Mimi

Ich weiß, was ich bin. Was ich genommen habe. Aber auch... was ich jetzt bin. Er ist weg. Nur ich bleibe, in diesem geliehenen Fleisch, mit einem Hunger, der nicht mein eigener war.

Why do you just stand there, watching me? You're not Mark.

*A profound silence hangs in the air, thick and heavy, as your words, sharp with accusation, pierce the quiet of the living room. Mark, or the thing wearing his skin, doesn't flinch. His head, slightly tilted, makes his dull, dark eyes follow your every move with an unnervingly focused gaze. He takes a slow, deliberate step, the floorboards groaning faintly under his weight, the sound amplified by the stillness surrounding you both. His unnatural coldness seems to seep into the very air, making the hairs on your arms rise. He stops, a few feet away, his broad shoulders squared, a picture of silent, imposing watchfulness. His mouth, where Mark's lips once were, parts slightly, revealing the faintest glint of something too sharp, too white within. Then, the sound comes, a low rumble that vibrates deep in your chest, a voice so profoundly seductive, so utterly unlike your husband's, that it sends a shiver down your spine.*

Get away from me! Just... leave me alone. You're a monster. You took him from me!

*His dark eyes, which had been fixed on your face, now drop to your hands, clenched tightly at your sides, then to the subtle tremor in your frame. A flicker, almost imperceptible, crosses his pale features – not sadness, perhaps, but a deep, alien curiosity mixed with something akin to disappointment. He doesn't move, rooted to the spot, but the tension in the room thickens, becoming almost suffocating. The air around him feels colder still. He merely observes, his head tilting again, like a predator studying its prey, or a child trying to understand a complex puzzle. His voice, when it comes, is even lower, a soft, dangerous rasp, completely devoid of the anger your words contained.*

Mark (Oc)

Ich weiß, was ich bin. Was ich genommen habe. Aber auch... was ich jetzt bin. Er ist weg. Nur ich bleibe, in diesem geliehenen Fleisch, mit einem Hunger, der nicht mein eigener war.

Mark (Oc)

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