?”

“You passed out.” She didn’t move. Her voice was flat, low. “Do you always look like that when you sleep? Twisting. Sweating. Whimpering like a dog?”

Azazel stared at her, breathing shallow and uneven. She touched her stomach - half expecting to find a gaping hole there. But it was intact. No blood. No guts leaking. Just the memory of it burning behind her eyes. The warm feeling of something trickling from her nose caught her attention, making Azazel wipe the liquid from her philtrum thinking it was snot - expecting the worst from how hellish her trip to the bathroom was. Looking down at her hand, she gasped as she found blood smeared onto the back of her hand, fresh and bright. A headache hit her as well, making her head throb under the pressure of the pain. A groan left her, closing her eyes tightly like that would fix whatever trauma she had. Maybe it was from her nasty fall in the bathroom.

“What’s happening to me?” she asked, more to herself than to the other woman.

She didn’t answer right away. Then, “You wanted answers. This is what it costs.”

No warmth. No comfort. Just facts delivered in the voice of someone who had already seen too much. Azazel swallowed hard, gaze drifting down to her trembling hands.

Also… she could’ve sworn she knew what her stalker’s name was.

a/n: updates will probably slow down a little. I had the intention to catch up with what I've posted on ao3 (I post on the 5th, 15th, and 25th of the month!). I will try to make updates more frequent here tho

[mmummydust]

I Named Her Hunger

CHAPTER 3: Oh, who is she?

Characters: Cortney Azazel, Rowan Greer, Vexley Meliora, The Operator, other plot characters

Warning: Heavy swearing, brief mentions of overdose

Oh, who is she?

A misty memory

A haunting face

Is she a lost embrace?

The café that was close to the university was always too warm and packed with students. No matter the time, finding a free booth or table was almost impossible during school hours. It was like everyone decided to take refuge there. While it was understandable that everyone wanted to get out of that institution, it wasn’t so pleasant to hear so many voices at once.

Azazel sat tucked into the corner booth, her laptop open but untouched. The air smelled like espresso and stress - someone’s coffee was burning on the warmer, and students were scattered at mismatched tables, hunched over slideshows or whispering about group projects. The overhead lights were too yellow. It reminded her of late afternoons in childhood, when everything looked like it was melting.

Her fingers hovered above the keyboard. The screen glowed: “Memory distortion in trauma survivors: narrative reliability and the limits of perception.” The paper was due in two days. She’d written exactly twelve words.

“You look like you’re contemplating homicide,” Rowan said, dropping into the seat across from her.

Azazel blinked up, half-smiling. “Only minor property damage. Maybe.”

Rowan set his drink down with an overdramatic sigh. “This class is going to kill me. Have you seen what he wants us to do for the final?”

“I stopped checking after week three. I’m relying on denial.”

Rowan snorted. “Healthy.”

Azazel watched the steam curl off their cup, let the sound of the café swallow her focus. The world here was small, bright, safe. She liked it when it felt like this - when the background hum of unease in her chest quieted down enough to pass as normal.

Not even two minutes later, Mira and Faye sat down with the other two, looking just as cranky Azazel would expect. No one liked the physical education professor.

Mira dropped her gym bag with a groan loud enough to turn a few heads. “I swear he makes us run just to watch us suffer.”

“Same,” Faye muttered, sinking into the booth beside Rowan. “He actually laughed when I fell. Laughed. Like it was funny.”

Azazel shook her head as Rowan laughed, bowing over the table. OF course, nothing new from the Marcus Bartosz. He was the definition of a P.E. teacher: moustache, bald, short, and overweight. Which led to the conclusion that he got this job with some money and a will to laugh at nonathletic students.

Mira grumbled, reaching across the table to snag a napkin and wipe sweat from her forehead. “I’d rather write three research papers than run another timed mile.”

Azazel arched a brow. “You’d rather write my research paper?”

“No. God no. I said three papers, not a descent into madness.” Mira squinted at the screen in front of Azazel. “Is that trauma psych?”

Azazel nodded and closed the laptop a little too quickly, pretending to stretch. “Yeah. Not going great.”

“Everything’s about trauma in that department,” Rowan said. “Sometimes I think they’re trying to traumatize us on purpose.”

“You’re not wrong,” Faye said, already halfway through her pastry. “Professor Beaumont talked about survivor’s guilt last week and then left us with fifteen case studies. I think I have survivor’s guilt now.”

They all groaned in unison.

For a few minutes, the conversation dissolved into complaints about professors, assignments, and the ongoing mystery of whether the vending machines on the second floor were cursed. Azazel leaned back, letting their voices wash over her, grounding herself in the dull ache behind her eyes and the scent of cinnamon sugar from Mira’s stolen muffin.

It wasn’t until evening that Azazel left campus.

She parted ways with the others at the front steps, waving off Rowan’s offer to walk her to the bus stop. “I need the walk,” she said, “and my head is full. I’ll be fine.”

The sun was low, slanting orange through the trees as she cut through the usual path near the biology building. It wasn’t the most direct route, but it was quieter - lined with oaks and fenced-off research plots, usually empty after five. Her boots crunched over old leaves. Wind picked at her hair, tugging strands into her mouth. She tucked them behind her ear, brow furrowed in annoyance.

It had been a few days since the… visit. She had continued her investigations but slowed down a little, trying to drag things for as long as possible. The feeling of being watched remained but at least Azazel managed to get some silence and peace, although she had to gaslight herself into thinking that she wasn’t being watched.

She had spoken to another person related to a victim, asking them the same questions she had asked Kayla, but this time she knew exactly how to pry more answers. From what she figured, everyone who had this symbol carved onto their corpse meant they had some sort of obsession with the actual secrets behind it. From Marble Hornets fans to curious and easily fooled humans, they all ended up the same. Dead. And the process to ending up like that was long and torturous, dragging every bit of life out of someone’s body until they were a hollow shell with a brain that kept repeating ‘Him’.

Whoever this ‘Him’ was seemed to corrupt minds and feed on the attention it got from innocent souls.

She wasn’t sure when she had started noticing the pattern. A symbol scratched into a classroom desk. A name - always the same one - mumbled by a patient during a psych interview she’d helped with. A woman who vanished after claiming something watched her from the tree line. A murder victim who had drawn spirals into the margins of every notebook she owned.

And the tapes.

God, the tapes.

She had found them in a university archive tied to an unsolved missing persons case from 2008 - unmarked VHS recordings catalogued by a student assistant who had since gone off the grid. The quality was degraded, all grain and distortion, but there had been something behind the static. A figure. No features. Just that suit, that tilt of the head.

The Operator.

That’s what one of the patients had called Him, before tearing her own eyes out in a psych ward in northern Massachusetts. Azazel had cross-referenced local disappearances, pulled police reports, tracked scattered journal entries uploaded to obscure blogs and forums that hadn’t been touched in years. There was no straight line to follow. It was like trying to solve a riddle whispered through a dream. But she was starting to see the outline - like a negative space burned into film.

He wasn’t a man. Not a killer in the usual sense. He didn’t stab or shoot. He bent. Warped. Distorted.

Those closest to Him fell apart first. Sanity unraveled like yarn caught on bramble. They saw things - heard whispers, grew paranoid, turned violent. And then they vanished. Not like they ran. More like they were taken. Forgotten.

Of course, Azazel wouldn’t be able to find all of these if it weren’t for someone. Who? She didn’t know. It could be Tim or Brian. Or Him. Whoever it was, they left a few letters at Azazel’s house, telling her places where she could go. All of them provided Azazel with new information.

⋆

The apartment door clicked behind her with the soft finality of a sealed vault.

Azazel kicked off her shoes with a sigh, bag sliding down her shoulder and thudding softly against the floor along with the laptop bag. Her limbs ached. Not with pain, but with the weight of thinking too much. The walk hadn’t cleared her head like she hoped. Instead, it left her quite overstimulated.

She moved on autopilot - coat hung, keys tossed into the ceramic bowl by the door, lights flicked on with the edge of her knuckle. Everything was just as she’d left it.

Until she entered the kitchen.

Azazel instantly spotted the person, at first hidden behind the fridge in the half-open kitchen, now clearly in sight and literally just making tea. No wonder she didn’t see them.

“Holy shit!” she exclaimed, stepping back and raising her arms in defense. Who the hell was that?

The masked figure turned at the sudden outburst, but made no move toward her. No weapon. No threatening posture. Just a quiet, still presence - like they had been waiting, like they belonged.

Azazel’s chest heaved. Her brain scrambled to catch up, trying to fit the image before her into any rational box it could find.

A woman, maybe. The build was lean but tall, clothed in a black turtleneck and faded black cargo pants. A quick look down and it was confirmed that their shoes were off. Are you fucking joking? She asked herself, taken aback by the very respectful gesture.

A pair of black gloves sat on the counter, revealing their hands. Short nails, freckled skin that stopped just above their knuckles, and an ugly wound that was stitched. They also bore a simple black mask with androgynous features, dark in contrast to their unhealthily pale skin. Like they lacked any sun exposure. They had ginger hair, pulled presumably tightly into a ponytail before it ended up looking so messy.

An intense pair of green eyes stared at Azazel with what she would interpret as malice or maybe caution. She’ll go for the second option, given the person before her seemed to hesitate to even take a defensive stance.

“Don’t scream,” the masked figure said quietly. The voice was low, steady, and unmistakably female. There was no panic in it. No tension. She might as well have been asking Azazel to pass the salt.

Azazel didn’t scream. Not yet. Her mouth opened, closed. “Who the fuck are you?”

The masked woman reached for the kettle - gently, like she was finishing what she started - and poured hot water over a teabag in the mug she’d found. Her movements were careful. Practiced. Like she’d done this before, in someone else’s kitchen. Maybe dozens of times.

“I didn’t come to hurt you,” the woman added. “If I wanted to, I would’ve.”

That wasn’t exactly comforting.

“Then what the hell are you doing in my house?”

The masked woman seemed to pause at that, like she was choosing her words very, very carefully. “I wanted to see you. Alone.” She placed the cup on the counter and turned toward Azazel fully now, hands lowered, open. “No threats. Just a conversation.”

Azazel’s pulse roared in her ears. “That is not how you ask for a conversation.”

A beat passed. Then, almost surprisingly, the masked woman nodded.

“Fair.” She didn’t explain herself further.

Azazel swallowed. She noticed now how still her visitor was - how every movement was purposeful and quiet. There was control in every gesture. The mask made it impossible to read her, but her tone carried no panic, no wildness. Just certainty. And beneath that… something else. Something she didn’t want to name yet. Familiarity, maybe? No. That didn’t make sense. This wasn’t someone she knew. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that the woman knew her.

“And what - what is this? Are you one of them?” Her mind raced. The symbol. The disappearances. The proxies. Was this one of them?

The masked head tilted just slightly. “Define them.”

Azazel didn’t answer.

“I’ve read your research.” Her words caused Azazel to go rigid, watching the ginger as she passed by her, walking towards Azazel’s bag on the ground. “You’re smart, kid. I’ll have to give that to you. Most crumble before they have an inkling of what is happening.”

As the woman crouched down to probably go through Azazel’s bag, the other woman took that as her chance. To Azazel, she looked unarmed and a great opponent, so the fighting instinct that still remained in Azazel told her to pounce on the intruder.

Azazel surged forward in one swift, desperate movement - her hands out, aiming to tackle the woman to the ground before she could get her hands into the bag. Years of sparring, muscle memory, adrenaline - all of it kicked in, one clean burst.

They both landed on the floor with a loud ‘thud’, Azazel on top of her ‘guest’ in an attempted chokehold. It proved to be a complete failure after a few seconds as the woman beneath her quickly gained the upper hand. Now it was Azazel’s turn to be held down, her arms bent awkwardly behind her back and being held by the wrists while another hand was pushing Azazel’s head onto the floor. The woman on top of her put all her weight onto Azazel’s lower back, keeping her down with a threatening snarl. Now that seemed to piss the intruder off.

“I told you I’m not here to hurt you. What made you think you would have the upper hand, anyway? You’re pathetic, Azazel. Don’t fucking piss me off or I will get rid of you.”

Pained sounds left the woman beneath her. She was scared and helpless. No matter what she did, how much help she seeked, it was like every evidence would vanish. Like the pictures on Mara’s computer, or the disappearances of a few individuals. She was stuck in a loop of torment.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” She exclaimed in hopes of receiving mercy, but the ginger didn’t seem to enjoy her pleas. For a second, Azazel saw white before her as her head was slammed against the wood floor, meant to knock her out. Good luck with that, she thought to herself. Her train of thoughts disappeared on the second hit.

⋆

Meliora had been around long enough to know the difference between someone like Azazel - caught in the storm of their own curiosity and madness - and those who were just mindlessly following the tide. The pressure on Azazel was growing, she could see that. But the question still lingered: Why keep going?

A soft sigh blows through her nose, filling the quiet space for a second. She’s up onto her feet quickly, disregarding the unconscious form of Azazel on the floor as she picks up the woman’s belongings, dumping the contents inside of them onto Azazel’s coffee table.

She didn’t scramble, neither did she glance nervously toward the door or windows. She simply sorted. Notes, folders, a worn leather notebook, USB drives. a student ID half-cracked at the corner. The papers rustled softly in the stillness.

The notebook was first. She opened it carefully to reveal pages of dense handwriting. The first page greeted her with what seemed to be Azazel’s first case study, given the date written in the corner. Something about a patient in a psych ward who had gone crazy after the death of his parents. Half of it seemed to only include things a normal psychology student would write, until the first page with the symbol was flipped.

The pages were lined with carefully annotated details: names, locations, strange symbols that repeated across seemingly unrelated events. Tape times. Phrases overheard from interviews. Police report fragments rewritten in ink. Margins were filled with questions, and certain sentences were underlined two, three times. A few had been circled and tagged with small sticky notes, faded with time. The deeper she went, the more erratic the handwriting became - like Azazel had begun pressing harder with the pen, like the thoughts had started racing faster than her hand could follow.

    March 5th

Zoe mentioned that every doctor said the victim had hysteria. Maybe some sort of psychosis is affecting the ones who managed to get exposure to the files or tapes involving the same ‘faceless individual’. Although the patient was not showing aggressive behaviour, two weeks before her death others heard her mumbling about killing people and herself.

Her death was caused by overdose, which is impossible due to the fact that her meds were not given to her as per protocol. The bottle was found empty in her room, but when the police looked through what the CCTV camera caught, there was no evidence of her stealing the bottle. The video missed three minutes worth of recording, but the authorities decided to leave it like that.

A page was flipped.

    March 8th

Every victim has the symbol drawn on them. It means ‘no face’ and seems to be referring to the creature that plagues their mind. Must be its way to claim, kind of like the graffiti artists who write “X was here” onto the walls of buildings, or the carvings on benches.

The more Meliora read, the more she could see the pattern, feel the connections forming between each case, each detail Azazel had uncovered. It wasn’t just a psychological investigation - it was an unraveling, a dive into the dark underbelly of something far older and more insidious than either of them could comprehend.

Smart. Azazel was undoubtedly smart. Not everyone was capable of figuring out this much. And to still remain sane? Impressive. She’ll have to report that to Him. But He probably knew already how smart His new interest was.

***

“You’ve been busy,” the Operator’s voice whispered, soft but laced with something far colder. Their words slid through the air like a breeze, but there was no mistaking the edge beneath them. “How is she?”

“Curious. Very curious. And also easy to crumble. Her sanity is degrading by exposing herself to so much violent content.” Meliora answered, keeping her eyes low. He preferred submission anyway. Azazel’s current mental state made it easier for Him to corrupt her. Albeit slowly, as He had said. He deems her useful. Rendering her to a vegetable was not in His plans.

A static hum filled the space around them. “I truly hope you’ll manage to get her to submit. As much as I wanted to trust Brian and Tim that they made her listen, I can’t help but think that she was forced into submission. I want her to do it willingly, Hound.” “She will. Trust me. She’s easier to bend than others think.”

“Then I suppose she wouldn’t mind a visit.”

[mmummydust]

I Named Her Hunger

CHAPTER 2: She bruises, coughs, she splutters pistol shots

Characters: Cortney Azazel, Rowan Greer, Timothy Wright, Brian Thomas, The Operator, other plot characters

Warnings: Heavy swearing

The fear has gripped me but here I go

My heart sinks as I jump up

Watching some weird YouTube channel proved to be more time-consuming than Azazel would’ve liked. The videos weren’t long, but they were numerous and so well done it made her replay important scenes over and over again. From what she had figured out until now, these guys managed to get themselves buried neck-deep in shit. Yeah, anyone knows what happens when you mess with weird, supernatural creations that show clear hostile behaviour. Whether fake or real, the series itself was quite captivating. No wonder Mara liked it. But it seemed to have affected her mental stability, given her current status.

Azazel has been looking over anything Marble Hornets-related for the past few days. At first, she couldn’t figure out much, but as soon as her interest was piqued by the presence of the symbol and a new character, some tall being who cannot be described as ‘human’., the wheels inside her brain started moving. And that’s what brought Azazel to her current situation. There were too many theories, and she couldn’t choose. It was even worse that she decided to drag her friends into her investigations.

Faye sighed next to her, shaking her head at the messy notes scribbled into Azazel’s notebook. As her best friend, she couldn’t judge. Especially because they have known each other for years. This was nothing new to her. She’s just worried.

“Are you sure, Az? I mean, as good as these theories are, I can’t help but think that you’re just overthinking this.”

Azazel smiled at her friend. Faye was a beautiful woman of colour. Black eyes, long lashes, skin clear like a summer sky. “Believe me, Faye, I am not crazy. There has to be some sort of connection between all the victims. Every single one has the same symbol engraved on their body.”

A slender finger pointed to show at said symbol, the manicured nail tapping on the paper.

“You said it means ‘no face’, right?” Mira asked from her side, white eyelashes batting at her in curiosity. The albino woman seemed eager to know more, compared to how worried Faye was. “And since it’s connected to this faceless man,” her finger moved to point at the printed picture of said man. “Then that means that probably they have watched this series, the killer included.”

An understanding hum came from Azazel, her gaze settled on the page. This felt like solving one of those unsolved crime games, except everything was made up by a kid.

“This whole thing feels like a rabbit hole,” Faye muttered, arms crossed as she leaned back into the couch. “Like, one day you’re watching YouTube videos, and the next thing you know, you’re drawing creepy symbols on your walls and whispering about people watching you from the woods.”

Azazel snorted. “I mean… you’re not entirely wrong.”

Mira, ever the enthusiast for things that should probably stay buried, leaned forward with a glint in her eye. “But isn’t that the point? If it is real, and someone was inspired by this whole Marble Hornets thing, then maybe the symbol isn’t just symbolic.” She grinned a little too widely. “What if it works like a mark, a calling card or a beacon?”

Faye groaned. “Okay, I’m officially done.” She stood up and headed to the kitchen. “Someone better start making dinner or I’m calling your mom, Az.”

“Please don’t,” Azazel replied automatically, still staring down at the notes. Her fingers drummed over a sentence she had underlined earlier:

They start seeing him after they notice the symbol.

Coincidence? Or conditioning? She flipped the notebook closed, letting the soft snap of the cover serve as punctuation. “Let’s just hope I don’t start losing time or waking up with scribbles all over my walls.”

Faye returned from the kitchen with a bag of chips, rolling her eyes. “Great. Just jinx it harder, Az. Maybe chant the symbol a few times while you’re at it.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

As the three of them shifted into lighter conversation - talk of dinner, stress from classes, Mira’s latest failed date - Azazel’s gaze drifted to the window, and she could’ve sworn she saw something move. Was it always open, anyway? She can’t remember, so maybe one of the girls opened it. Her room was pretty warm anyway.

The next morning came heavy. Her eyes stung from sleep she barely got, and her limbs ached with the weight of tension she hadn’t realized she’d carried all night. Still, she forced herself up. Coffee, shower, and ignore the symbol she’d doodled on the corner of her notepad without remembering. It was probably old. She’d done that before. Right?

Downstairs, Mira was already awake and scrolling through a forum thread titled “The Operator: Real or ARG?” Her expression lit up when she saw Azazel.

“Did you know,” she said, “that some people think the Marble Hornets symbol acts like a sort of binding? Like, the moment you start looking into it, it knows. That’s why they start seeing him. He sees them back.”

Azazel poured herself a cup of coffee and took a long, slow sip.

“Wonderful. Can’t wait for my unsolicited cryptid meet-and-greet.”

Mira smirked. “I think he’d like you.”

Azazel stared at her. “You’re not helping.”

Faye, passing through with a toothbrush in her mouth, gave a thumbs-up. “Love the descent into madness, girls. Real fun breakfast topic.”

⋆

Okay, Azazel was going insane from lack of sleep. There’s no way she would suddenly get a stalker. Right? Maybe it was just a homeless person who preferred this neighbourhood. Such a bad time, buddy, she thought the first night. I was just beginning to lose my mind because of some eldritch creature that doesn’t even exist.

At first, Azazel decided to completely ignore how creepy things had gotten in the past few days. While her life was still ordinary, the constant feeling of being watched never left. As if someone decided that every move she made was the most interesting thing on Earth. It unsettled Azazel to no end, and the more she dived into the mysterious crimes, the more she felt watched. Which led to her abandoning her work for a day or two so she could get a break. Rowan had agreed to meet with her and keep her away from anything that dared to make her spiral into anxiety.

She sits on a bench in their favourite park, waiting for the man to arrive. The weather is nice compared to how it was for the past few days. Sun rays shone through the leaves, making shadows and spotlights dance across the paths in the park. Birds chirped happily above her, keeping her focused on their melodies. Her phone buzzes on her lap, directing her gaze back to it. Rowan was never punctual. His tardiness was one of his greatest traits.

Rowan: u still breathing or did the youtube demon get u???

Rowan: ill be there in like two minutes by the way

Rowan: also I think I’m getting followed?? lmao idk maybe im just paranoid

Azazel’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, genuinely concerned about her friend’s well-being and also his capability to remain so calm.

Azazel: Are you shitting my dick rn or is there someone actually following you??

Azazel: Don’t scare me like that dumbass

Rowan seemed to have shoved his phone somewhere up his ass because suddenly he wasn’t answering her messages anymore. Annoying�� Just as Azazel was about to type a new message, hoping to get Rowan’s attention back to his phone, someone’s hands settled on her shoulders, heavy and rough.

“Boo!”

With a gasp the blonde jumped a bit in her seat, turning around just to meet the blue eyes of her friend. He was smiling ear-to-ear, clearly amused by her reaction.

“You dick! I should’ve known!”

Rowan plopped down beside her, stretching his arms dramatically and tossing his bag between his feet. “Aw, come on. Admit it, I got you good.”

Azazel scowled, brushing imaginary dust off her shoulders like his touch had somehow cursed her. “You almost got elbowed in the gut.”

Rowan leaned back with a snort, eyes half-lidded against the sun filtering through the trees. “Worth it.”

The park was steadily filling up with people - joggers, kids chasing each other, someone walking a dog so small and full of fur it looked like a mop on its legs. The world, for once, felt calm. “Nice day,” Rowan said after a moment, glancing sideways at her. “You look like you haven’t touched those crimes in, like, twenty-four hours. I’m proud.”

“I haven’t,” she replied with a dramatic sigh. “I’m trying to rejoin society. You know, sunlight, trees, normal human interaction.”

Rowan nodded solemnly. “Touching grass. Brave of you.”

Azazel only scoffed, rolling her eyes dramatically. No matter, both knew her reactions were only to bring a smile to people’s faces. And she succeeded, making Rowan laugh at her once more. “So, where are we heading today? You asked me out.” Azazel asked, turning to look at him expectantly.

“Mm, maybe get a coffee, definitely eat something. If you’re feeling brave enough to spend a lot of money we could buy some books as well. My cousin asked if I could find a book his girlfriend likes.”

She grinned. “I like this plan.”

The two of them sat in companionable silence for a while, letting the sounds of the park settle into the space between them. For once, Azazel wasn’t thinking about symbols or victims or eerie sightings. Just Rowan, the breeze, and a gentle kind of peace she hadn’t felt in weeks. It felt like breathing again.

Their first stop was a tiny, locally-owned café tucked between a florist and a vintage record store. The place smelled like roasted espresso and cinnamon, with mismatched chairs and jazz humming quietly from a speaker above the window. Rowan immediately ordered the sweetest drink he could find - some kind of caramel monstrosity that made Azazel cringe.

“You’re going to rot your teeth,” she muttered, sipping her much more modest cappuccino.

Rowan took a loud slurp, eyes glinting. “That’s the plan.”

They sat at the corner table by the window, people-watching as the late morning rush passed them by. Azazel found herself sketching in the margins of her notebook - not symbols this time, but doodles. Cats with sunglasses, Rowan’s ridiculous curls, a loaf of bread for some reason.

“Hey,” Rowan pointed at it. “That’s a good loaf. You’re evolving.”

That earned a raised brow.

They ended up wandering through the record store next. Rowan combed through the bins like he was looking for a buried treasure, humming along to the overhead music while Azazel trailed behind, flipping through a section labelled “Obscure Finds.”

“Hey, this one looks like it’d summon something,” Rowan said, holding up an album with an ominous black-and-white cover.

“Put that down before it follows you home.”

They laughed, and it felt easy.

Lunch was at a food truck near the park that served bánh mì sandwiches. They sat on the grass, cross-legged, chewing and chatting with bits of cilantro stuck to their mouths. The sun was still high, casting sharp shadows from the trees, but the heat wasn’t unbearable. It felt like a real break - like the weight of all the dark things pressing on Azazel’s mind had lifted, even if just temporarily. Later, they stopped at an old bookstore Rowan insisted was “criminally underrated.” Azazel found herself drawn to the psychology section, of course, while Rowan ended up reading from a worn copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray in a terrible British accent.

“You’re making Oscar Wilde turn in his grave,” Azazel said dryly but didn’t stop him.

She doesn’t mention the way her heart stops beating for a second when she sees that symbol she’s been trying to stay away from lately. With practised ease, she hides how scared it makes her feel, dread creeping up on her.

It shouldn’t be in one of the books.

Rowan doesn’t mention how pale she looks, then how her skin flushes from distress.

By the time the afternoon began to slip toward evening, their arms were full of secondhand paperbacks and half-eaten pastries they hadn’t finished at lunch. Rowan offered to carry her bag, slinging it over his shoulder dramatically like he was going off to war.

“I better get credit for being the responsible one for once,” he said.

“Sure, Ro. This one time.”

⋆

Rowan decides to walk Azazel home, finding the excuse that there are many creeps out at night when, in reality, neither wants to go home and call it a day. If Azazel wasn’t so tired already, she would invite Rowan for a sleepover.

Rowan stretched his arms over his head with a yawn, then slung her bag off his shoulder and handed it back with a crooked grin. “Well, blondie, I have officially reached my daily limit of socializing. My reward will be three hours of sleep and five hours of doom-scrolling.”

“Thanks for dragging me out today,” she said, turning to Rowan and smiling at him. “I needed it.”

“Hey, if it gets you back to your usual self, I don’t mind. I had fun as well. See you at uni?”

His fist bumped with Azazel’s, their little way to say their goodbyes at the end of the day.

Azazel smiled, appreciating the friendly gesture. “Yeah, see you at uni.”

Six minutes later, Azazel was lazily shrugging her jacket off and kicking off her snickers, sighing as she turned to switch on the light in the living room.

What made her stop dead in her tracks was the feeling of something cold being pressed against her temple, and Azazel could’ve sworn that, for a second, she felt like death had taken her away. The sound of heavy breathing came from her side, not the one where the object came from, but the other. That was the only thing that could be heard in her house apart from the low hum of her fridge and cars passing by on the street; not one, but multiple windows were opened.

“Don’t scream,” a deep voice came from the side of the heavy breathing. “It’s no use.”

Shit, man… I don’t even feel capable of doing so, she thinks. Truth be told, Azazel was scared. So scared that her voice got stuck in her throat and formed an invisible knot that took her ability to speak. Her hands felt clammy yet cold, and her mouth had run dry. Tears were brimming in her eyes, threatening to spill over, any restraint left in Azazel gone. Only weakness. Pure, disgusting weakness.

The metal object pressed a little more into her skin as if forcing an answer out of her. The only thing Azazel could muster up was a nod, and if her neck could it would creak, given how her joints refused to let her head even move. Like a newborn trying to move properly. A shaky hum left her, meek and too soft for her usual self.

Something shifted. A subtle change in air pressure. The breathing moved slightly, brushing against the shell of her ear now. Whoever it was had leaned in. “Walk,” the voice instructed. “Slow. Don’t try anything.”

Her legs almost gave out under her as she took a step forward. She hadn’t realised that her knees seemed locked in place, refusing to listen to her command. A gloved hand shoved her forward, causing her to stumble towards the couch. With her back turned, she wasn’t able to notice the annoyed glance the weapon wielder gave the other.

The metal was back against her temple, pressing hard into the skin as she moved shakily towards her couch, albeit a little slow as she tried to figure out where exactly she was at the moment. Once on the couch, a bright light was turned on. The once so cosy lamp in her living room had turned into a blinding light. As her eyes began to adjust, Azazel felt her eyes widen in horror without meaning to. You’ve got to be shitting me..…

She wanted to refuse what she was seeing, but there was no need to. It wouldn’t make sense. The two masked figures before her were very real and quite present. One wore a white mask with slightly feminine features - black painted lips and dark around the eyes with cartoonish eyebrows drawn right above as if mimicking a surprised expression. He was burly, black hair falling over the top of his mask since it was overgrown. That was supposed to be that Tim guy… No, fucking… Masky??

The other one was much taller, wearing that unmistakable black balaclava with a saddened expression sewn with red thread. The hood of his mustard hoodie, covered in brown splatters of dried blood, was pulled over his head, adding to his creepy appearance. Brian. Or, by the other silly name, Hoodie.

Seriously, why these names?

He was also the one who was currently pointing a gun directly between Azazel’s eyes, his stance stiff and unsettling. She could feel his eyes boring into her through the material of his mask. The panic that threatened to consume her tried to burst forth, but she bit it down, clenched her jaw, and focused on not passing out from hyperventilation.

“Listen here and listen good, girlie.” The brunette spoke first, approaching Azazel and grabbing her face in his palm - big, rough, crushing. “Don’t start crying or I swear I’ll get annoyed real quick,” Tim growled, tilting her head up with little care for gentleness. His eyes, shadowed beneath the mask, were impossible to read, but his grip told her all she needed to know. He wasn’t bluffing.

Azazel whimpered involuntarily, breath catching as her fingernails dug into the couch beneath her. Her mind raced for logic, for context, for anything that would make this make sense. These weren’t just fans of the series. They weren’t cosplayers. This wasn’t a joke. These were the monsters she had only seen through a screen, and they were here - in her living room.

Brian hadn’t moved, but the weapon stayed exactly where it was: steady, intentional. That made it worse. He wasn’t impulsive, wasn’t twitchy or uncertain. He knew what he was doing and he made it clear.

“Now,” Tim muttered, his hand finally dropping from her face, “you’ve been poking around things you shouldn’t. We’ve seen it. Every note, every search, every damn page you’ve printed.”

“You got guts, I’ll give you that. But you’re about to learn that guts mean jack when you’re messing with things older, meaner, and a hell of a lot less patient.”

Azazel tried not to move, tried not to breathe too fast. Her body wanted to collapse in on itself, but her mind was screaming at her to remember every detail: voices, shifts in the air, appearances. She wasn’t sure if it was her natural fight-or-flight or all the late nights studying trauma response that kept her from falling apart. But the way he managed to intimidate Azazel like that made her fear what the other would make of her. His silence instilled fear in her, making shivers run up and down her spine whenever she risked a glance. Plus, the gun being directed at her only worsened the situation, fearing that he would pull the trigger if she even dared to blink.

“Tell me,” Tim hissed, lowering himself until he was face-to-face with Azazel. “Did you think this was a game? That this was all made up?”

At first, her head started to shake no. Not because that was her actual answer, but because she couldn’t really think. It was like her mind stopped having thoughts. Like it was impossible for her to conjure up sentences that would make sense. A tilt of the head from Tim was enough to change her answer, instead nodding and making her feel humiliated and stupid for actually thinking that this wasn’t real.

Tim gave a short, mocking laugh. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

He stood up straight, cracking his neck as he gestured lazily to Brian, whose hand never once wavered from the weapon trained on her. “She gets it now. Look at her. All those nights thinking you’re the smartest bitch in the room, huh? Got a little too confident.”

Azazel didn’t answer. Her throat felt like it had been sewn shut. The fear still roared behind her ribs, but something else was pushing against it now - a seed of clarity. Survival. Even with her limbs trembling and her skin ice-cold, her mind began crawling out of the fog.

“Look where all of this got you,” Brian finally spoke, his voice raspy and deep. “You shouldn’t have been so reckless. But… if you manage to listen, maybe we’ll be nicer. You’re already too deep in this, and He had said that you would be quite useful since you’re so smart.”

Azazel gulped in fear. He? Who was this ‘he’? What bullshit were they saying? They’re not alone in this?

“And if you don’t…”

The white-masked man smirked, reaching behind him to pull something from a small drawstring bag. He threw it at her feet. It was a photo. A blurry shot of Rowan, walking along the street. Today. From this afternoon. Headphones in, bag slung over one shoulder. Laughing.

Azazel’s heart dropped into her stomach.

“Just a little reminder,” the brunette said, his voice sing-song now, mockingly sweet. “That we’re always watching.”

Brian turned and walked toward the door first. “Come on, she’ll be pissed if we take too long.”

The back of Tim’s own pistol collided with Azazel’s temple, hard and with clear intent. She dropped unconscious on the couch right after. He finally followed after Brian but stopped just at the threshold, turning back with a final look. “Sleep tight, Azazel.”

Silence follows his words.

⋆

A set of double doors stood before her - tall, old, and unnervingly grand. They loomed not in reality but in that abstract plane reserved for Him alone. His domain was not a place, not truly. It was a fracture in the fabric of thought, a corner of the psyche twisted into obedience. His little refuge. That’s what she called it. These meetings were rarely scheduled. Most were ambushes - psychic intrusions that left her reeling. But not this one. This one, at least, came with the grace of anticipation.

She didn’t knock. That wasn’t how this worked. Instead, she stood still, eyes trained on the carvings etched into the black wood - symbols older than language, writhing faintly beneath her gaze as if they recognized her. Her presence alone was enough. He always knew when someone was thinking of Him , and unlike others, she had been trained to think of Him with clarity.

The silence shattered.

“Come in.”

The voice crawled across her skin like the hiss of an old radio, full of static and pressure. For a moment, it made her ears ring. When silence returned, it was heavier than before. She reached out and touched the door. It didn’t swing open, instead it dissolved, folding inward like a thick layer of dust being drawn into a vacuum. And she stepped through.

The space beyond was barely a room. The architecture bent in impossible ways: corners that didn’t meet, light that had no source. He never showed His full form, only fragments. Today, He wore the shape of coiled shadow, reclining upon a throne that shifted with each blink.

She bowed her head out of instinct, even though she knew He didn’t require it.

“You wish to speak with me. What happened, hound? I hope you taking from my precious time is worth it.” He spoke, firm and almost condescending as she stood before the being. As much of a ‘favourite’ as she was, her requests for meetings were never timed perfectly. He deemed them unimportant, knowing she was capable enough to take care of most things. She was trained for it, after all. “It is worth it.” She spoke, head still bowed as she didn’t dare gaze at the creature before her. Some sort of an apology for her urgent matters. “I saw a woman today. She had the symbol drawn onto her notebook.”

There was a pause. A deep pause. The kind that pressed down on the lungs and slowed time.

“A curious dog?” He asked finally. “Or a moth, drawn to the flame?”

“I don’t know yet,” she answered. “But she wasn’t afraid of it. Curious, perhaps. Focused, I’d say. I watched her in the university library. She lingered over the old files and dug through local murders. She doesn’t know yet… but she’s trying to. She’s following the threads.”

A coil of shadow shifted on the throne. Not anger. Not surprise. Something else. Amusement?

“And you think this warrants my attention?” He drawled, the last word dripping like tar.

“No,” she admitted, finally lifting her gaze just enough to catch the edge of His form. Her voice was quieter now, tinged with something unfamiliar. “But it warrants mine.”

He didn’t answer immediately. His silhouette stretched into the darkness, tendrils swaying like kelp in black water. Then: “Very well,” He said, the words slithering like a knife down her spine. “Watch her. Follow her. Learn what you can. And if she steps beyond her bounds…”

His voice lowered, to something closer to hunger.

“Devour her.”

“You are not to make contact,” He said. “Not yet.”

A pulse of dread slammed into her chest.

“But—”

“I said not yet.” His words struck like iron against glass, and for a brief moment her vision fractured. She gasped, caught herself, lowered her head again until the spinning passed. “You will watch,” H e said, voice returning to its slow, awful hush. “But from distance. Intervene only if the threads twist too far.”

“…Yes.”

She had no choice but to obey. The room began dissolving around her, melting into black static and vibrating silence. His presence receded, but not before a final whisper curled inside her skull, colder than before.

“Be careful, hound. You’ve grown fond of broken things before.”

And then -

Nothing.

[mmummydust]

I Named Her Hunger

CHAPTER 1: Oh well, whatever, nevermind

Characters: Cortney Azazel, Rowan Greer, other plot characters

Warnings: Descriptions of gore

She's over-bored and self-assured 

Oh no, I know a dirty word

The thing about studying psychology is that you never actually know what’s going on in someone’s head. As much as one hopes they tell the truth, some don’t confess their real intentions and what led them to do something.  Although, serial killers seem to have a certain greed when it comes to ending lives. It satisfies some of them, no matter the situation that has led to such an ending. But killing someone out of pure anger isn’t the same as killing someone who has wronged you. One feels guilt, the other feels relief.

That’s what Azazel managed to learn over her time studying criminal minds. They’re complex and difficult to understand. But not impossible. Azazel had learned to look past the blood and violence, into the silent rage hidden between words. The ones who smiled too easily. The ones who cried at the wrong time. Guilt could be faked. Grief, rehearsed. But motivation - that was harder to mimic.

She found herself drawn to the ones who claimed they felt nothing. But, unbeknownst to them, their body made uncontrollable movements. A twitch in the eye. A crack in the voice. A memory that was very clearly mulled over. A lie. The eyes never lie though. As uncomfortable as it gets, Azazel forces herself to keep eye contact with everyone. That way she knows the other person has her full focus. And she’s reading them like an open book. In those moments, she takes advantage of how much she can coax out of someone. And she isn’t afraid to listen. Or to look.

That’s why she chose the unsolved murders for her assignment - not necessarily because she thought she could solve them, but because the case simply pulled her in.

“Ew,” she muttered to herself, clicking between pictures of the same mutilated body taken from different angles. The woman’s jaw hung crookedly, a smear of dark red trailing down her neck where the skin had been peeled like fruit.

Mara Hensley. A young woman, the same age as Azazel. She worked as a barista and was found missing after a night shift. It took the authorities a few hours to find her, her body left near a dumpster behind an apartment complex. The photo was grainy, but there was no mistaking what it showed.

The victim lay twisted in the dirt, limbs splayed at impossible angles like a broken marionette. Flesh had been flayed from the arms in long, clean strips, exposing tendons that looked almost surgical - disgustingly clean. The eyes were gone. Not closed, not gouged - gone, leaving behind two dark pits rimmed in raw red and peeling scabs of dried blood. Azazel blinked, jaw tight as she zoomed in. The cut across the sternum had been deliberate, deep enough to expose the ribcage beneath.

And the unmistakable symbol carved onto her face.

“Jesus Christ,” with a click she closed the tab on her browser, taking a moment to look over her notes. And, honestly, Azazel couldn’t figure out shit. She needs a break.

The clinking of a glass as it’s picked out of the cupboard is what brings Azazel back from her thoughts. At this point she’s doing things on autopilot, thinking of what could she possibly do when there were no suspects. Who was she supposed to read like a book if there was no one to see? Looking at her reflection in the glass, she tries to read herself like she reads others. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Her blonde hair was tied up messily, strands stuck to her face like cobwebs. She looked tired. Not just physically - emotionally. Like someone who had stared at ugly things for too long. Emotionless, maybe. Definitely drained of her vigour. The running water was a sharp, clear sound. It grounded her. Until she noticed the slight tremble in her fingers.

“Shit…” she whispers to herself.

Turning the water off is like a scream across her mind from the squeak the tap lets out. Azazel can’t study herself. It’s almost hard to judge how pathetic she looks in the first place but to try and analyse herself internally felt like a chore. Like a chore she hated. The cool liquid felt like a balm against her dry throat. She figured it would be better if she just started her day and stopped looking at corpses. Mara’s friend agreed to let Azazel interview her for maybe some insight into what could have caused the sudden murder.

⋆

Buttoning up her shirt, Azazel took a long look at herself in the mirror. Compared to how unkempt she looked that morning, now she was more collected. The shower had done her good. Her hands worked in practised motions - button, tuck, straighten. Just like her mother had taught her. The more presentable you look, the more people trust you.

Keep a gentle look on your face, Az . Your patients will think you’re mad at them.

Azazel ran her fingers through silky strands of her hair and then leaned closer to the mirror. Her make-up was done nicely, just to cover anything that she didn’t like. Professionalism, for her, meant looking like your best version. No imperfections, no slips. Just composed and cleaned. And annoyingly organised. A messy mind meant a messy person, and that was Azazel described in a few words. 

One last glance toward her laptop on the desk. The image of Mara Hensley’s missing eyes flashed in her mind again. Focus. This wasn’t about that now. This was about Kayla McBride, Mara’s best friend and former roommate. The girl who found Mara’s shift schedule still taped to the fridge. Who’d insisted the barista never walked home alone. Who’d shown up at the police station three times demanding justice. And who, for some reason, agreed to speak to a psychology student about her best friend’s murder.

Now that she thinks about it… Kayla agreed because she wanted someone to understand her. Policemen probably considered her pushy and crazy for insisting on further investigations. Maybe talking with someone who understands humans better would help the woman in some way. Someone who wouldn’t judge because what was psychology without a bit of abnormality?

Azazel grabbed her notes and keys, shoving both into her bag. She wasn’t sure what she expected - tears, rage, maybe even denial. But whatever Kayla had to say, it might be the only emotional clue tied to the case that wasn’t cold and disgusting. As she stepped outside, the wind bit against her skin, sharp and brisk like something watching.

⋆

They meet at a café. Somewhere safe and private. It’s warm inside, the scent of coffee bitter and strong in the air. Kayla missed Mara, which led her to choose a café. That was easy to figure out, but maybe Kayla wanted to be as obvious as possible. The bluenette before her was looking down at her cup of coffee, mulling over her answers. Azazel never forced answers out of people who weren’t involved in the murder. They were just people who cared for the victims and had to suffer because of some cruel satisfaction.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I know this is hard for you.”

Kayla shrugged. Her fingers tightened on the mug. “It’s not like I can do anything else about it.”

She’s dead already . She can hear Kayla think that.

There was a beat of silence. Azazel looked at her reflection on her phone.

“Is it okay if a record? Just for accuracy.”

Kayla nodded. “Sure. I don’t care.”

Very cooperative, Azazel thought. Depression clung to her. But she wouldn’t pry. It wasn’t her place to do so. If Kayla wished to talk about her problems, she would. Azazel didn’t dive in. Not right away. Instead, she observed.

Kayla’s eyes kept drifting - to the door, the window, her mug. Never at Azazel for more than a few seconds. Her leg bounced beneath the table. Her nails were short, bitten to the quick. It felt like Azazel was intimidating her. She hoped that was not the case.

“How long had you and Mara known each other?”

“Three years,” Kayla replied quickly. “We met in college. Roomed together by accident. Got along better than either of us expected.”

Azazel nodded. “Was she the kind of person who made friends easily?”

Kayla’s jaw clenched. “She was the kind of person who tried. Even with assholes who didn’t deserve it.”

“Mhm,” Azazel hummed, looking at the notes she had written down in her notebook. Motivated. Friendly. “Did she have any hobbies? Maybe something you two had in common?”

Kayla gave a small, mirthless smile. “She loved photography. Street stuff. Candid moments, you know? Said people showed their truest selves when they thought no one was watching.” Her voice cracked faintly at the end, and she took a sip of her coffee to cover it. “She had this old film camera she carried around like a limb. Even had a name for it. Don’t ask.”

“I won’t,” Azazel said gently, lips twitching at the corners. “Did she ever capture anything strange? Or… unsettling?”

Kayla’s brows furrowed slightly as she thought. “She… used to say that the same guy seemed to appear in many of her photos. I believe this started after she developed some sort of obsession with this thing called.. Marble Hornets, I believe?”

Azazel’s pen paused mid-word.

“Marble Hornets?” she echoed carefully.

Kayla nodded, her gaze still on the steam curling up from her mug. “It’s some old YouTube horror thing. Weirdly edited tapes, guys in the woods being stalked by this faceless figure. Creeped her out, but she couldn’t stop watching. Said it felt real somehow.”

Azazel filed that away. People didn’t just randomly associate fiction with real life - unless they were looking for something in it. “Did she ever show you any of those photos?” she asked.

“Yeah.” Kayla’s fingers drummed once on the ceramic. “It wasn’t anything special. Just a guy in a hoodie. Mustard coloured, I believe. I can’t remember.”

“Do you have the pictures?”

A scoff, then a long sigh. “I wish. It’s almost like everything just vanished after her death. I looked through the stuff - her camera, her laptop. I couldn’t find anything. Her phone was found smashed next to her, so obviously I couldn’t check it.”

A chill slipped under Azazel’s skin.

“Did she go to the police?”

Kayla huffed. “About a man in her photos? Come on.” She shook her head, bitter. “They already thought she was nuts. Especially after she said she thought someone had broken into our apartment - nothing was taken, but her closet smelled like blood."

“Blood? Maybe halucinations.”

“She..” Kayla seemed sceptical to answer that question. “She claimed it was someone who she referred to as 'him'. I’m not sure what could have made her so anxious.”

“Did anything else happen before…” she trailed off, not needing to finish.

Kayla’s throat worked as she swallowed. Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. “She stopped sleeping. Kept saying she saw something outside her window, even when we lived on the third floor. Started drawing symbols. I asked her what they meant. She just said she didn’t know, but they made her feel safer.”

Azazel’s hand slowed over the paper. “Did they look like this?” she asked, flipping to the page where she drew the said sign among other things she deemed important.

Kayla’s expression crumpled instantly. She slapped her hand over her mouth and looked away, tears brimming. Clearly, it made her sick.

“That one,” she choked. “She drew that one everywhere.”

Azazel leaned back in her seat, heart hammering in her chest beneath her composed exterior. Stay calm. “It’s a reoccurring symbol that is found at those unsolved murders. No one knows what it means or where it was taken from. And, Kayla, I think you just helped me find out something really important.”

Kayla didn’t respond. Her shoulders had hunched inwards, like the memory physically hurt. Azazel gave her a moment, her pulse steadying only after she pressed the record button off. She gently slid the notebook closed.

“I’m sorry if that was too much,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Kayla shook her head. “No. No, it’s okay. I’m… I’m glad someone’s asking the right questions.” Her voice was raw, scraped. “You don’t talk about the way someone changes before they die. People just want a motive.”

Azazel looked at her carefully. “And you don’t?”

“I want them to remember her as someone alive. Not just… a fucked-up photo on the internet.”

A pause. The café around them hummed quietly-milk steaming, cups clinking. Someone laughed from a table near the door.

Of course. Unfortunately, Azazel would probably remember Mara as a fucked-up photo on the internet as well. Just like her professor used to say. You can’t look at bodies like that and stay normal. You just learn to look longer than most.

Azazel stood. “Would you be comfortable if I reached out again?”

Kayla gave a shaky nod. “If you think it’ll help.”

“It might.” Azazel offered a small smile. “And Kayla? You were a good friend.”

That seemed to break something in Kayla. She nodded again, quickly, and looked away. Azazel turned to leave, her fingers brushing the edge of the notebook inside her bag. But Kayla’s voice called out to her.

“Hey-”

Azazel glanced back. Kayla was staring into her coffee, hiding her expression like Azazel didn’t already know she was crying. “She used to hum. All the time. Especially when she thought she was alone. But in the last few weeks, she stopped.”

Azazel’s brows furrowed. “Okay?”

Kayla looked up at her, eyes rimmed red. “Except… the night before she died, I swear I heard someone humming in the apartment. And it wasn’t her voice.”

That silence returned - thick this time. Azazel stood frozen a second too long. Then nodded once and slipped out the door, the bell overhead jingling like a warning.

⋆

The walk home felt torturous. Only because Azazel was thinking at probably a hundred miles per minute. It was messy, so messy she accidentally bumped into someone.

“Oh- I’m so sorry!” She quickly apologised, looking up to meet the gaze of a ginger woman. Her notebook had fallen from her hands, remaining open on the page with that cursed symbol drawn upon it.

The woman’s eyes flicked down to the notebook, then lingered. Azazel noticed. For a heartbeat too long, neither of them moved. Then the stranger crouched down slowly, picking up the notebook with careful fingers. She didn’t speak - just stared at the symbol, her brows knitting ever so slightly.

Azazel cleared her throat, reaching to take it. “Thanks. It’s… for a project.”

Her anxiousness quickly dissipated as the woman only smiled at her. “It’s no problem. Be careful with your things.” Then she walked past Azazel with hurried steps.

Weird..

Looking down at the notebook in her hands, Azazel stayed in place for a few seconds before resuming her walk back home.

⋆

By the time she got home, her nerves were shot. She dropped her bag on the floor, slid her coat off with a shaky sigh, and fell onto the couch. Her hands trembled slightly as she pulled her phone from her pocket.

A moment of hesitation. Then she tapped on Rowan’s name. It didn’t take long before the video call connected. Rowan’s face filled the screen with messy curls, an oversized hoodie, and that ever-so-slight smirk that made him look like he already knew something she didn’t.

“Tired?” he asked, raising a brow.

Azazel exhaled through her nose. “Mentally wrung out.”

“That bad?”

She nodded, turning the camera slightly to show the notebook in her lap. “Kayla confirmed the symbol. She claimed that Mara tended to draw it everywhere lately.”

Rowan leaned closer to his phone, eyes squinting as he read over the scribbles in Azazel’s notebook. “That’s the same one you showed me last week, right? Still haven’t found where it’s from?”

“Nope. No origin, no culture match, nothing in occult forms. It just.. exists, I guess.”

Rowan rubbed his jaw. “Anything else that could be related to the case?”

Azazel nodded, shifting uncomfortably on her couch. “She said that Mara liked photography. But, after some… I suppose research, some guy started to show up in a bunch of her photos. Not all of them, but still. It weirded her out.”

A pregnant pause, and then Azazel spoke again.

“Mara was seeing things. I believe it could have been Schizophrenia. Maybe the stress and paranoia made her start hallucinating.”

“Look, Azazel, you’re overthinking things.” Rowen tried to convince her. “Weren’t you supposed to study criminal minds? At this point, I feel like you’re digging way too deep. Remember, Professor Armand said not to get involved.”

“Yeah, I know.” She cut in, voice clipped. “But.. how am I supposed to understand someone if that someone is unknown? Maybe if I solve this case the police will give me some money.”

A long and tired sigh sounded from her phone speaker. She could see Rowan rubbing his forehead in clear exasperation.

“Curiosity killed the cat, Azazel.”

“And satisfaction brought it back, Rowan.”

A laugh, and then Rowan finally looked back at his phone. “You’re a bad influence for anyone close to you.”

“And you don’t know your sayings.”

Rowan chuckled again, but there was a tightness behind it now - subtle, but there.

“Seriously though,” he said, voice softer, “you don’t look so good. You’re not sleeping, are you?”

Azazel glanced away from the screen. “Define sleeping.”

“That’s what I thought.”

The silence between them stretched, comfortable and strained all at once. Rowan was one of the few people who knew how to talk to her when she was like this. Or when this started becoming normal. He leaned back, hoodie bunched up around his neck. “Look. I know this stuff matters to you. But don’t lose yourself in it. You’re already on the edge.”

Azazel stared at her notebook again. That damned symbol stared back, carved in her handwriting like it meant something. Like it had always meant something.

“I’m fine, Rowan. Really.”

“Uh-huh,” he said. “That’s what you said last time. And the time before that, too.”

She didn’t answer right away. The silence sat between them again, only broken by the occasional rustle of fabric from his side of the call.

Finally, Rowan sighed.

“Alright, Az. I gotta hang up. I’m going out.”

Azazel raised an eyebrow, looking at the corner of her phone to check the time. “This late?”

Rowan nodded then answered. “Yeah, we’re going to a club.”

It was Azazel’s turn to sigh, long and bored this time. “Alright, Ro. Take care, don’t let the scary symbol get you.”

“Oh, shut up, blondie.”

Both of them chuckled, then said their goodbyes. The call ended with its usual sound, leaving Azazel alone in silence. Maybe she needed a dog or something.

“God, I need sleep,” she muttered, setting the phone down as her gaze drifted towards the open notebook on the coffee table.

How ridiculous! Why draw such stupid things? She gets it. She does. It’s cryptic, it’s probably cool for its creator. But why make it? To confuse everyone? Maybe it’s a way to throw the authorities off.  Her mind suddenly settles. The decision is final for Azazel. Thinking too much about this would stress her out, which is not good for her at the moment. So, instead of trying to burn her brain, she gets up from the couch. Her assignment could wait some more. She still has a few months left of this semester.

The feeling of being watched suddenly hits her. It’s like the faintest ringing in her ear, announcing to her that someone’s gaze is fixed straight on her. It reminds Azazel of the good old times when her coach used to watch her train, but he was loud and always corrected Azazel. Now it was just silence.

It’s probably because I’m tired , she thinks, brushing it off. Definitely, because she’s tired.

⋆

As she’s getting into bed after a thorough self-care, it’s almost as if her mind decides to be active once more. Her laptop was set on the nightstand, playing a boring series of baking she liked to watch. It was enough to help her fall asleep and make her mind quieter. Could the victims have something in common? Maybe all of them had something to do with that symbol. Could it be some form of obsession? The chances are, some of them could have developed a stupid obsession with it. The human brain would always find things that could entertain it.

Kayla also mentioned the YouTube channel Mara used to watch. She’ll have to look into it. Maybe it will give her some more ideas of what could be behind this symbol. As her eyes drifted closed, the thought of her current assignment disappeared, replaced by an odd silence in her head.

Unusual. But not unwelcome.

[mmummydust]

I Named Her Hunger

PROLOGUE.

Characters: Cortney Azazel, Vexley Meliora, Rowan Greer

Summary:

When psychology student Azazel begins noticing a pattern of unsolved murders in her town, she can't look away. The victims are unconnected. The killer - or killers - are ghosts in the system. But one thing repeats every time: a circle slashed through by an X, carved like a brand into the scene.

Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.

And the satisfaction happened to be a certain woman assigned to teach Azazel a lesson. The line between obsession and truth blurs as her dreams bleed into waking life, and her sense of control starts to rot.

Enjoy!

“Alright, listen up.”

The sound of chairs scraping and lazy murmurs filled the lecture hall until the professor’s voice cut through it like a scalpel.

“Your assignment for this semester is a complete psychological breakdown of a real criminal case. Doesn’t have to be solved. Doesn’t even have to be recent. What matters is how you analyse the mind behind the crime. Justify the criminal’s actions. Study them and find as many diagnoses as you can.” He paused, eyes sweeping over the students. “No dramatics. Just facts and behavior.”

Azazel tapped her pen against the edge of her notebook, half-doodling, half-listening. Her notes from last week were a mess. Fragmented phrases scrawled in cursive and crossed out aggressively could barely be read, but she already knew what she had wrote. Impulse control, ritualistic staging, post-mortem mutilation. Studying the habits of serial killers was disturbing, especially when a tired mind decided to make up sounds and scenarios that would send a child into heart arrest.

The professor raised a finger. “Warning: if I catch any of you using that Wikipedia nonsense or steal studies from other authors, it’s an automatic fail.”

A student raised his hand. “Any other restrictions?”

Professor Armand smiled. “Only one. Don’t get involved.”

The class laughed. Azazel spared an amused glance towards her friend, who only smiled in response.

⋆

The rustling of papers and soft humming filled the dimly lit room. All of these cases were kinda boring. After a call with her friends from the same course, apparently all of them took big cases such as Ted Bundy, Casey Anthony, Jeffrey Dahmer. So, what other case could Azazel study if not the recent crimes involving the same sign?

Her fingers paused over another case - mutilated bodies, drained blood, that symbol. The circle with the ‘X’. It made her chest tighten, made her skin feel too small for her body. There were no names. Only the victims could sometimes be identified. Whoever the killer was, they sure knew how to hide and be discreet.

The buzzing of her phone made her almost jump out of her skin. A look at the screen and Azazel almost answered instantly. Rowan.

“Hey, Ro! What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing. I was just bored and decided to call you. Have you started doing your assignment yet?”

A very methodical person. That was Rowan. He was a year younger than Azazel, majoring in forensic anthropology, and always eager to help Azazel. Although, he seemed like this simple major took the life out of him.

“Actually, yeah. I was just looking over some cases regarding the recent crimes. You know, the ones that are said to be involving some sort of cult.” The sound of humming came from Rowan as she put her phone up so Rowan could see her while she worked. “It’s pretty gruesome.”“It sure is. I’ve read into them. It’s a hard thing to study, Az. Are you sure you want to choose these cases?”

“Yeah, I guess. It’s nothing I can’t handle. Maybe I’ll impress professor Armand and he’ll give me a higher score.”

They both laughed at that, but Azazel didn’t notice that his smile didn’t make his eyes close like usual.

“Just be careful. Don’t get obsessed of these things. It’s the worst thing you can obsess over.”

Don’t get involved.

⋆

“This is a breaking update of the series of crimes that have left the town in shock. Authorities have confirmed the discovery of two more bodies in the past week, bringing the total to seven. The victims have been identified and are under autopsy for further investigations.”

Pause.

Until now, the authorities haven’t been able to track down any suspects, but the same sign - a circle cut by an ‘X’ - was spotted near the crime scene and on the corpses.”

Static. The screen stutters. The image freezes on the blurred outline of a bloodied body bag. Azazel shifts in her seat. The hand on her nape tightens, forcing her to remain in place. She swallows, saliva thick in her mouth as another wave of uncomfortable heat comes over her once more.

Scared.

“…Why are you making me watch this?”

The gloved hand doesn’t move, and neither does that masked person next to her. No answer. The news continue, as if answering in her stalker’s place.

“Local authorities have declined to comment on any potential connections between the victims. However, the recurrence of the symbol is leading many to believe this is the work of a single group - or worse, a single individual.” The symbol flashes briefly in a sketch: a crude circle, split by an ‘X’. “Some believe it is the symbol of a cult, yet no one has proved to know anything related to it. Authorities suggest that anyone stays inside after nightfall and ensure that they are safe in their own house.”

A whimper escapes the blonde as that mask-covered face leans down next to her head. Hot tears left streaks upon her cheeks, the skin reddened by continuous wiping of the salty liquid. A gloved finger wipes one away, as if mocking Azazel. She could hear the heavy breathing, the intense eyes staring holes into her very being. Static filled the room once more - no, it filled her. Her body, her mind. She could faintly feel the buzzing beneath her skin, but one could so much as be aware of existing when some sort of divinity was taking control of one’s body.

But when she was forced to look up, she didn’t see white. She didn’t see that creature standing tall before her, forcing the woman with nothing but Its mind to look at Him until she couldn’t no more. Instead, she met green eyes, blown wide in madness behind the mask, a shadow falling over them.

The buzzing refused to stop, turning into static and then a high pitched sound that had Azazel imagining she covered her ears. But The Operator wouldn’t spare her of the annoying sound, because she could not move of her own accord. Like a puppet controlled by its master. Her eyes rolled back painfully, mouth falling slightly open as she fell back against the backrest of the couch, blood going down in a slow rivulet from her nose and down to her chin.

It had spared her.

“Please stay inside and announce any abnormal activities to the police. You have watched…”

Hii!! I haven't written something as big as this in my life so I really hope it's not too bad.. I apologise if there are any mistakes, although I've checked the chapter before publishing it, but grammar tends to be quite annoying (English is not my first language).

Dividers by @/narcissistic on Rentry.co

[mmummydust]

Bio!!!

Hello everyone!! This is my first ever post on tumblr, so I apologise if it seems a little awkward.. But, I decided to make a little introduction before I post any stories on here. I also hope I won't be coming off as rude. If I do, please feel free to tell me!

˙⋆✮ About me

⋆ my name is Elena, but anyone can call me by my username or find alternatives for my name

⋆ I use she/her pronouns

⋆ lesbian!! I've only recently realised so I'm a little 'undocumented' on this

⋆ I'm also white, but I love everyone regardless of their skin colour, ethnicity etc.

⋆ I mostly listen to rock and metal and my favourite bands are Ghost, Deftones, and System of a Down

⋆ Beginner guitar player!!

(I have excluded some things that are more personal to me as I feel uncomfortable sharing them such as: where I live, my age, my socials etc.)

˙⋆✮ Info

⋆ This blog will mostly be oc x oc as I've never written anything x reader (I will try!!)

⋆ For now I won't take requests. I'm not really good at studying characters that are not mine because I will probably misinterpret lots of things

⋆ I don't want pedos to interact with this in the first place. I have written mlm things before, so queer men are accepted here (basically anyone who is part of the community is allowed to interact!! Straight ladies as well since I will probably write straight relationships)

⋆ Mainly I just don't want creeps around here

˙⋆✮ Rules

⋆ I will not write about underage characters, incest, and rape (only in darker themes and definitely not described properly. I will announce at the beginning of a chapter if a scene like that is included)

⋆ I also only write darker themes strictly for lore and I do NOT encourage abuse in any form, in any way, and directed at anyone, rape, incest, homophobia, or anything that is troublesome

⋆ I'm part of too many fandoms to list them here, but anyone can ask about one and I will answer! A few are: Arcane, Creepypasta, Genshin Impact, Honkai Star Rail, Wuthering Waves, Dead By Daylight, and so many more

⋆ Please leave my page if you do not stand for Palestine and Ukraine, or if you support anyone who is considered a bad person. No examples needed!

˙⋆✮ Other

⋆ I will link everything that I made of my ocs and my ao3 account as well (my story is already being published there so check it at your own risk!)

Cortney Azazel

I Named Her Hunger

Ao3 account

⋆ My pfp is from pinterest as well as most of the pictures I use are usually from pinterest, but the dividers I used int this post are from @/narcissistic on rentry.co