The moment I stepped further in, the light fairy began tapping against the glass of the lantern, flickering rapidly in the direction of 2 o’clock—pointing deeper inside the cave. Under its glow, the shadows peeled back just enough. I could see about 20 meters ahead now, and I raised the lantern toward the ceiling, letting its light sweep across the cave’s contours.

  I began to retrace the kitten’s imagined path—where it might’ve been thrown, how far, how hard. The cave was silent, but my thoughts echoed like footsteps on hollow ground. I followed the angle, calculated the curve of its fall, and turned toward a far corner of the cave.

  That’s when I saw it.

  A flattened shape, lying as if pressed into the stone itself. At first glance, it looked like a torn rug discarded long ago. But the closer I got, the more I saw the faint trembling of its shattered bones—some trying to lift, to resist, to remind the world that they once had shape. The protrusions didn’t belong to a carpet. They belonged to a kitten.

  I turned away.

  But then, I heard it. A whimper, not from the mouth—but from the soul. Tears slipped from its eyes. I rushed back. Her chest still rose and fell in shallow rhythms. Her heart was still beating.

  And then, I saw the movement inside her.

  There were four of them.

  Four infant Silent Screams—feeding.

  They weren’t drinking blood now. They were consuming the flesh itself, now liquified. Her insides had become a soup of muscle and marrow, a nest for something never meant to be born. Silent Screams usually lived on blood, but during their mating season, they turned living beings into breeding grounds.

  They inject only one fang to release their acidic stomach fluid—designed not to kill, but to paralyze. The other fang? It’s for blood, but that comes later. First, the acid. It doesn’t burn like fire—it dissolves like time, spreading until the creature is hollowed out from within. That’s why they all strike the same spot: to ensure the acid spreads fast and efficiently. They usually go for the breathing passage—so the host suffocates where it stands, becoming still, silent, and soft enough to open.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  The kitten had been bitten at the neck.

  Around her, I spotted something else—something worse.

  A Neverslack.

  It looked like a writhing worm with bloodied, leech-like mouths—wet, circular, pulsing—made for latching and draining, not tearing. Its wings were hidden deep beneath a slick, transparent membrane—cockroach-like, dragonfly-fast.

  They crave blood, nothing else. They vanish like ghosts, hide like whispers. But once they taste a drop of you… they will chase your final drop. Their wings, when they appear, come coated in slime, and they fly with such unnatural speed it looks like teleportation.

  Even worse—they know. Every Neverslack knows where the others are, what they’ve found, and what they’re about to do. And when it’s time to multiply? They eat only one thing—themselves. Splitting head from tail, tail from head, vanishing into their own copy.

  But the worst part?

  If they do not split—if they stay hungry—they grow.And as they chase you, they grow faster. Their bodies swell, their wings thicken, their slime drips hotter. They hide at first, slipping like breath between shadows. But with time, you will start to see them. First, a flicker. Then a leech. Then another. And another. Until the air itself is thick with them, crawling and slithering across every corner of your mind.

  The longer the chase, the bigger the Neverslacks become—and the greater the price you pay.If you try to escape, they will catch you with mouths now large enough to swallow whole limbs, with teeth sharpened for deeper wounds.

  And if you surrender—if you kneel, hoping to make it quick—they will tear into you slowly.They will multiply inside your body, splitting again and again beneath your skin, until every inch of you—every vein, every nerve, every bone—becomes one of them.You will not die fast.You will become them.

  And once they arrive?They never leave.

  I stood frozen.

  Then slowly, carefully, I picked up the one I’d found—and placed it gently on the kitten’s broken body. The blood already oozing from her neck, from the acid-torn holes, was enough to call the others.

  The rest would come, drawn by scent. But Neverslacks are slow when they gather—just slow enough.

  Slow enough for me to use this time.

  I poured a bottle of scent-masking lotion over myself—thick, bitter-smelling, bug-repellent—enough to keep them off my trail. And then, I followed the light.

  The fairy still floated inside the lantern, pressing herself toward one direction.

  She could take me to treasure.

  But not out.

  And so I moved forward—leaving behind a body that looked like death, but still breathed.

  For now.