Chapter 365

Harrison Field had always been a household name. His face flashed on every screen, his voice echoed in millions of homes. His smile was charming, his presence commanding. He was, without a doubt, one of the most beloved actors in the world.

But behind the curtain, away from the glitzy events and sparkling interviews, Harrison Field had a secret. One that, if revealed, would tear apart the façade he had worked so hard to build.

The truth, the one he kept buried deep in the recesses of his mind, was far darker than anyone could imagine. Harrison had a hunger—one that couldn't be satisfied by fame, money, or adoration.

It was something that gnawed at him relentlessly, a thirst that could never be quenched. He wanted to consume, not the applause of the crowd, but something far more visceral, more disturbing.

It started small, almost innocently. A strange craving, a fleeting thought he quickly dismissed. But as the years passed, it grew. The desire for flesh. Human flesh.

He would tell himself it was the stress, the pressure of always being in the spotlight, always being perfect. But deep down, he knew it was something else. It wasn't the fame that kept him going; it was the taste. The texture. The sensation of it sliding down his throat, warm and satisfying.

It wasn't until he'd already tasted his first victim that he understood. The hunger wasn't something that could be controlled or ignored. It would always be there, a constant companion, whispering in his ear, reminding him of what he truly was.

The night it all began was one that Harrison would never forget. He had been filming a movie in a secluded mansion, far from the prying eyes of the media. The director, a grizzled man named Bernard, had promised him peace and quiet for the next few days.

No reporters, no cameras—just a few actors and a script. It was perfect for Harrison. He needed to escape, to indulge in his desires without anyone suspecting a thing.

On the third night of their stay, after a long day of filming, Harrison was left alone. The others had gone to bed, their laughter still echoing in the hallways as they retired to their rooms. But Harrison couldn't sleep. He had a hunger inside him, one that he could no longer ignore.

He slipped out of his room and into the dark, winding corridors of the mansion. The silence of the house pressed down on him, making each step seem like a whisper in the void. His heart raced, not from fear, but from anticipation. It had been too long since he had indulged in his hunger, and tonight, he couldn't resist.

He found his way to the kitchen, a room that seemed out of place in the old mansion. The soft hum of the refrigerator was the only sound, the light from a single overhead bulb casting long shadows on the tiled floor.

There, hanging from a hook, was a slab of meat. A small piece, but enough. He didn't think twice. He grabbed a knife and set to work, carving into the flesh with practiced precision.

But just as he was about to take his first bite, he heard something. A sound, faint but unmistakable. Footsteps.

He froze, the knife in his hand trembling. His pulse quickened, and for a moment, he almost felt the sting of panic. He wasn't ready to be caught. Not yet. He quickly shoved the meat back into the refrigerator and wiped his hands on his pants, doing his best to compose himself.

The footsteps grew louder, closer.

Harrison held his breath as the door creaked open, the figure silhouetted in the doorway. It was Bernard.

"Field? You still up?" Bernard's voice was low, cautious, but not suspicious. Not yet.

Harrison managed a smile, though it felt forced, unnatural. "Just couldn't sleep," he said, his voice too calm, too controlled. "I'm fine, just… thinking."

Bernard didn't seem convinced, but he didn't press the matter. "Alright, just don't make too much noise. Some of us need our rest."

The door closed softly behind him, and Harrison let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His heart pounded in his chest. He had been so close to being caught. But he knew, deep down, that it wouldn't be long before the hunger took over again. And next time, there would be no interruptions.

Days passed, each one more unbearable than the last. The hunger gnawed at him, demanding to be fed. Harrison found himself avoiding the others, keeping to himself, his mind fixated on the next opportunity to satisfy his craving.

It came sooner than he expected.

Bernard, the director, was the perfect target. Alone in his room, tired from the long hours of filming, he had no idea what was coming. Harrison slipped into his room, his movements swift and silent. He was a master of this by now, the knife feeling natural in his hand.

The taste was everything he had imagined, and more.

It wasn't until after the deed was done that Harrison felt the weight of what he had done. His hands, slick with blood, trembled as he looked down at the lifeless body of Bernard. The director's eyes were wide open, frozen in terror.

Harrison felt no remorse, no guilt—only the satisfaction of his hunger finally being sated. But it wasn't enough. The hunger still gnawed at him, always there, always wanting more.

He would need to act quickly, before anyone else noticed.

The next few days were a blur of careful planning and quick executions. Each victim was chosen with precision, their deaths swift and efficient. Harrison was a man possessed, driven by an insatiable need. He didn't care who they were, didn't care about the consequences. They were nothing more than meat to him.

But the more he killed, the more something changed inside him. The thrill of the hunt faded. The satisfaction of the kill became hollow, empty. And yet, the hunger remained. It was always there, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting to be fed.

One night, after another kill, Harrison sat alone in his room, staring at the wall. He felt sick. Not from the blood, not from the bodies—no, he was past that. It was the emptiness that haunted him. The knowledge that no matter how many lives he took, it would never be enough. He would never be full.

And that, in itself, was the most terrifying thing of all.

He had become a monster, a thing of flesh and hunger, with nothing left but the gnawing need for more. He would never be the same again.

It was then that he heard the sound. Faint at first, but unmistakable. Footsteps.

Harrison didn't move. He didn't dare. His eyes scanned the room, but he knew there was no escape. The hunger had taken him too far. He had crossed a line that couldn't be undone.

The door to his room creaked open, and in the doorway stood someone he hadn't expected.

Yinhaie.

Her expression was unreadable, her eyes hollow, but her gaze never wavered from his. She stepped into the room, slow and deliberate, as though she were walking toward a doomed fate.

"You did it," she said, her voice low, almost mechanical. "You've crossed the line, haven't you?"

Harrison said nothing. He couldn't.

And in that moment, as she closed the distance between them, Harrison realized—this wasn't about hunger anymore. It wasn't about his cravings. It was about the people he'd dragged down with him. The lives he'd stolen. Yinhaie wasn't there to confront him. She was there to make sure he could never escape.

She held the knife in her hand.

A small smile curled at the corners of her lips, her eyes filled with the sad, brutal understanding of a truth Harrison had long forgotten: there was no redemption, no escape, for what he had become.