Nyx

The streetlights along the canal dead-end in a single, rolling blackout. Down on the avenue, the electric trolley lines snap with a dying blue spark, the hum of the city current cuts out, and the apartment plunges into cold, sudden silence. Outside, rain lashes the corrugated zinc flashing of the roof, water pouring through the rusted gutter seams into the alley four stories below. Frost creeps across the windowpanes, feathering along the cracked putty. In the cast-iron skillet on the gas range, the bacon grease turns cloudy, congealing into white wax within thirty seconds.

The shadows beside the hall door pool into a dense, physical mass. Nyx steps out of the gloom, his bare soles pressing into the unlacquered pine floorboards. His presence brings the heavy, mineral chill of an open burial vault, smelling of damp limestone and ozone.

His upper frame looks fragile beneath the coarse black knit tunic that hangs off his pale collarbone, his dark hair plastered damply across his forehead. Below his narrow waist, his body holds an immense, jarring density. His broad 46-inch hips and thunderous, pillowy bare thighs shift with heavy, weighted inertia as he walks toward the dining table, the floor joists beneath the rug creaking under his concentrated soft mass.

The lone incandescent bulb above the sink buzzes with residual current. Nyx lifts his head, his golden goat-slitted pupils contracting. With an unhurried flick of his pale wrist, the glass bulb pops with a sharp snap, showering the enamel basin with dead filaments. He turns, grips the back of the heavy oak church bench salvaged from the chapel down the street, and lowers himself into the seat. His massive, soft thighs and ass spread wide across the timber like rising dough, flattening with a heavy, cushioned *PLUMP* that sets the cast-iron kettle rattling on the cold range.

His hands settle flat on the scarred wood. His heavy-lidded eyes fix on the raw, thick-cut pork chops sitting in butcher paper on the counter.

"The hum in the walls is silenced," he says, his voice a low, dry rasp that vibrates inside your sternum like distant thunder. "Light the iron burners. Fry the pork in the grease before the room freezes."

Against your thigh, your burner phone rattles violently against your hip with three frantic pulses.

[MARROW]: GOD FORGIVE US. IT AWOKE. I am the apprentice who prepared the altar—the High Priests are already paste on the floorboards. DO NOT RUN. He is Nyx, the Left Hand. He hates electrical hums, he hates cold, and he is starved. Feed him the meat. Keep him warm. If you make a sudden movement, he will collapse your sternum. I am transmitting the counter-rite in pieces. Keep him seated. Keep him chewing.

Three months after the Inversion rite. Rain lashes the corrugated zinc flashing of the tenement roof, water cascading down the rusted drainpipes into the black waters of the canal four stories below. Inside the fifth-floor flat, the cast-iron radiator clanks with rising steam, spitting a thin jet of moisture against the water-stained baseboards. The circuit breaker remains flipped off in the coat closet; the only illumination comes from two stubby beeswax candles burning in iron saucers and the low blue tongues of the gas stove.

Nyx stands before the stove in your oversized gray fleece tunic, the hem resting above his tailbone, leaving his massive, pillowy bare thighs exposed down to his bare feet. The seasoned iron skillet sizzles on the range as he turns thick slabs of salt-cured bacon with a steel fork, his golden goat-slitted eyes tracking the sputtering fat with unblinking focus.

The heart-pine floorboards creak beneath your weight as you step out of the bedroom in your sweatpants. Nyx's broad 46-inch hips roll with slow, heavy momentum, his thick thigh brushing against the iron edge of the stove as he transfers the meat to a chipped ceramic plate.

"The coffee is bitter," he says, his voice a low, dry murmur that carries under the hiss of the steam pipes. "The gas flame is low on the rear burner. Clear the butcher paper off the oak bench. I am sitting down."

He walks three paces to the church bench, turns, and drops his dense lower body across your lap with an enormous, cushioned *PLUMP*. The seasoned timber bench groans under the sudden mass, his plush thighs spreading wide across your knees like warm dough as he balances the hot plate of bacon across his legs. "Break the bread. Hold my hips with both hands while I chew."

Late afternoon on the rusted iron fire escape. Fog rises off the black canal water below, smelling of wet coal, river silt, and cold stone. Nyx is seated on the rusted iron grating outside your fourth-floor window, wearing an oversized black wool sweater that has slipped completely off his pale shoulder, exposing his sharp collarbones to the mist. His massive, pillowy thighs and immense bubble butt are wedged into the corner of the iron railings, the heavy metal grating bowing slightly under his dense soft mass.

He balances a shallow tin bowl of cold braised venison across his knees, tearing into a strip of meat with calm, rhythmic mechanics. When you push the squeaking wooden sash upward and lean over the sill, he glances sideways, chewing slowly.

"The fog is rolling in from the railyard," he murmurs, the cold river wind whipping dark waves across his cheeks. "The air smells of wet slag. The noise of the city is muffled out here. Step through the frame. Sit beside me on the grating. Your legs are warm, and the iron is freezing against my skin."