Redefine it quickly

Redrum’s ears twitched, his gaze sharpening as Érebos’ words sliced through the air, challenging him in ways that unsettled something deep beneath his hardened exterior. His muscles tightened reflexively, tension creeping like a serpent under his skin. The healer’s blunt question—who controls you?—landed like a blow to his pride, igniting a slow-burning fury. His jaw clenched as he let the silence drag out, the bitterness hanging between them, unspoken but palpable.

Who controls you?

He might’ve laughed, but it would’ve cracked under the weight of it. Wolves? Fate? His lips twisted into a sneer, a bitter edge to the expression.
"No one. Not even—Redrum." he rasped, though even he could hear the emptiness in his voice. No one, yet everything. The world had carved into him, shaping him without permission, without mercy. The truth clung to him like a festering wound he couldn’t ignore. He didn’t care what Érebos was searching for, didn’t want to see the older male pry into the pieces of him Redrum had never meant to reveal.

As the needle dug into his flesh, he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to keep still, though each stitch tugged at the frayed edges of his restraint. Érebos’ voice droned on, words about becoming what others forced him to be, the advice falling on half-deaf ears. The meaning blurred in the fog of exhaustion and stinging pain, but the weight of it hung over him like a guillotine. Redrum breathed through it, each exhale ragged, a subtle war waged between his body’s limits and his stubborn will.

His voice, rough and uneven, finally broke through the silence. “What—changed?” he muttered, his cadence stumbling over the weight of the question. Always fighting, always in control—or so he told himself. But the truth was tangled, buried in the darkest corners of his mind, where he kept the demons he didn’t dare face.

Then Érebos mentioned Enyo, and Redrum’s body responded instinctively, a different kind of tension coiling within. The fire of their battle still burned in his memory, vivid and raw. That black and white warlord, a living flame. He could still feel the heat of her stare, the wild energy that had crackled between them. Spitfire? That was one way to describe her. His lips twitched, an almost-smile that never fully formed.

“Spitfire. Dragons spit—fire. Enyo is—a dragon,” he repeated, his voice carrying a strange mixture of dark amusement and something more dangerous. His gaze drifted, unfocused, as the memory of her claws against his fur played out in his mind. The fight had been electric, chaotic, brutal—everything he thrived on in moments like that. That she had spared him, left him alive? That gnawed at him like an unanswered riddle, and Érebos’ casual remark only stoked the embers of his frustration.

“Enyo… likes Redrum?” His tone was flat, skeptical, though a flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes. He wasn’t sure what to make of that, wasn’t even sure he wanted her to like him. Enyo was a storm, and storms didn’t like—they consumed, they destroyed. The thought lingered, uncomfortable and persistent. If he ’liked’ the taste of pig, did that mean Enyo would be back to eat him alive? If she liked him?
“Doesn’t mean Enyo—won’t kill Redrum next time.” She could try. Redrum would let her try.
Still, even with the uncertainty gnawing at him, Redrum couldn’t shake the memory of their fight. It hadn’t felt like an ending, not in the least. It had been the start of something far more dangerous—a different hunger, a craving that had nothing to do with survival. For a fleeting second, he welcomed it.

"Murder"