Unholy Player

Adyr gripped the doorknob and opened it with a slow, deliberate motion. The voice he heard, confident and calm, left no doubt. It was the Cannibal’s. And it was an invitation.

He stepped inside.

There were no traps. He could feel it in the air. The man’s psychological profile had already taken full shape in his mind.

Adyr had come here as a hunter. The Cannibal was the prey. For days, he’d been filling in the blanks of this man’s persona, thinking, calculating. Until now, the picture had felt incomplete. But this room, this performance, finished it.

The Cannibal wasn’t a gang leader. Not really. He probably didn’t even think of himself as one.

He was something else. A conductor. A curator of chaos. A man who believed himself to be an artist.

As Adyr crossed the threshold, the scent of burning myrrh and aged wine filled his nose. Heavy, indulgent, meant to impress. There was no trace of poison or chemical interference in the air. Just arrogance, masked as sophistication.

His eyes moved once, calmly, soaking in every detail.

Thick crimson drapes sealed off the windows, their fabric dustless and well-maintained despite the decay outside. In front of each one stood carved mahogany tables, atop which sat ornate vases brimming with carefully arranged flowers—lilies, orchids, a few night-blooming varieties that would never be found growing naturally in these soils. Imported. Artificially maintained.

The floor was polished wood, possibly cherry. It gleamed under the warm, low lighting. A deep red rug stretched down the center, thick and hand-woven. Imported as well.

At the center of the room sat a long dining table, its length drawing the eye directly to the man waiting at the far end. There were only two chairs. Both were antique, claw-footed, upholstered with faded velvet. Between them, the table was set for dinner—porcelain plates, silver utensils, each place accompanied by a crystal glass and a small vase filled with dark purple lilies.