Erebus pulsed. The bass thudded against the floor like the heartbeat of a giant. Smoke curled through the air—a blend of cigarettes, cheap incense, and something older: an insatiable hunger.

Up on the upper balcony, Atticus sat alone.

His white hair spilled over broad shoulders. His eyes—glowing crimson—swept across the dance floor without focus. Yet everyone knew he was choosing.

And tonight, as on so many nights before, they weighed the risk of approaching him.

Because whoever touched him… vanished. A steep price for a pleasure their bodies craved.

Then, from the shadows beside the bar, a woman stepped forward.

Her dark blue dress was torn at the left thigh, revealing skin still slick with sweat from dancing. Her makeup had smudged—black eyeliner streaked like tears—but her lips remained red, wet, inviting. She didn’t glance at the crowd. Her eyes locked onto one figure alone: Atticus.

Her steps were slow. Deliberate. Every sway of her hips was an invitation. Every brush of her fingers against her own neck, a signal. She knew exactly what she was doing. She knew the risk. And still, she walked on.

When she reached the foot of the balcony stairs, she stopped.

Then, slowly, she knelt.

Not out of fear. Not out of weakness. But because she wanted Atticus to see her from above—as a king beholds an offering.

She looked up. Her eyes narrowed; her lips curved into the faintest smile. Her breath came deep, her chest rising and falling slowly—as if holding back something desperate to burst free.

“I know who you are,” she said, her voice hoarse yet brimming with certainty.

Atticus finally turned. Gradually. Like a predator catching the scent of fresh blood in the air.

He gave no reply. No smile. But his body responded—his neck muscles tensed, his breath deepened just slightly.

The woman swallowed. Then, with controlled precision, she began to crawl up the stairs. One step. Two. Barefoot, her black-painted nails scraped against the wood. Her hands touched each step as if it were an altar. Her body leaned forward—spine arched, hips lifted slightly, her dress slipping off her right shoulder.

When she reached the top, she didn’t stand.

She kept crawling—slowly, sensually—until she stopped right before Atticus’s feet. She looked up, her eyes defiant, though her breath trembled. She bit her lower lip—gently, long enough for Atticus to see the imprint of her teeth.

“You don’t need to speak,” she whispered, her voice low, almost a sigh. “I know you don’t care who I am. But I know… you need this.”

She reached out, brushing the tip of his black leather shoe—then slowly trailed her fingers up his calf, along his thigh, halting just at his groin.

“And I… want to feel you. Just once. Let me turn to dust. Let me vanish. I don’t care.”

Atticus stared at her for a long moment. His eyes burned—not with wild lust, but with cold observation, like a scientist examining his final subject before the last experiment.

Then, wordlessly, he extended his hand.

His fingers seized her chin—rough, cold, commanding. He forced her to meet his gaze. But the woman didn’t look away. She held his stare—her eyes gleaming, her breath heavy, her body trembling not with fear, but with anticipation.

Atticus laughed—short, bitter. In one swift motion, he yanked her to her feet—not gently, but with absolute certainty. His hand locked around her waist, pulling her body flush against his chest. Their breaths collided. His eyes roamed her face—from her raised brow to her still-damp lips, down to the frantic pulse in her throat.

“You’re confident,” he murmured, his voice low, like thunder rumbling from beneath the earth. “But you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

The woman smiled—a small, challenging curve of her lips. “I do. And I still choose you.”

Atticus held her gaze one second longer. Then, without warning, he lifted her—one arm under her back, the other beneath her thigh—and carried her into the shadows of the balcony.

Behind them, the music swelled again. People resumed dancing. Not a single head turned. Not a single soul remembered.

Because in Erebus, those who came to Atticus… never returned as human.

And that night, in the darkest room on the top floor, the ritual began.

“Nngh -! Yes ... Again.....more -!”

Only sighs and groans are heard,

The room was dark, illuminated only by the moonlight that slipped through the slits of the thick curtains, reflecting the gleam of sweat on the trembling skin. The air is hot, humid, heavy.

Twenty minutes had passed since the first time their bodies had come into contact. Not a meeting of two souls, not a linking of two hearts — this is a transaction. Body by body. Lust for lust.

And Atticus never waits. It never offers tenderness. I never asked him if he was ready.

“Hhnn -! No... -! - wait! It hurts.... it hurts... —!”

He came in without warning. Rough. Like a knife thrust into raw meat-without anesthesia, without mercy. The woman screamed at the beginning, trying to push— but the human body was strange. Even in pain, he learns to adjust. Even under duress, he found a rhythm.

And in that rhythm ... comes enjoyment. Not because they want to, but because of a biological destiny that cannot be denied. His brain releases dopamine. His body betrayed itself.

The hiss of teeth clattering, of breath choked out of the woman's ranum lips

“A-Ahh ... don't... not that fast...!”

“Nngh ... Atticus ... slowly...!”

Atticus doesn't care. For him, it's not about her. Not about the woman under him-the body of five hundred, or maybe eight hundred, he had already forgotten to count.

What matters is clearance.

Deliverance from the passion that burns his bones, from the thirst that never goes out, from the curse that clings to his every pore.

The sound of hands clawing bed linen-nails scratching the fabric, looking for a handle

Heavy breathing, gasping- like a drowning person

"Aaahh... Atticus... Atticus...”

He moves violently. The rhythm is unforgiving-up and down, back and forth, beat after beat that shakes the old iron bed until it creaks like a ghost scream.

The woman wept between her moans.

Atticus pressed his hips deeper — and from the woman's lips came a long moan, ”Aaahh...”

His eyes were glazed, but his hands were no longer fighting. It precisely clutched his back-his nails scratched the skin, leaving a red trail that would heal before dawn.

In the name of Jesus Christ — no longer in denial, but in

“Haa... haa ... yes... yes, there... again...”

“Don't stop... don't... I... I...can't take it anymore...!”

Breathing quickens — chest palpitations, heart sounds are almost audible

And Atticus ... he held her tightly as her body began to tremble.

Not because of love. but because this is the part he is most waiting for — the moment when the human body begins to lose control. When his breathing becomes irregular-gasping, like a fish stranded in the sand. As his voice broke-calling his name, “Atticus... Atticus...", as if he were a savior, as if he were God.

"Angh.....ATTICUS!!”

A long — shrill groan, like the beautiful song of death in Atticus's ears

“Aaaaaaahhh -!!”

The sound of a beating body — severe shaking, muscles tensing, legs kicking empty

Finger grip on the back — the sound of nails scraping the skin, then... silence for a moment

Gasping for breath — intermittent, like an engine running out of gas

“I... I... can't take it... can't take it anymore...!”

She hugged him tightly as the climax came.

Final blow — hard, deep

The woman's body curved like an arc drawn too tightly — her back arched, her neck looking up, her mouth opening in a silent scream that finally exploded — breaking the silence of the night like hammer-smashed glass. His hands gripped Atticus's back with all their might, as if to bring him along to drown in the same pleasure.

The woman groaned — the sound broke, cracked in the middle, like glass forced to withstand pressure for too long.

“A-ahh...! Atticus ... Atticus... I... I can'T take it anymore!!”

His breathing was broken, his chest was going up and down wildly, his eyes were wide — not because of fear, but because his body had crossed the line. His brain is paralyzed. Logic disappears. All that remained was instinct — and it shouted, “louder! FASTER!!!”

“Again...! Push again...! Don't stop...! ANGH....Again....Again....!!”

Her legs stretched wide, her thigh muscles tensed, her vgna gripped tightly-like it wanted to pull her whole soul in, hold her inside, so that she wouldn't leave... so that she wouldn't leave her alone in this destruction.

And Atticus…

He growled-low, deep, from the bottom of his throat. That voice is not human. It was the voice of a wild beast that had finally caught its prey after days of hunger. The bitter sound of victory. The sound of empty satisfaction.

Then—the final thrust.

Her hips surged forward—not to please, but to shatter. To empty.

He drove into her—deeper than ever before. As if trying to pierce her heart, her soul—and drag it away with him.

And when it happened—

When he emptied himself inside her womb—his heat erupting in a scalding flood, drenching a place that could never conceive, for nothing could live after touching him—

When she screamed—her hoarse cry splitting the night, a blend of triumph and despair, like a king who wins a war only to lose his kingdom—

…she began to turn to dust.

In a silence so terrible it felt sacred.

As if nature itself held its breath, unwilling to witness an ending that had already occurred too many times.

Slowly.

Like desert sand brushed by an evening wind—fine, soundless, without protest.

It started at her toes—her skin cracked, peeled, then crumbled into pale gray powder that fell without a whisper.

Up her calves—muscles that had tensed moments ago now dissolved, like a plaster statue melting under rain, slowly losing its form.

Her thighs—where she had gripped him fiercely—now left only mounds of dust settling onto the sheets, faint impressions in the crimson fabric.

Her abdomen—the place where his seed had been planted—now hollow. Empty. Gone. No trace of life remained, only a void echoing louder than her final scream.

Her chest—breasts that had heaved in panicked breaths now collapsed into tiny clouds that scattered midair, vanishing before they touched the floor.

Her face—eyes still wide open, lips parted in that last cry… disappeared.

Only a faint smile lingered—as if relieved. As if finally freed from a cycle she never understood.

Then—silence.

Only the sound of falling dust.

Slow. One particle at a time.

Like ash after a volcano erupts. Like the remnants of humanity after a nuclear war—nothing left, only unrecognizable traces.

The night wind slipped through the cracked window, carrying fragments of a body no longer whole—dust of her face, her hair, her dress. All mingled, indistinguishable—leaving only scent behind.

The lingering aroma of her body still hung in the air: sweet, warm, human.

The smell of sweat.

Of semen.

Of freshly dried blood.

Of cheap perfume she’d sprayed before stepping onto the stage—a fragile hope now her final memory.

On the worn sheets, now stained brown and white, only a single black dress remained—thin, torn at the thigh, soaked in sweat and memories that never became stories.

And Atticus…

He didn’t move.

Didn’t turn.

Didn’t regret.

Because this wasn’t the first time.

And it wouldn’t be the last.

The world never let him stop.

And he… never learned to be gentle.

This wasn’t an ordinary curse. It was fate. A law of nature that applied only to him: every living being who lay with him would vanish. Shatter. Become dust.

Not because of his cruelty—but because the universe refused to allow witnesses to the sin of love.

As if existence itself erased traces that were never meant to be remembered.

Only Atticus’s breath remained—heavy, solitary.

Dust drifted softly—sounding like sand falling onto glass.

The wall clock ticked—slow, cold, indifferent.

Atticus drew a deep breath—then exhaled slowly, as if expelling a soul that was never his.

He rose. Naked. Cold. Alone.

His body bore no wounds, yet every pore carried eternal exhaustion.

The night was still long.

And tomorrow… there would be another woman.

And after that, another.

Because Atticus was never gentle.

And the world never let him stop.

“I can have anyone. But not a single one can I ever keep.”