'Intuition'.
What an incredible thing, isn't it?
It's like having a tipsy guardian angel who's got a thing for betting—totally hit or miss and kind of pain, but somehow they always swoop in just in time to save you from getting burned.
It doesn't explain itself, doesn't provide a guidebook, and just says, "Leave. Now."
And if you're wise, you'll listen.
It was the same with the raven-haired boy.
Throughout his short, dirt-caked, rat-bitten life, that stomach spasms had saved his skin on numerous occasions than he could remember.
Call it rapid thinking, sixth sense, gut intuition, or survival instinct—whichever fancy word makes it sound less like utter fear.
But it worked.
Take a couple months back. For him, the alleys began to feel heavy. Not fog-heavy, but storm heavy, like the kind of silence right before the sky throws down lightning.
People were talking low, eyes moving around like they owed someone money. He didn't know the details, but his chest went tight, his neck prickled.
So he packed his things with what little he had and vanished.
Next day?
Boom. It was a bloody gang war baby~.
Bodies were stacked all around like garbage beside the square fountain, their blood washing down the cobbles like the city tried to rinse its hands clean.
Really, what a shitfest it was~.
It also provided him with the ability to detect lies like rotting meat.
'Like for really real.'
For example, consider the older child with the warm voice and charming smile.
He offered meals and acted fraternal.
But he felt the prickle again on his skin.
Yet it was enough for him.
Thus, he walked away.
Later, he witnessed the same friendly guy yanked a poor street youngster into an alley.
Never saw the rat again.
Not that he cared.
Ahem!
The same benefit extends to finding opportunities, avoiding the 'supernaturals' and letting him beware of their presence.
So, in short, this present was a blessing for him.
However, he could not always rely on it.
Because there is a price.
Always is.
For instance, sometimes if there is lethal danger or multiple dangers near his vicinity, then his skull will turn into a war drum.
It will pound so hard and scream in protest like a bitch.
Which means he will collapse if he isn't careful.
That's why he doesn't rely on it, mostly.
But hey, pain breeds creativity.
So he learned other ways.
Gained real skills.
Sneaking, stealing, tricking the system without touching a single soul.
Like, when the baker's wife gets to screaming at her husband for drinking his guts out?
That's his cue. While she's throwing pans, he's slipping in like a shadow, snatchin' day-old bread without a sound.
Or that shady merchant—always arguing..
The moment voices rise?
That's when a ration box just disappears from the cart.
For him, it's all about timing. That's all it is.
Reading signs. Seeing patterns.
And it ain't just food.
His skill extends down to his hands?
They are dexterous and fast.
Quicker than suspicion. Smoother than a silver tongue.
Pick-pocketing has become an art for him. A dance. A whisper between skin and cloth.
Coins, rings, keys—didn't matter.
He could lift it and be gone before the poor sod even felt the breeze.
Of course, he didn't wake up one day with those skills. Nah.
Every busted lip taught him where to step.
Every cracked rib taught him how to move.
Every black eye whispered where not to look.
So yeah, he owed his skills to every beating, every kick, every insult spat his way.
'Thanks for the bruises, jerks,' he thought.
They paid off.
Now?
Now he could steal your dinner, your pocketbook, and your grin.
All in one smooth breath, like a magician pulling rabbits out of misery.
But regardless his other skills, such as speed, sleight of hand, and ability to navigate obstacles, intuition remained his strongest asset.
It was King.
It was his spine when his courage gave out.
His candle when everything else went black.
"......"
Yeah.
The latest headline!
His so-called intuition just stabbed him in the back and sold the knife for pocket change.
It was a fucking traitor.
Why, you ask?
Because he currently found himself in what could only be described as a crime scene cloaked in luxury.
A luxurious chamber stretched across him, sumptuous and cursed in equal measure.
The kind of location you'd find on the cover of a magazine titled 'Murder & Manor Monthly'.
Ceilings stretched high into darkness, lined with old gold and older secrets. Velvet curtains poured onto obsidian tiles so smooth they mirrored the firelight.
A fireplace crackled softly off to one side, shadows swirling along carved pillars and aged furnishings.
The air smelt of perfume. Warm, fragrant death.
And right beneath him?
A puddle. Thick, crimson, moist. Laced with bits of meat and things that looked far too much like guts to pass off as spilled noodles.
He would've termed it a murder scene, but no, it felt too impersonal.
This was art.
Deranged, intimate art.
He tried not to look at it too long, as his stomach was already lamenting.
Instead, his gaze drifted… downward—though that felt like the wrong direction.
But what else do you call it when your body is in a position where gravity's taken a personal interest in your dignity?
The first thing he saw were boots.
Leather, sleek, and soaked in blood like they'd been dipped in it. Bits of skin clung to the heel like garnish.
Definitely not store-bought.
His eyes traveled deeper, downstairs, upward or whatever—and met flawless calves.
They were pale and smooth, like an alabaster caressed by moonlight.
Long legs were crossed casually, as if they were lounging after a pleasant evening read, not after what looked like 'dismemberment, the musical'.
Absolutely, they belonged to a woman.
She wore something that could possibly be called clothing, if you squinted and didn't appreciate modesty. It was relaxed in the way a lion sitting over a kill is relaxed. Comfortable but commanding. Seductive with intent.
A flowy top hinted at contours too delicate to be real—except they very much were.
Not that he should be speculating at this particular moment.
But he still did, nonetheless.
His gaze went on her physique, had the grace of a queen fashioned by a very lustful god.
But her presence?
That screamed 'death'.
The type you feel in your teeth.
And then, finally, his gaze reached her face.
Blond white hair, silky and flowing, framed features too youthful for someone sitting on a throne of death.
Her beauty was unjust. Not mortal-beautiful. Predator-beautiful.
A face that didn't just lure you in—it dared you. Her crimson eyes greeted his, half-lidded with indolent enjoyment. Her chin rested on one dainty palm, elbow pushed up like she had all the time in the world and had chosen to squander it watching him.
She was studying him like a child who observes a bug confined beneath glass.
It was only then, only then, that he remembered — Right.
He was upside down.
Dangling like a prize ham from the ceiling, legs entwined in a chandelier, swaying gently above a pool of someone else's insides.
"....."
The chandelier creaked. His arms ached. A string of intestine shifted wetly on the floor beneath him.
"....."
'Fuck you, intuition,' he thought, with the solemnity of a man betrayed by his most loyal imaginary friend.
It wasn't just a curse.
It was a funeral dirge for trust itself.
——-
A/N : Hey guys! Hope everything's chill on your end.
Now, jumping back to my novel—if you've been reading it, I hope you're enjoying the ride so far! If you do like it, feel free to drop a review or leave a comment. I live off those like an overworked author on instant noodles.