by Onabe Ōkamiotoko (御鍋狼男)
Milo had come to the tavern for anything but a drink.
He sat at the table alone, hands occupied with what was between his legs — a dagger made of bone. With a silent focus, he sharpened the blade with a whetstone while the noises of the tavern blossomed around him. Bright, joyous music from the stage filled the room, and lamps flickered from the walls, establishing a cozy atmosphere. Milo sighed. His heart was heavy. He’d been keeping track of the days in his journal for the past week, eager for the arriving full moon.