I looked toward the demon's cabin.
I should've heard something. A snore. A growl. A shuffle. Anything.
But it was silent.
Too silent.
So I crept a few steps closer, just enough to peek and there he was.
Awake.
Leaning against the doorframe.
Not blinking.
Not breathing loud.
Just watching.
And fuck me if I knew for how long.
Was it when I drove my fingers into that bastard's skull? When I peeled the flesh off ribs for the blood eagles? When I raised that first finger in the air? Or was it earlier?
Had he been watching the entire time?
Had all of this—every single kill—been done under his gaze?
Tch.
Figures.
Of course he'd be watching.
Of course the universe couldn't give me that one small grace—the illusion of privacy while I stitched together this sick ritual.
I clenched the rifle tighter, raised it, aimed it straight at his chest.
Not that I thought it would matter. But it made me feel better.
He didn't flinch.
Didn't shift.
Didn't even acknowledge the gun pointed at him.
His eyes weren't on me.
They were staring.
I followed the gaze—front of me, past the blood and broken.
And there it was.
The fucking raft.
The same one that dragged me here. I'd crawled on it half-dead, sick with salt and emptiness.
My makeshift grave and my.... salvation.
On the deck. Pulled by the false tyrant himself. My one of the skull collection.
I almost laughed.
No, not almost.
I did.
A dry, cracked sound, part cough, part madness.
Because of course that's what he was staring at.
Not the dead. Not the ritual. Not the blood. Not the violence.
The raft.
My raft.
The floating piece of miracle that survived alongside with me.
That little chunk of wood and rope was what held his attention.
It felt like a joke. A cosmic punchline, long in the making.
Because why wouldn't it be that way?
The fake tyrant knew of its peculiarities. The moment he laid his eyes on it. This demon must have an even better idea of what it should be. Especially since it had seen the blood devoured in progress crew of his.
Even if he hadn't, it didn't matter. His eyes reflected greed. His smile screamed want. He would take it. Because he already thinks it is his.
I didn't look away.
I gazed at him—hard. Eyes locked, jaw clenched, fury burning like coals behind my stare. I wanted him to feel it. To know I was there. Not just some insect scurrying beneath his shadow.
And he felt it.
He turned.
He met my eyes.
And the bastard giggled.
Not laughed like a madman. Not cackled like a tyrant.
No—giggled. Like a child that had found something funny in a burning building.
Then came the laugh. Light at first, bubbling up like it was tickling his throat. Then deeper, more drawn out. Like I was a joke he'd been waiting to hear all night.
Like I was the punchline.
This bitch…
He really thought I was just some ant. Some crawling little thing he could squish between two fingers while looking at something else. Not even worth a full glance.
And you know what?
He was right.
I probably was just that.
To him, I was nothing. Less than nothing. A filthy, blood-covered parasite clawing through his playground, carving rituals in the shape of justice.
But this ant?
This ant has venom.
I'll take being an insect.
If it means I get the chance to bite him deep—where it festers. Where it hurts.
Where it lasts.
He held my stare for a second—two at most.
Then, like I wasn't worth the effort, he looked away.
His gaze went back to the raft.
And he looked at it like it was a gift.
Like he'd found his lost treasure.
His gold floating on the sea, swimming back into his arms.
His eyes lit up—not with rage or recognition—but hunger. A greedy kind of glint, like something in that raft had meaning. Like that was the precious thing here. Not the blood. Not the screams. Not the broken bodies littering his deck. Still laughing, giggling like he had found a precious gift for his birthday.
The raft.
The fucking raft.
He didn't care about me.
Not the blood I spilled. Not the ritual. Not the screams that echoed against the sails.
He wanted the raft more. More than me or anyone else. More than his crew.
Not even the girls. Nor the ritual that was being done.