The rat's heartbeat stuttered in Otoku's grip.
*"Again,"* Veyra ordered.
Otoku clenched his fist. The rat *twisted*—its fur melting into void-glass, its squeals distorting as its jaw unhinged into a second mouth.
*"I *fixed* it,"* Otoku whispered, staring at the now-silent, grotesque statue in his palm.
Veyra said nothing. She simply **locked the door** and began sharpening her knives.
That night, Otoku dreamed of a throne made of screaming faces.
Gravy, the shadow-pup curled on his chest, ate the nightmare whole.