Hunger beneath the moon.

Lira.

Yes, her name was Lira. Dark brown hair fell in damp waves down her back as she stepped out of the shower, steam still clinging to her skin. The house was quiet—too quiet. It was always at night. The kind of silence that pressed in, filling spaces that thoughts were quick to occupy. She moved slowly, almost absently, toward her dresser. The drawer slid open with a soft creak, revealing a scatter of ordinary things… and one she hesitated over. Her fingers hovered, then she chose. Not the usual routine. Not tonight. There had been a restlessness in her all evening—an itch she couldn’t quite name, something deeper than simple boredom or distraction. She had tried to ignore it, tried to bury it beneath noise, distraction, routine. But it lingered; it was persistent and so far unanswered.

Lira sat on the edge of her bed, the dim glow of her screen flickering across the room. She tried to focus, tried to follow something outside herself—but her mind kept drifting back inward, to that same unrelenting tension she couldn’t seem to ease. At work, she had tried to concentrate, but she had been unable. She had visited the bathroom at various points, pulling down her pants and trying to reach for that itch. She had even taken her pen with her, to help her gain some momentum, but she had come out worse. Frustration had been building, and she knew she could not live another day like that. She had broken up with Steve two months ago, but reminiscing about their time together was no big help. She had found him lacking in many areas, and s*x was one. She had contemplated calling him, inviting him over, just so that he could try and help her out; she was desperate. But she could not find the courage to do so.

Now she was sitting on her bed, fully naked. She had let her bedroom window open, for the AC was not doing anything for her today. If she was a bit advanced in age, she could have said that it was menopause, but she knew that this was not it. She was just past twenty, barely legal. She sat with her newest and biggest toy; she needed it tonight. She could not touch the itch. She had tried to use a dildo as soon as she got home, but nothing had quenched the itch. She tried again. She inserted the dildo in her p***y. This was the biggest dildo she owned. She tried to reach a rhythm, but it was as if she was missing the mark altogether. She found a porn site on her laptop. She tried watching it as she pushed the dildo inside. She wanted to cry. Why could she not get off? She touched herself everywhere, nothing. She threw the toy at the wall and switched off her laptop. She screamed into her pillow and lay awake on her bed. Exhaustion finally overtook the restless edge of her thoughts. Sleep came unevenly—shallow, unsatisfying, like everything else had been. Unfinished and unresolved. She could not remember falling asleep.

The room was dimmed. The night settled around her once more, thick and unmoving. The window stood slightly open, letting the cool night air drift inside. It carried the scent of damp earth, distant tree…and something else. Something warmer, softer. A trace that lingered in the stillness.

Outside, far beyond the reach of light—Azruk lifted his head. The world had become scent and instinct, and through it all, one thread cut sharper than the rest. It reached him across distance, across land, threading through the night like a whisper he could not ignore.

He stilled. Inhaled again. There. Not prey. Not fear. Something… different. Compelling. The curse stirred within him—not chaotic now, but focused. Intent narrowing into a single direction. Azruk turned and began to move. Slow at first. Then faster. Drawn forward by something he did not understand—but could not resist.

Inside the quiet house, Lira shifted slightly in her sleep, unaware. The night deepened, and something was coming. Lira was no longer in her room. She stood beneath sunlight. Warm. Golden. Gentle. The distant hum of movement surrounded her—the soft clatter of wheels, the murmur of voices. A train station. Small. Familiar. She smiled. Her hand was smaller—held tightly in another.

Her grandmother’s. The memory unfolded with perfect clarity. The scent of warm fabric, the softness of her grandmother’s laugh, the way her hand squeezed gently—steady, safe, real. “I’ve got you,” her grandmother said, just as she always had. Lira’s chest filled with something she hadn’t felt in a long time. Peace. The train ride began again—just like before. The sway of motion. The passing landscapes. The quiet joy of being held close, of belonging completely to a moment untouched by time, and it lingered longer than it should. The laughter stretched. The warmth deepened. The memory refused to fade, because it wasn’t hers anymore.

Azruk stood within the dream. Unseen, unfelt, but present. He moved through it like a shadow behind glass, watching, learning, feeding on the emotional current that ran through it. This was where the curse anchored itself—not in the flesh at first, but in feeling.

Safety. Love. Trust. He found it, and held it there. Extended. Looped. A perfect illusion that would not break. Because as long as she remained here—she would not wake. Inside the dream, Lira laughed again, her grandmother’s hand still wrapped around hers, the train carrying them endlessly forward. She did not feel the passing of time. She did not feel the world beyond. She only felt warmth.

And that was exactly how the curse wanted it.

As he took over the body of his sleepy victim. As Lira settled for a pleasant dream down memory lane of her first train ride with her grandmother, Azruk took his place between her unsuspecting thighs, and he gave in to his curse. He didn't enter her. No, that is not what the curse was about. He was a beast, but not an unconscious monster. He would worship her most private member with his tongue; he would suck, eat, and drink until the curse would be quenched for the night. He opened Lira up, as if she were delicate, and he sucked her bud of nerve. She was lost in her dream; she would not wake up. He inserted his tongue in her whole and lap at the juice her body created for him. He suck, he drank. Her mind was unconscious, but her body responded. The more he served, the more she creamed for him, and he swallowed it all, as if grateful.

This was not about him; this was about the curse, drinking until it was satisfied, and he remained there until the curse guided him that he had enough. The pull receded. Faint. Satisfied—for now. Azruk finally stilled; the air shifted again. He rose without sound, stepping back into shadow, his presence already thinning as the night began to move past its peak. The dream loosened. Not broken. Just… released.

Lira stirred, her expression soft, untouched by fear—only the fading echo of something comforting, something distant, something she would remember only as a feeling when morning came. Azruk turned toward the window and collapsed before making it out of the room.