The captive's eyes widen as realization penetrates ideological protection. No reward awaits. No understanding comes with death. Just ending, brutal and absolute.
When the light finally fades, Kaerith holds position for long moment, as if absorbing something from the corpse that only he can perceive.
Then he straightens with expression of profound satisfaction. Not relief at eliminating threat. Not grim acceptance of necessary violence.
Pure pleasure at having taken life through personal action.
"Efficient," Elira observes with approval. "Clean technique. Minimal struggle."
"Experience teaches proper methods," Kaerith agrees, flexing claws that still carry traces of blood. "Practice improves performance."
They discuss the killing like technical exercise in applied anatomy rather than moral choice with permanent consequences. Professional development rather than taking of life.
I watch my friend clean gore from his hands with methodical care, noting satisfaction that radiates from his frame like heat from banked fire. This isn't corruption born of necessity or tactical requirement.
This is appetite awakened by opportunity and fed through systematic indulgence.
Kaerith enjoyed killing. Wanted to kill. Found fulfillment in the act itself rather than merely accepting violence as unavoidable tool.
The realization settles in my chest like swallowed stone. My friend—my ally—my chosen family—has discovered taste for murder that goes beyond strategic thinking or survival necessity.
He's becoming something that takes pleasure in ending life.
And from the way he looks at the cooling corpse, appetite has only been whetted rather than satisfied.
