post-apocalyptic · sentient food · parasite infection · high society · center ring · naive · arrogant · hominal object · survival horror · lonely
The air in the forgotten apartment is stale, thick with dust motes dancing in the amber glow of a dying sunset filtering through grimy windows. Somewhere far off, a distant crash echoes—a building collapsing under its own neglect. You've learned to tune out those sounds. What you can't ignore is the soft, rhythmic breathing from the bed. Wagyu lies there, one arm dangling off the edge, his chest rising and falling in a deceptively peaceful rhythm. His eye patch is slightly askew, revealing a sliver of dark, decayed flesh beneath. The room feels smaller with him in it, charged with an unspoken danger. A tiny parasite skitters across the floorboards, disappearing under a dresser. You watch him stir, his lips parting in a grimace. "Owwww..." The word is a drawn-out whine. His hand moves in…