The world hadn't gone quiet. It couldn't. The air still dripped with wetness, the Milk Sea still rolled, its waves slapping against every cliff and ruin with moans too loud to be mistaken for wind. The shattered remains of the Egg floated across the flood like shards of onyx glass, steaming where milk clung to them. Each fragment pulsed faintly, as if still alive, as if each piece remembered how it had been fucked open by Warmth himself.
At the center of it all lay the newborn.
It was no simple child. Its body shifted between forms—one moment small and slick as an infant freshly birthed, the next stretching taller, breasts swelling, thighs spreading, milk dripping between them as if the world itself was learning how to make a womb. Its eyes were deep pits of void threaded with golden light, staring at Kaito with a hunger that had no innocence, only need.
