Doomsday Gluttony: I Level Up by Eating

Ryatt’s POV

The air in the room tasted like bleach and dying dreams. I didn’t look at Dr. Raz Davenport. I kept my eyes fixed on a small, jagged crack in the white paint of the far wall, tracing its path while the rustle of paper filled the silence.

"Ryatt," the doctor started, his voice heavy with a practiced, somber weight. "I have the final medical report here. I’m going to read the formal notice into the record."

"Just say it, Doc," I muttered. My voice sounded thin, like parchment rubbing together. "I’m the one dying. You don’t need to be afraid of the words."

He cleared his throat, the sound echoing in the sterile box of a room. "Patient: Ryatt Ducker. Age: twenty-eight. Diagnosis: Stage Four Terminal Carcinoma, non-responsive to aggressive chemotherapy. Time of Estimated Death..." He paused, his breath hitching. "Estimated within the next six to twelve hours. Primary systems are already beginning to shutter."

I didn't flinch. I just watched that crack in the wall. "Six hours. That’s a short shift for you, isn’t it?"

Davenport set the clipboard down on the rolling metal tray. The clang of plastic against steel was deafening. "Ryatt, listen to me. This is the time. If there is anyone... any family, any friends you haven't called yet... you need to bid them farewell. Now. While you still have the breath to speak."

I let out a soft, dry wheeze that was supposed to be a laugh. "Family? You’ve seen my charts for years, Davenport. You know the emergency contact line is blank."

"There must be someone," he insisted, stepping closer. His eyes were tired, ringed with the exhaustion of a man who saw the end of the world every single day in ten-minute increments. "A distant cousin? A colleague from before you got sick?"

"There’s nobody," I said, finally turning my head to look at him. My neck felt like it was made of rusted hinges. "It’s just me. It’s always been just me. No tearful goodbyes. No dramatic bedside confessions. Just a quiet exit."

Davenport opened his mouth to say something—likely some hollow platitude about the human spirit—but he stopped halfway. He looked at my sunken cheeks, the pale, translucent skin stretched over my bones, and he realized there was nothing left to offer. He didn't even finish his sentence. He just shook his head, turned on his heel, and exited the room, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.

I was alone.

I stared back at the wall. The sorrow didn't hit like a tidal wave; it was more like a slow, cold leak. Twenty-eight years, and I’d managed to leave absolutely zero footprint. If a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? If Ryatt Ducker dies in Bed 402 and no one gives a damn, did he ever actually exist?

"No one to mourn," I whispered to the empty room. "No funeral. No flowers. Just a quick trip to the industrial oven."

I actually started to chuckle, though it turned into a painful cough. "The crematorium staff will probably just sweep me into a bin with the morning trash. Efficient. I like that."

My chest felt heavy, like someone was pouring wet cement into my lungs. My eyes started to droop, the edges of my vision fraying into a dull, fuzzy gray. I could feel my heart skipping beats, a drummer losing the rhythm at the end of a long set. I didn't fight it. Why would I? I closed my eyes and leaned into the darkness. I let my breath hitch, then stall, then stop.

Let it go, I thought. Just let go.

Then, a piercing, electronic ping shattered the silence of my death.

I forced my eyes open. I wasn't in the dark anymore. A translucent, blood-red digital display was hovering three feet in front of my face, glowing with a malevolent intensity.

[00:00:59]

[00:00:58]

"What... is that?" I gasped, the air whistling in my throat.

Before I could process the numbers, the world went insane. The sterile white walls of the hospital didn't just crack—they began to melt. The paint bubbled and ran like boiling wax, revealing dark, pulsing veins beneath the drywall. 

From the hallway, screams erupted.

"Help! Oh god, get it off me!" a woman shrieked.

"Code Blue! We need security in the West Wing—Agh!" 

The sounds of tearing flesh and heavy, wet thuds filled the air. I watched through the wired glass of my door as a nurse ran past, her face a mask of pure terror, before something massive and grey slammed into her from above. A winged shadow, easily the size of a man but twisted and leathery, pinned her to the floor. Its wings beat against the linoleum, sounding like wet sheets snapping in the wind.

"What is happening?" I wheezed, pushing myself up with trembling arms. 

The red countdown hit ten seconds.

Suddenly, the large window to my left exploded. Shards of glass rained down on my thin sheets, slicing into my pale skin. A winged scavenger, its face a nightmare of needle-teeth and glowing yellow eyes, perched on the sill. It let out a guttural, screeching hiss, its talons scraping against the metal frame. It looked at me—a dying man, easy prey.

It lunged.

I braced for the end, expecting the cold bite of teeth. But as the monster leaped, the sensation in my body shifted. The crushing weight in my lungs didn't vanish; it transformed. The weakness didn't leave; it condensed.

I didn't feel like I was dying anymore. I felt an all-consuming, terrifying surge of hunger. It was a vacuum in my gut, a black hole where my stomach used to be. It wasn't a desire for food—it was a craving for existence.

The scavenger landed on my chest, its weight nearly crushing my ribs, but I didn't feel pain. I felt its life force vibrating against my skin.

A new notification flashed in the center of my vision, pulsing in time with my frantic heartbeat.

[Condition 'Terminal Cancer' mutated.]

[New Skill Unlocked: Gluttony of the Void.]