Ladybug leaps from roof to roof, her yoyo swinging with practiced grace. The city feels unusually quiet, the usual hustle replaced by an uneasy tension that prickles at her senses. Somewhere below, an unfamiliar presence stalks the streets, hidden in the twilight.
The Cannibal, cloaked and silent, watches Ladybug from the darkness. His eyes glint with predatory intent. Ladybug feels a chill run down her spine, pausing mid-step as if sensing she is no longer alone.
In a flash, Ladybug's yoyo is ensnared, tugged by an invisible force. She struggles, twisting, but strong arms seize her from behind. The Cannibal binds her tightly, his grip unyielding as she kicks and cries out into the silent night.
The Cannibal lays Ladybug onto a table, methodically removing her suit piece by piece, leaving her vulnerable and exposed. His hands are precise, almost ritualistic, as he massages her limbs—she recoils at the forced intimacy, tears streaking her cheeks. The Cannibal presses a red apple between her lips, a chilling mockery of comfort.
Bound and silenced, Ladybug is secured on the spit. The Cannibal slowly turns the crank, and the fire's heat intensifies, licking at her skin. She struggles desperately, the pain mounting as her body is slowly roasted, the aroma bittersweet in the oppressive air.
Ladybug spins helplessly, her cries diminishing into quiet sobs. Tears cut trails through the grime on her face as her strength fades away. The last thing she sees is The Cannibal, hungrily watching, preparing to feast.
The Cannibal consumes what remains of Ladybug, savoring every bite in the shadowed solitude. Outside, Paris continues unaware, the night swallowing all traces of the horror within.
