In a cold grey room, the walls were bare, the stone showing through in places like a warning beneath the last scraps of wallpaper.

  The only light came from a candle perched in the middle of a lonely old table. It had been proud wood once; now it was held together by strips of emergency silver-grey tape. The flame flickered and licked at the darkness, eating only small pieces of it but never enough to conquer it.

  Around the table, five people sat in the shadows. Their faces had lost every trace of fat, the thin, bony lines of their skulls standing out in harsh relief.

  Five people.

  Six chairs.

  On the table lay a plate beside the candle.

  On it was meat—cooked in haste, blackened on top, blood still weeping from its edges.

  Its scent had claimed the room long ago.

  The five stared at it with a mixture of horror, disgust, and ravenous hunger.

  Silence pressed on them all—a silence sharp enough to cut the meat itself.

  Everyone seemed to be waiting for someone else.

  Someone who would take the first step.

  Someone to blame.

  Someone to hate for the rest of their lives.

  No one moved.

  The meat was growing cold, its last warmth being pulled greedily into the stone and lost forever. They all knew it had to be now—while the heat still masked the taste.

  Now, when it was easiest to pretend this dehumanising act was merely survival.

  One of the men carefully slapped his fist on the table. The sound was weak—strength seemed to drain from him with every breath. With the utmost effort, he pushed himself upright. Trembling, he reached toward the plate. One arm braced against the table; the other shook violently as it crept closer to the meat.

  He hesitated.

  His outstretched fingertip caught only the condensation rising from the still-warm flesh. His face shifted from determination to nausea in seconds. The distance between his hand and the meat never closed. His head dipped, staring at the wood beneath him. His shoulders shook.

  Slowly, the hand retreated.

  The other four stared at him—some disappointed that his bravery had failed, others relieved that his morals had prevailed.

  Across the table, a woman pressed both hands over her ears, as if trying to block out sounds that existed only inside her. Her head moved side to side, slowly, exhaustedly. Her body knew its final reserves of energy were not meant for this choice. Her heart wanted the energy. Her lungs and brain needed it.

  She looked around, hopeless.

  Was there no one who would stand up in their last hour, take the first step, make it bearable for the rest?

  Her gaze fell on her son beside her.

  His father was… gone now.

  She saw the boy’s eyes drifting to the plate.

  Thinking without wanting to think.

  Weighing choices he had no right to face.

  He drew a slow breath.

  Then another.

  And then—unexpectedly, almost like lightning—he reached for the plate. His hand did not waver. He pinched off a small piece of meat, lifted it, held it in front of his mouth.

  Eight eyes widened, fixed entirely on him.

  The smell hit his nose. The signal reached his brain. His hand wavered for a moment as the heat burned his fingertips—but the pain barely registered.

  His mother looked at him with a mixture of sorrow, hatred, and something painfully maternal.

  She placed a hand on his shoulder.

  Gave the smallest nod.

  A gesture that said: I forgive you. Or maybe I’m asking you to forgive me.

  He felt the hand.

  Survival instinct shoved every other instinct aside.

  Before he knew it, he was chewing.

  The others watched every chew.

  The man beside the boy felt saliva flooding his mouth, a single thread of drool slipping from his lip and falling onto his stained shirt.

  The boy chewed—slow, heavy motions.

  When the first swallow reached his stomach, his body lurched in recognition.

  Food.

  Real food.

  His senses snapped awake, as if only now he understood what he was doing.

  His eyes flew wide with panic.

  His mother still sat beside him, watching with that same unbearable mixture of feelings. A single tear rolled down her cheek—thick, slow, salt-heavy.

  The boy forced himself to swallow.

  The piece was barely chewed, painful to get down, but he couldn’t keep it in his mouth any longer.

  His body would not allow him to spit it out.

  His body had already decided.

  ***

  The boy looked around.

  Every pair of eyes had returned to the plate.

  A sound broke the quiet.

  Not hands grabbing.

  Not chewing.

  Just a single stomach rumbling—loud in the stillness, almost grateful.

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  As if it whispered: thank you for the food, thank you for another day of survival.

  All eyes shifted back to the boy.

  He exhaled, then reached for the plate again.

  No one stopped him.

  No one even moved.

  Carefully, between his thumb and index finger, he lifted another small piece.

  He looked at his mother.

  She trembled.

  She knew what came next.

  She knew what had to be done.

  A shudder ran through her.

  A sudden, terrible warmth spread through her body, sharpening her senses.

  With a hand that barely felt like her own, she reached out.

  And she took the piece he offered.

  She forced back the rising repulsion twisting in her stomach and put the meat into her mouth in one motion.

  The first chew made her freeze.

  The taste—heavy, wrong—made her gag.

  Her son looked at her, eyes wide, pleading.

  Don’t leave me alone. Eat. Don’t leave me alone.

  She chewed again.

  Then drew in a deep, shaking breath.

  She chewed a third time—this one easier.

  And the next easier still.

  Each bite dulled the nausea.

  Each swallow pushed her mind further away from horror and closer to survival.

  She kept repeating to herself:

  It’s only food. It’s only meat. Only food.

  But her brain resisted the lie with every instinct it had left.

  When she finally swallowed, she stared at the candle.

  For a few seconds that felt like ages, the flame blurred behind the tears gathering in her eyes.

  She was pulled from her trance by a gentle hand caressing her cheek—

  followed by a tear-stained kiss pressed gently against her skin.

  Her son had forgiven her.

  Or begged her to forgive herself.

  Then she looked around, pleading—silently—for forgiveness.

  Pleading to be followed.

  Her eyes found her closest friend on the opposite side of the table.

  An old man.

  Her former neighbor.

  He looked at her.

  The flicker of life that had always lived in his gaze seemed to fade.

  With every blink his eyes grew duller.

  His expression stayed neutral—neutral but determined.

  A man who had already given up.

  She reached out and held his hand for a moment, letting him know it was all right.

  That he was not to blame.

  Perhaps even letting him know she admired him—for in his long life, dignity might be the only thing he had left.

  He squeezed her hand.

  Looked at her one last time.

  Nodded.

  Forgiveness.

  Acceptance.

  Then he stood and stepped back into the darkness beyond the candlelight.

  He disappeared into the shadows.

  Never to be seen again.

  They were two now.

  Two starving humans.

  The man who had failed earlier—the trembling one—

  and beside him, a broad-shouldered man in the prime of his life.

  He looked the least starved of them all, though his clothes were splattered with stains—red, greasy, impossible not to notice.

  Four eyes, belonging to the eaters, rested on him with hope.

  He was their protector.

  He had cooked the meat.

  He had suggested the idea.

  He looked back at them.

  Sweat rolled down his brow.

  The smell of blood grew suddenly heavy in his nostrils.

  Then—like being slapped with a brick—his whole face relaxed.

  He blinked twice, quickly, as if something inside him finally broke loose.

  He reached for the largest piece on the plate

  and began to chew.

  He looked toward the mother and her son and gave them a small smile.

  He was still chewing.

  The taste no longer revolted him—he had made his choice, and he would stay with it.

  Bleakly, they smiled back.

  A smile full of relief, full of acceptance.

  The boy reached for another piece of meat and ate it without hesitation.

  The mother’s eyes drifted to the plate as well, the same idea forming in her mind.

  ***

  The last man—the one who had broken before—looked up at the ceiling.

  The shadows of the candle flames danced across the rough stone, flickering like distant ghosts.

  Desperation took him.

  He wanted to eat.

  His mind and body would not let him.

  He looked at the plate one final time.

  He gathered every scrap of nerve he had left.

  Emptied his mind.

  Reached again.

  His fingers touched the meat.

  His hand clenched, bones trembling under the skin—but he managed to take hold of a piece.

  He tried to draw his arm back toward himself.

  Tried to bring it to his mouth.

  Every heartbeat was a battle against his own thoughts.

  Every breath a push against instinct and revulsion.

  His vision blurred.

  His senses dimmed one by one.

  Still he forced the meat upward.

  A raw scream tore out of him as he shoved it into his mouth.

  Eyes wide open.

  One chew.

  Another.

  Then he spat it out onto the table.

  The others—already on their third piece—looked at him with something close to insult.

  Or disappointment.

  The man trembled.

  The warmth drained from his face.

  He blinked once more.

  And his eyes never opened again.

  The three looked down at the still body.

  The question hovered there with them—unspoken, inevitable, waiting for someone to give it a voice.