Two more months...

Asmodeos couldn't shake the memory of the bloody dog from his mind. The scene was vivid—too vivid. Every detail lingered in his thoughts like a haunting, twisted masterpiece. Driven by a strange urge, he took out an old, worn notebook his parents had given him years ago and opened it to a fresh page. He wasn't sure why, but he felt compelled to recreate the scene on paper.

He gripped a pencil tightly and, almost unconsciously, began sketching. His mind blanked out, and time seemed to slip away as he entered a trance-like state, completely absorbed in every stroke and shade. His hand moved with a confidence he never knew he had, almost like something dark and powerful was guiding him.

Asmodeos didn't notice the hours passing, but when he finally snapped back to reality, he was stunned by what he saw. On the paper was a hauntingly detailed drawing—a recreation of the dog's last moments, capturing every emotion it went through: fear, helplessness, pain. The blood, the mangled fur, the horror… it was all there, almost as if it were alive.

A chill ran down his spine, but it was quickly replaced by a dark thrill. A twisted smile crept onto his face, and he whispered, "I might be crazy… but crazy feels good." He chuckled, his laughter echoing in the empty room.

Unable to resist the urge, he carefully tore the page from the notebook and placed it in the broken photo frame he'd used as a weapon. Staring at it, he felt an odd sense of accomplishment, as if he'd created something that truly belonged to him. For the first time in ages, he didn't feel so powerless.

Exhausted but satisfied, Asmodeos collapsed onto his bed, clutching the framed drawing close. And that night, as he drifted into sleep, his nightmares seemed shorter, his headaches more bearable.

He woke up with a faint smile, his usual bitterness dulled just a bit by this newfound thrill. As he stretched, his stomach rumbled, reminding him of the reality that he still had to survive.

"Time to get food," he muttered as he headed for the door, already dreading what awaited him outside.

---

Out on the Streets

Stepping out into the cold, gray streets of the slums, Asmodeos was hit by the familiar stench of decay and sewage. Broken-down shacks lined the cracked, uneven road, where dirty water pooled in the dips and grooves. Around him, other children like him trudged toward the food station, their faces drawn and eyes hollow.

He kept his head down, trying to blend in. Every day was a risk; bigger kids would shove past, ready to snatch anything from his hands if he let his guard down. Hunger clawed at him, making him lightheaded, but he forced himself to stay alert.

At the food station, a long line had already formed, and he joined at the end, shuffling forward as it inched along. The line moved painfully slowly, and he could see the workers up front carelessly slapping bits of stale bread onto each kid's hands, along with a chipped cup of murky water.

By the time he reached the front, the worker hardly looked at him, shoving a small, hard loaf of bread into his hands. The bread was dry, with a stale, almost sour smell, but it was all he'd get until evening. He took his cup of water and stepped away quickly, clutching the bread like a lifeline.

Just as he was about to find a place to sit, a group of older kids spotted him, their eyes glinting with hunger and greed.

"Hey, give that here," one of them sneered, stepping into his path.

Asmodeos clenched the bread tighter, his jaw setting defiantly. "No," he muttered, stepping back.

The kid laughed, pushing him hard, nearly making him drop the bread. "You think you're special? Hand it over, or I'll make you regret it."

Asmodeos glared up at him, refusing to back down. The bully scoffed, unimpressed, and swatted at Asmodeos's hand, sending the bread flying. It hit the ground and rolled through the mud, instantly ruined.

A surge of rage boiled up in Asmodeos, and he almost lunged at the bully—but he held back, knowing he was outmatched. Biting down his anger, he turned and walked away, leaving the destroyed bread behind.

---

Back home, Asmodeos sat on his bed, glaring at the broken photo frame that had once held his parents' gentle smiles. Their happy faces stared back at him, serene and untouched by the pain of the life he now endured.

"Tsk, it's not like those smiles make anything I experience lighter," he sneered, pushing the frame aside and looking at his new sketch of the dog instead. A small, satisfied smile played at the corners of his mouth. "This looks way more comforting."

The image of the dog's bloody end sparked something dark inside him—a need to capture more of his emotions on paper. He clenched his fists as hunger gnawed at his stomach again, and he remembered how the older boy had ruined his only meal for the day. The thought stirred a deep, bubbling fury inside him.

"Just wait, all of you," he whispered, his voice low and dangerous. "When I finally awaken and get a good rank… I'll paint my nails with your blood."

Driven by that thought, he grabbed the notebook and began to sketch madly, his pencil scraping the paper with furious strokes. He sketched the boy who had taken his food, but this time, in a scene of twisted agony. The bully's face was contorted in fear and regret, his eyes wide with terror, his mouth frozen in a silent scream. Blood poured from his mouth, nose, and eyes in gory detail, dripping from his body and pooling around him.

Asmodeos's heart raced as he worked, his own anger and hatred pouring into the lines and shadows on the page. When he finished, he stared at the drawing with a sense of satisfaction, almost pride.

"Is my skill improving?" he murmured, noticing how each detail felt more lifelike than his previous sketch. The boy's expression was raw and vivid, every stroke capturing the horror Asmodeos imagined he would feel.

"Ahh…" He sighed contentedly, running his fingers over the paper. "That's the look I want to see. Two more months… just two more."

With a twisted grin, he carefully folded the drawing and slipped it into the same broken photo frame beside the dog sketch. He lay back on his bed, the adrenaline finally wearing off, leaving him drowsy and at ease. For the first time in as long as he could remember, his thoughts felt quiet, and when he drifted off to sleep, his nightmares seemed just a little more distant.