Chapter Text
The mouse was making quick and careful work, before other rats, or larger carnivores, smelled blood and rushed to feast.
He was bold: age and experience had taught him to get there first, quickly grab everything he could, and flee at the first sign of danger. His senses were partially focused on the alley, ready to perceive any change, any intrusion. But he also paid special attention to his victim: he understood that she was now dying, incapable of reacting or defending herself, just enough to make her a desirable and defenseless prey. But she was still alive, so not entirely helpless.
He had overcome the resistance offered by the glove and was now picking at the pink, well-groomed ring finger, undoubtedly a woman's hand. Sensing a warning signal, he reared up on his hind legs, his small black eyes fixed on the prey before him, his nose and whiskers twitching frantically, blood dripping from his mouth and sharp teeth.
A twitch in the hand he was mutilating was unmistakable: the feast was over before the appetizers were even served. Other mice, already rushing toward the body, squeaked nervously and disappeared into the dank, dark alley, returning the way they had come.
The hand fell on the mouse, merciless as a cleaver; the rodent, turning to flee, was struck with a sharp edge on the spine, which snapped with a horrifying crack. He remained there, his eyes fixed on the heap of clothes and dirt rolled up in the garbage, waiting for his attacker to pounce. He died in a couple of spasms, perhaps futile attempts to lift his broken little body, squeaking with terror and wounded dignity. The alley echoed with his strangled cries, a warning to the other rats not to approach.
From beneath a dark tangle, a blade of white teeth appeared, a crooked smile, cold and anything but cheerful.