The Embodiment of Greed

Content Warning:

This fanfiction will contain graphic themes, including cannibalism and gory scenes from this point forward. Reader discretion is strongly advised. These elements are depicted as part of the narrative and are not meant to glorify or promote harmful behavior.

I apologize if this content causes discomfort. Please proceed with caution.

I slowly wake up.

My thoughts are foggy, half-formed. Like I've just clawed my way out of a nightmare I can't quite remember. 

My body feels... wrong. My limbs are heavy. My skin is tight. My throat burns.

I blink—just once.

My left eye struggles to focus through the blurriness. 

Shapes. Color. Depth. They're all warped and smeared like a bad watercolor painting.

And then—

I see it.

The body bag.

But it's not zipped up anymore.

It's open—peeled back like the skin of rotten fruit—and the body inside…

Oh god.

What's left of it is sprawled across the steel table like a butchered animal. One arm hangs limply off the edge. Large chunks of flesh are missing from the forearm and bicep. There are teeth marks—human teeth marks—visible in the skin and muscle.

The chest has been torn open violently. The ribs are cracked, some snapped clean in half. Others are twisted outward, fractured, and splintered. There's no clean cut—just raw destruction. The lungs have been mauled, both partially eaten. One lobe is missing entirely. The heart is gone. The cavity is dark and glistening with blood.

The stomach has been ripped apart. Long, uneven gashes expose the insides. Most of the organs have been torn out. What's left of the intestines hangs over the side of the table in slick, wet loops. There are claw-like tears along the torso, deep enough to reveal the spine.

I freeze. 

The face—

God, the face—

Half of the face has been chewed off. Muscle and tissue are stripped down to bone. The nose is gone. One eye socket is empty—gouged out. The other eye is barely attached, hanging by a twisted stalk of optic nerve.

The lower jaw is missing entirely. Fragments of teeth are scattered on the floor, some still stuck in pieces of gum. The tongue has been bitten clean through and left dangling.

The scalp is torn in patches. Hair clings to the blood-slick skin. There's a large hole in the back of the skull. The bone has been broken open. The brain is missing. Just an empty cavity filled with blood and jagged bone.

One of his arms lies across the floor near the table. The elbow is dislocated, the shoulder socket twisted unnaturally. The limb is mangled—bite marks, torn flesh, tendon, and sinew exposed. Stripped.

I stumble backward and crash into a tray of surgical tools. Metal clatters to the floor, ringing out like gunshots in the dead silence of the morgue.

I look down at my hands.

Red.

Slick.

Dripping with blood and sticky bits of tissue. Something black-red and stringy is caught beneath my fingernails. My fingertips are raw like I'd clawed into something with desperation. With hunger.

My eyes drift to a nearby metal cabinet. 

I see my reflection.

My face and my chest are coated in blood and gore. Sticky and still warm. Blood clings to me like it belongs there. My lips sting. My teeth ache. There's something wedged between them.

I reach into my mouth and pull it out.

A shard of bone.

No.

No no no no NO—

I fall to my knees with a wet slap on the cold tile floor. The blood on my legs smears beneath me, warm and slippery. My fingers claw at my face, nails digging into skin, trying to tear it off—as if I can rip away whatever monster I've just become.

I want to scream. But my throat is still ruined.

All that comes out is a strangled, gurgling wheeze.

My lungs heave. My stomach lurches. I double over and gag—over and over and over. I try to vomit, try to purge whatever the hell I just did.

But nothing comes out.

Nothing.

Like my body won't let me.

Like it needs this.

Like it's satisfied.

That's when it hits me.

The taste.

Even now, through the haze of horror and panic, I can remember it. The feel of flesh between my teeth. The iron tang of blood on my tongue. The slick texture of organ meat sliding down my throat.

And the worst part?

The absolute worst fucking part?

It tasted good.

I collapse in a puddle of blood.

I curl in on myself in a fetal position, arms wrapped tight around my blood-soaked chest, shaking uncontrollably.

My mind races, but every thought runs into the same brick wall:

What the fuck is wrong with me?

What the FUCK is this?!

I thought I was getting better.

I thought I was finally winning.

Is this my quirk?

Is this what it does?

Is this what I do?

Consume people? Rip them apart and devour them like some kind of... ghoul?

I want to believe I was in some trance. That I wasn't aware. That it wasn't me.

But I remember just enough.

The hunger.

The instinct.

The ecstasy.

And that breaks me more than anything.

I cry—silent, ugly sobs that shake my already broken body. Tears mix with the blood smeared across my face. I sob until my breath hitches and my muscles cramp, and I can't cry anymore because it doesn't feel allowed.

Every nerve in my body screaming with revulsion, fear, guilt—

And something else.

Something I hate myself for even thinking.

I want more…

I don't know how long I've been sitting in this puddle of blood.

But something in me snaps.

The tears stop.

The horror fades into rage.

A molten, unbearable rage that boils beneath my skin like magma under thin glass.

I slam my fist into the cold tile floor.

CRACK.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Blood splashes from my knuckles as the flesh splits open, but I don't care.

CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.

I don't stop until my bones grind against the floor. Pain shoots up my arms, sharp and screaming, but I don't stop.

My throat is in ruins, but somehow—somehow—my voice pushes through. A guttural, broken scream rips out of me like sandpaper against glass.

"WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME, GOD?!"

My voice dies instantly. My throat bursts open, and I cough, blood spatters across the ground in front of me.

I wheeze, panting like a dying animal.

And then—

A voice.

Not mine.

Not from this room.

But Inside my mind.

Familiar. Calm. Terrifying

"Ah, I see that you've received your quirk."

I freeze.

Every muscle in my body locks up.

I know that voice.

The Void.

The moment between death and rebirth.

The one who gave me this second life.

The one who chose this.

GOD.

"I was wondering when it would finally awaken."

I scream again—mentally, this time.

"WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME?!"

I expect laughter.

What I get is worse.

"You remember, don't you? Back in the void—when I forged your quirk—when I gazed into your very soul and crafted something just for you."

"This… is the result."

I tremble.

My nails dig into my scalp. The coppery stench of gore is still clinging to my skin, burning my nose, but none of that compares to this—to its voice. The weight of truth.

"Your quirk is called Evolution. It allows you to control, alter, and manipulate every cell in your body. You can do stuff like regeneration, enhancement, adaptation, even transformation. Your potential is nearly limitless."

I don't feel empowered.

I feel sick.

"Why?" I croak out with my mind, shattered. "Why did I just eat a corpse like it was my final fucking meal?!"

The god's voice doesn't change. Still calm. Still terrifyingly collected.

"Because that… was the price I tailored specifically for you."

I look at him in utter shock and fear.

The god continues.

"In your past life, you weren't greedy for money. Not for power. Not even for love."

"You were greedy for control."

Images flash in my mind like shards of memory: me lying to friends, manipulating people to get what I wanted, cutting ties when things got messy, jumping ship when the plan went off course.

"You needed life to go your way. You calculated. Manipulated. Lied. Sacrificed. You abandoned what didn't serve your plan the moment it became inconvenient."

"You did what was necessary to get what you wanted."

"That's not evil. It's human."

I clutch my head, shaking, biting down on a scream.

"Shut up… shut up…"

But it keeps talking.

Soft. Calm. Ruthless.

"You humans think greed is about power, about riches. But it's deeper than that. It's the aching, gnawing need to possess what you do not have. Everyone wants something. Even the noble. Even the broken. Greed is the hunger of the soul."

"You wanted certainty. Structure. Authority over chaos."

"But make no mistake—that is greed."

"And your power reflects it."

My heart pounds so hard I feel it in my skull.

"You are driven by hunger now. A hunger for flesh, for biomass, for human meat."

"Without it, you will decay and starve."

"You will wither like any beast denied its prey."

I can't breathe.

"Your curse… is your appetite."

"Because just like in life, you will always crave more."

"More control. More power. More perfection. More of everything."

"That is who you are, Yuta—"

"Or should I say, Sean." 

"This quirk is not some random gift I made. It is a mirror of your soul."

Silence.

Thick. Heavy. Drenched in the copper stink of blood.

My heart pounds in my ears like drums.

My eye burns.

My fists tremble.

This… this was supposed to be my second chance.

A new life.

A better life.

But this god gave me a fucking curse.

"…How many?" I whisper in my mind, barely able to hold my thoughts together.

"How many what?"

"How many people… do I have to eat… to stay alive?"

The god pauses.

Then speaks softly.

Almost… kindly.

"One week."

"If you go more than seven days without consuming human tissue, you will begin to weaken. Slowly at first. You'll feel sluggish, numb, and cold. Your cells will turn on themselves, like a starving animal chewing its own limbs."

"Then comes the sickness. Pain will return. Hunger will become unbearable. You'll start losing cognitive function. Hallucinations. Blackouts. You'll be no better than a rabid dog."

"And then eventually… death."

"A slow, agonizing death. Cell by cell."

I feel like I'm going to throw up all over again.

"I didn't make this easy. But nothing worth having is."

"Consider this a challenge, Yuta."

"I'm looking forward to seeing how you navigate this new life."

"After all…"

"I gave you exactly what you asked for."

Silence.

The voice vanishes.

The god is gone.

And I'm still here.

On my knees.

In a puddle of blood.

My mind is cracked porcelain, my thoughts swimming in static. I feel hollow. Diseased. Less than human. I stare at the corpse in the bag, what little remains of it.

I did that.

I ate someone.

I—

No.

I can't spiral.

Not now.

I force myself to breathe. Shallow. Ragged.

Think, dammit. Think.

Hospital staff could walk in at any second. A nurse. A janitor. Security.

They'll find this.

And then it's over.

My quirk. My freedom. Me.

I have to move.

I force my broken body to stand, biting down on the pain as my hastily repaired leg strains beneath me. Every inch of me screams, but I push through.

I limp toward the back of the room, scanning for supplies, for tools—anything.

That's when I see it.

A steel door slightly open.

A faint red glow from within.

An incinerator.

Perfect.

I stagger over to the corpse, gagging as I force myself to touch it again. The body bag is half-shredded already, but I bundle it together as best I can and haul it toward the door.

It's heavy. Slippery.

It makes a horrible sound as I drag it, wet and grating.

I haul the body bag inside the incinerator.

I pause for a moment.

Then I pull off my blood-soaked hospital gown and toss it in too. 

And I press the on button.

The heat roars to life. Flames rise inside the chamber. A low, mechanical hum begins, and within seconds, the remains start to burn.

I force myself to watch for a few seconds.

Just to make sure.

Once I'm certain, I stumble to the nearest sink.

My hands are shaking uncontrollably as I turn the tap on. The water runs cold.

I scrub.

Hard.

Until the blood's gone from my hands. My arms. My chest. My face.

Until my skin stings.

I rinse my mouth. Spit. Again. Again.

Finally, I'm… clean-ish.

I can't waste any more time.

I look around and spot a storage cabinet.

Inside: towels. Linens. Spare hospital gowns.

I yank one out and pull it over my trembling body, tying the strings with unsteady fingers.

After I finish, I take a step forward and step in something wet.

I look down.

Blood. 

Everywhere.

The tile is smeared in a grotesque trail—where I cried, where I fed.

If someone finds this, they'll know something happened.

I can't let that happen.

I limp across the room and spot a closet.

I yank it open.

Inside—gloves, bleach, rags, a mop bucket, sprays, scrubs. Everything I need.

I get to work.

My hands shake. My muscles scream.

But I clean.

Every corner.

Every drop.

On my knees again—but this time, scrubbing blood from tile instead of crying in it.

By the time I'm done, my body is trembling from exhaustion. My knuckles sting. But the floor is spotless.

I gather the rags. The mop. The gloves.

Everything soaked in blood and bleach.

And I throw it all into the incinerator.

One last press of the button.

One last burn.

I take one last look around the morgue.

No traces.

No blood trail.

No evidence.

I limp to the door.

Open it.

Check the hallway for people.

Empty.

I make my way to the elevator, leaning against the wall for support.

The elevator dings open.

I step inside, hit the button for my floor, and lean back against the cool metal wall, heart hammering in my ears.

Breathe.

Just breathe.

I made it.

I cleaned everything.

I just need to get back into bed.

Pretend nothing happened.

I can figure out what to do later.

The doors open with a soft ding.

I lift my head.

Step forward.

And freeze.

Standing right in front of the elevator—

—Is my doctor.

White coat. Clipboard. Sharp, tired eyes.

He stares at me.

I stare back, one eye still cloudy.

His eyes are wide in pure shock.

His mouth opens.

"…Yuta?"