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“If you have nothing to say, then why are you talking?” That’s what his eyes seem to say when he sees me, Cueist.” Hernando breaks the silence, his voice, accented with a hint of Spanish, echoing in the basement of the red church. “Haha, all right, hunter.”
"Actually, you are very interesting in my eyes."
“...”
As if I cared, that's what the hunter, Marcus Thorne, conveyed with his nonchalant expression. The game had been over since he'd put the Matador in the rocket chair; now he just waited for the reporter to come to his rescue so he could take him down a second time. But would she really come? Three undeciphered machines—why would she waste her time saving him?
“You’re making too much noise,” Marcus blurted out, a little less patient than he’d been in previous matches. His voice kept going on and on, as if he didn’t have some hidden switch to silence that mouth that chattered even while sitting in the rocket chair. Thorne was practically tasting victory, so why were the survivors so stubbornly clinging to an obvious defeat?
He had had enough of that red cloth that was annoyingly waving in his eyes.
“Your companion will no longer come for you. You only awaits death... in silence.”
Unfortunately, what came next was everything Marcus had asked not to happen.
“Hey, Cueist Hunter. How many billiard balls do you have? It was a strange feeling getting caught in your ball, haha, I don't understand it, but I'd like to try it again! My stomach felt a little queasy, but you know what? I'm fine, I can handle it. Your skills have surprised me, but in a good way. Can you go that far with that ball? You can turn yourself into a ball, can't you? Tell me, isn't it uncomfortable doing that? You do it constantly, from one side to the other, it's fascinating and at the same time, I just don't get it. But…” Hernando talks and talks, without a break, “your tail, did you know your tail moves when you walk? Woah… it even seems to have a life of its own. Haha… fluffy.”
Cueist's tail stops its light movements at the mere mention of the survivor, as if it were a great offense; the hunter slides his gaze towards the man in the chair, suddenly, there is a dark shadow in his expression.
"Oh, oh, oh! That's right! Aha! Aren't you a little shorter than other hunters? At first, I thought you were a fellow hunter. Whoa... I almost made the mistake of greeting you like we were brothers from the same mother! Hahaha!"
For Cueist, the questions came one after another, like a bucket of water that exhausted his patience; Thorne simply let the drops splash onto his shoes until he returned to the mansion.
However, each question became more agonizing than the last, making him wonder if next time he could just bandage the survivor's mouth. As long as he could breathe, wouldn't he be doing him a favor? That dazzling voice… full of joy and a vigor he himself didn't understand. How on earth did he have so much energy to talk? What motivated him to converse with him, who hadn't even answered him at all? What a nuisance, creating more problems just by existing.
“(...) Hey.” After that last question, it was the first time Marcus showed a reaction, using the tip of his pool cue to hit the back of the rocket chair, letting the noise be heard just inches from the brunette's face.
“Shut up.” His eyes glared at him silently, threateningly. It was the expression a king of the jungle would show to prey about to be devoured; there was no trace of jest or deceit in his tone of voice, only the raw aggression and hunger of an irate predator.
He slowly brought the cue back close to him, using his chalk to clean the tip.
"What my tail does is none of your business (...) it's not inconvenient, as long as I control the trajectory, I can go wherever I want. And, I have the exact number for a game. But, if you get confused with me again, I'm going to rip your head off your body and use it as my next billiard ball."
For Hernando, what came next was irrelevant. A resounding crash echoed very close to his left ear. The impact of the pool cue against the rocket chair didn't make him hesitate in the slightest. Probably any other survivor aware of their situation would have held their breath, looked away, or even shown an expression of fear and disgust. However, El Matador did absolutely nothing; not a single muscle in him moved.
After all, his honey-colored eyes shone with emotion, a clear excitement he only found in risky situations, where his life hung by a thread, where he could cheat death countless times. With that violent closeness that the hunter Cueist had provided, Hernando relived that feeling he always sought in every bullring his heels trod.
It was an indescribable passion.
In a disturbing display of emotion, Romero was already showing a smile of boldness and interest.
"Wow... I didn't know gatitos could show their teeth too." Hernando tilts his head to the opposite side from where the tip of the taco had touched, licking his lower lip with the tip of his tongue.
Interesting reaction.
However, despite the abnormal situation he was experiencing, Marcus had not shown any expression.
Cueist revels in fear, in the trembling eyes gripped by panic, and in the gurgling of throats as people swallow with difficulty. He observes every action, no matter how small. Unfortunately, people like the Matador are always the most troublesome.
He hasn't even lived with him to recognize that he's the type for whom death is nothing more than a dance that is only meaningful when the claws of a predator are around his neck.
Even the way he refers to him only makes the contempt significant through his eyes of different shades.
“...Matador. In that rocket chair, would you prefer the cat to tear out your tongue or the lion to blow your head off with a single shot?” Thorne approaches him, again in front; contempt and pride are palpable in his voice.
“You’re nothing but a stray ball if you don’t understand your position. As long as ‘I’m’ here, you’re all my prey.” The chalk in his hand falls to the ground, crushed by his wooden prosthesis. “In my territory and between my claws, you all meet the same end. Don’t forget that.”
Hernando had never felt so excited during a game as he did this one. Normally, the hunters didn't take him seriously, sometimes simply laughing at his curiosity or ignoring him, since they were too focused on winning. Either way, Hernando simply enjoyed watching them from the rocket chair, because he knew that as soon as they rescued him, he'd be back in the game.
However, this hunter was different. The seriousness with which he approached things, the fact that he answered each of his questions despite the great dissatisfaction in his voice, every little detail that Hernando observed made his skin prickle with incredible passion and, one might say, excitement.
And there it was, the adrenaline he was always searching for, constantly putting his body at risk to feel it again.
At that moment, that professional billiards player was handing it to him on a silver platter.
And how could he possibly refuse such an offer?
The smile on his face hurt quite a bit; at each end of his cheek, you could see the curve of his lips.
“That’s an interesting question, just like you, Hunter Cueist.”
“So, I choose… to let the lion tear out my tongue.”
“Good.” Thorne replied.
He didn't ask for explanations, nor did he need them.
But Hernando Romero gave them to him.
“Because if I choose to let the gatito play with my head, it will be too boring for you, won’t it, Hunter Cueist? Since…”
"...Right now, you're not seeing me as an adorable feline."
“Again, he’s looking at me with that expression.”
The honey in Hernando's eyes spilled like a sweet liquid going down Marcus's throat, almost making him vomit. "What's going to happen to my throat if I open my mouth again?"
“Matador.”
“You got a bad impression of me.”
“Only my claws.”
“I don’t need anything else.”
“Haha…”
“Hahaha!! Is that so, huh? Am I not worth too much to make use of those baby lion fangs?”
"...Well, that's a shame. I'll keep talking."
As soon as the words leave his mouth, Hernando feels his breath cut off due to a rough and harsh pain in his throat.
The hunter Cueist used the tip of the pool cue to force him to look up, hurting him in the process, as he touched his Adam's apple.
“Shut up, matador.”
“...Hernando Romero.”
“Call me Hernando, hunter Marc…”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Neither you, nor anyone else, is allowed to call me so confidently. Haven’t you understood? You’re just a billiard ball in my possession.”
“And to you and everyone else, I am Cueist. Here or in games, as long as ‘I’ am there, there’s no room for anything else. Let me remind you, if you’re here, it’s because you’re not a threat to me, but within the game, any circle is a billiard ball.”
"...Even your head."
"So, start shutting that noisy mouth of yours."
“...”
"...His words are sharper than any bladed weapon, hunter... Cueist."
“But how can you guess… all these scars on my body have a reason.”
“And I don’t mind having other new ones for the same reason. So don’t be considerate of me.”
"Considerate?" That's what's running through Cueist's mind. Of course, it's not just a matter of courtesy or a simple reflection on the man lying before him. It's a threat, words that dictate a consequence for actions devoid of any meaning other than that of prey and predator. Yet, hearing him speak is enough to raise an eyebrow.
It's easy.
State your title, maintain eye contact, and then remain silent—that's easy. It's relatively simple. If the survivor acted like that every time they engaged in conversation, wouldn't they better understand that walking into the lion's mouth is merely offering themselves up as an appetizer?
But nothing lasts forever, and food is rarely easy to handle between his teeth. Hernando Romero is like a tough nut to crack, the kind of food Marcus prefers to tear apart with his claws before even thinking about putting it in his mouth. No matter the taste, the smell, or the texture, there's still something about him that he finds repulsive.
Perhaps it's the color of his eyes, which burn when he tries to look deeper.
Perhaps it's his words, each one sounding more haughty than the other when he tries to silence him.
Perhaps it's just that he's completely Romero; his presence makes his blood boil like a king who detests the presence of other races trying to stick their noses where they haven't been invited.
That's why Thorne is territorial, unable to back down. He prefers to keep the survivor where he can see him, molding him like a billiard ball that will fulfill its purpose, following a trajectory he himself has imposed. And, therefore, the most important thing is that he recognizes who he is dealing with.
Hernando, in response to his words, used his hand to maneuver a movement that resulted in him being injured, but it didn't seem serious. His fingers reached Thorne's bow tie, pulling him toward him. Although they were already close, Marcus still maintained a decent distance between them. However, after Romero's movement, they were close to each other.
“Have I ever given you enough trust to even dare to touch me?” Marcus spits out in annoyance, the fingers of a different temperature than his repulsing him, using his wooden hand to grab the survivor by the neck. Although the matador's strength is renowned for the profession, it only makes Cueist thump his tail to the ground. Consequently, his claws, those that are longer and sharper than his human fingers, slide across the exposed flesh of his collarbones. They don't grip, but they dig into the skin of his throat, molding his fingers to fit.
“I don’t know your motives. But don’t mess with me.” It goes beyond his title, even beyond the games. “Hernando Romero” is just a name he heard from strangers in the pool hall, someone he heard from the person who adopted him, he is… nobody, really. Even if he were everything in the coliseum and the underground fights. For Marcus Thorne, he is just “somebody.”
“I don’t underestimate the strength of any survivor. I know what they’re made of and what they’re capable of, especially if it’s you, matador.” Cueist’s gaze is filled with a feeling he himself is unaware of; the heterochromia simply stares with a certain rage at the survivor, as if it knows exactly what he is capable of.
“But it is your flesh I am not willing to have between my teeth. But if I must use my fangs, then I will begin by wounding your skin with my name until your heart pumps every letter into your memories. That way, when you taste your blood, you will not forget to whom each new wound on your face belongs.”
And with that said, Marcus's hand, still resting on Romero's face, begins to move. First, a "C" is formed with the claw of his index finger; the crimson ink that bathes the skin is a sweet combination with the tone that covers and tones the color of his eyes and those freckles.
Perhaps his eyes have always been his biggest annoyance.
However, despite the circumstances, Romero reacts differently than expected.
However, there is something deep in Cueist's thoughts that makes him not at all surprised by his words.
“Ah… is that all, hunter?”
He is provoking him, just like a bullfighter does with the bull.
Marcus acknowledges that, a rather pathetic move considering the survivor's disadvantages, yet his teeth grind in anger.
"Are you looking to die without even waiting for the time it takes to get to the mansion? What a pathetic man you are, matador. A coward."
"...Sorry?"
"Coward."
“People who desperately seek death as an easy way out, that’s what they are.”
“You are nothing but a coward who runs from life and chases death without ever having tasted the pain of true agony.”
"Disgusting."
That had hurt.
Hernando was still whole from head to toe, his limbs were in place and he had no particular physical pain, but the words of the hunter Cueist had hurt quite a bit. His chest, his pride.
That fear from which he hid so much with a smile of honor and bravery.
“When he speaks, he also knows how to hurt with words, hunter…”
“I doubt I’ll do the same as you, but I have something better.”
“...”
“The taste of a coward.”
"Don't you really want to try it?"
“Never in my life.”
“Hah…”
It is not right to simply say "no" in front of a hot-blooded, defiant-looking man like Hernando Romero; after all, in such a heated and out-of-control conversation, even the most foolish and illogical action turned out to be strangely advantageous for idiots.
In conclusion, Hernando had kissed the hunter, Marcus Thorne.
It was, well, almost a kiss, more of a declaration. A wager that left even Hernando with the taste of blood on his lips, because, naturally, in such a sudden action as a kiss, Marcus never had the chance to retract his fangs, sinking them into the man's lips.
That kind of pain was enough to separate, but Hernando, a strange masochist who had kissed a hunter, that action was what encouraged him to deepen the kiss.
Marcus wanted to separate himself; first, disgust manifested in his actions, followed by the surprise that, instead of receiving a blow, insult, or both at the same time, that survivor had opted for an action that, in effect, had silenced him.
A kiss… a kiss…
What exactly was a kiss to Marcus?
He didn't recognize it, the taste of someone else, the way his own lips moved against Hernando's, a strange battle he hadn't experienced since fighting over scraps of expired food in that ring. Not in his childhood, not even now, had this ever happened. Yet he knew it was something couples did, a way to show love.
But… to use it to win? What a dirty way to seek victory!
That's what Marcus thought.
And Hernando knew that this was a dirty and risky move.
Perhaps it was the pent-up adrenaline, the anger in his words, the feeling that Marcus would be surprised to be kissed by a survivor. Each of these was a reasonable explanation to Romero.
After all, it was still a fight. Without the option of insulting him, what would the hunter Cueist do to win?
Well, Romero had mistakenly overlooked something. Indeed, Marcus Thorne had never had his first kiss, but he had ceased to be human a long time ago.
Lions' tongues are rough, long and thick, reaching up to thirty centimeters in length.
Hernando started the fight by deepening the kiss with his small tongue, moving nimbly and returning the bites, a sound of victory approaching in his throat when a genuine fear showed in Marcus as he wanted to pull away and break the kiss.
But Marcus couldn't do that; taking a step back meant that Hernando had won.
Therefore, Marcus, knowing he was obliged to respond, did the same as the survivor Hernando. Marcus's tongue made its way into Romero's mouth; the tip of his tongue caressed the entire mouth, from the teeth to the white palate and the uvula, sliding a little further.
Romero felt nauseous.
Something had touched his tonsil. No, not only that, something was sliding down his throat, making him feel nauseous.
“Nnnnhhh...” A moan.
The first moan came from Hernando as Marcus's rough tongue caressed his white palate, returning and beginning to fight against his own. Hernando felt good; Marcus's tongue was like sandpaper, hurting his mouth, from the retromolar trigone to his gums. He felt thousands of tiny barbs digging into the most sensitive areas of his mouth, raising the hairs on the back of his neck and the tips of his toes.
Marcus, who was unaware of what was happening to Hernando and was only focused on defeating him, was simply doing the same thing Hernando had done to him, perhaps a little more aggressively and roughly, taking advantage of the fact that his tongue, compared to that of a normal human, was almost twice the size and, naturally, would hurt anyone who touched it.
Marcus was like a child learning to walk, while Hernando was a man just starting to run. And yet, this grown man, who knew what he was doing, was stumbling along, forgetting that even without experience, learning carries with it the passion of experiencing things for the first time, and Marcus was truly focused on using his tongue to memorize the taste of the survivor's mouth.
Like a beast savoring its prey, there was a bit of selfishness in his actions, licking, kissing, biting and even sucking every trace of Hernando Romero like an animal that hadn't tasted a good portion of meat in a long time.
After all, that had been his first kiss.
“Uffuu…” Hernando’s eyes shone, the smile in the kiss never left, even though his lips, swollen, sore and reddish, were now just an unpleasant mass from the constant bites of a hungry lion’s fangs, he felt happy.
Blood spurted into the kiss, and Marcus drank it with every lick, choking on the taste of something he didn't really want to taste. Yet he had grown addicted to the inhuman sensation of a true hunter devouring his prey.
The blood of a human who had bothered him to this point… Why did it taste so good?
Marcus Thorne, the imposing hunter with a neutral expression, had slightly flushed cheeks and his breath came in ragged gasps, yearning to tear a piece of flesh from the matador. Perhaps his chin or his neck, at some point, could become his shoulder, or his chest, or…
After all, he would take it as a trophy. The flesh of the losers deserves to hang on the walls as a reminder of the prey they have always been.
“Romero, I’m going to save you!”
Both men were surprised.
Hernando did not expect to be saved.
Marcus didn't expect anyone to actually come and save Hernando, ruining his escape to the hatch just because of this death-loving guy.
And yet, they stared at each other, Marcus slightly more frightened than Hernando. After all, the hunter had a reputation to uphold; his undefeated victories in every game spoke volumes. But Hernando?
That man who constantly goes straight into danger, sometimes wins, sometimes draws… Has he ever lost?
This is the first game they've played together, and a second survivor can't watch a hunter like Thorne fall for the annoying persuasion of someone like Romero.
Therefore, under the premise of someone who has a winning streak in every game, he cannot lose against a mere human who has clung tightly to his clothes, kisses him with such emotion, and looks at him with burning honey overflowing in each eye.
Hernando Romero had discovered fear in Marcus.
Before, he saw a ravenous lion, a demon trying to crush his body into a billiard ball; his eyes showed dominance and possession. However, after hearing the voice of a third party, something changed within him.
Like another personality.
It was genuine, a slip that didn't go unnoticed by the Matador. He wanted to pull away, he needed to, but Marcus's very body seemed to do the opposite. Marcus's tail, long and hairy from the tip, tickled his leg, tentatively moving up towards his groin, where it patted several times. It was an unconscious movement due to the surprise, but it was a pleasurable sensation for Hernando, a heavy caress that constantly hurt his body, but at the same time, it was an invitation to be a little more intimate.
In other words, the situation became a bit vulgar.
Hernando's hands held Marcus's bun, forcing him to maintain the same pose. Face to face, the hunter's brow furrowed, and his heterochromatic eyes revealed something Romero himself couldn't describe; but at the same time, there was a spark that felt similar to what he saw when he looked in the mirror.
It was the same look he had when he looked in the mirror before each bullfight.
None of them wanted to leave until they felt victorious.
But Hernando was beginning to lose track of time, he couldn't breathe and was stifling several retches due to the size of the tongue that was sliding down his throat like a slide.
“Hnh!” What had once been an intimate caress for Hernando had become a prison for him. Marcus’s tail had become a snake, undulating over his entire torso like an animal suffocating its prey, from his hips to his chest. The tuft of hair at the tip tickled his neck, and Marcus’s restless hands had long since settled on his shoulders, digging his nails into his skin.
“The hunter is near me!” Hernando sent the code as his eyes slowly began to roll back in his head. Any moment now the rocket chair would reach its limit and he would be off to the mansion.
However, even if he lost, he knew that hunter would hate him from the first moment; that feeling was enough for his mouth to taste victory from Thorne's lips.
“Stay put. I’m coming!” DeRoss had replied, coming down the basement stairs.
Hernando Romero strained to look at Marcus, realizing that all he could see was a reflection of a man with trembling eyes and lips stained with his own blood.
Hernando saw a thread of saliva connecting both mouths, barely a couple of centimeters separating them, realizing that the kiss was over.
Did he, in an act of survival, end the kiss with Marcus? No, that… how was that possible? Hernando himself would rather drown in a kiss than break it; he knew how to kiss and hold his breath in the moment, enjoying the sensation of suffocation. So, the only answer…
"Before…"
Hernando wanted to laugh, but he had realized something important.
He was missing a piece of his tongue.
The next thing he saw was just a matter of seconds.
Marcus Thorne's throat made a sharp, dry sound. A "gulp" had never excited him as much as it did now. After that, the hunter looked terrible; his hair was disheveled, his breathing was barely regular, and his mouth, covered in patches of fresh blood, made him look like someone who had just enjoyed a good feast.
Marcus looked at Hernando, took a step back, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His expression, full of hatred, confusion, and dissatisfaction… stirred something in Hernando. In his chest, in his heart.
Alice DeRoss was going to the basement when Marcus used his ability to keep her trapped in a pool ball.
“I’m sorry…” the reporter had sent the code when she realized that she would soon be struck by the hunter and her little Orphy. could not be activated in time.
Hernando's fingers trembled as he instinctively searched for the code to accept the surrender, his eyes never leaving the hunter. Marcus lay some distance away; just seconds before, he had been so close, and Hernando could have admired his face, like that of a beast hunting its prey, from the scars to the thin lips twisted in annoyance. But now, he was a different man. He looked at him with hatred, hunger, and a strange sense of bewilderment.
Hernando opened his mouth, but his tongue didn't stick out. Instead, there was only a defiled gap from his lips to his teeth; his entire oral cavity was injured from beginning to end, as if someone had tried to literally eat the inside of his throat.
“...Tsk.”
“The hunter has surrendered and you will leave the manor shortly."
That was the first time Marcus Thorne surrendered before winning a game with three survivors dead, ending his consecutive winning streak.
What happened next, only the infirmary would know.