Twisted Oliver
Oliver was born in darkness. His mother’s dying breath filled the orphanage halls, a place that seemed to feed on suffering. The headmaster, Mr. Bumble, called it charity. The children called it The Mouth—because it consumed everything: their food, their youth, their souls.
When Oliver dared to ask for more gruel, he wasn’t beaten—he was offered up. “The Mouth is hungry,” Bumble sneered, dragging him to the cellar.
Down there, the shadows moved like liquid, twisting and shifting as if alive. A deep growl echoed, though no animal could make that sound. Chains hung from the ceiling, dripping with red.
The Mouth wasn’t metaphorical. It was real. A massive, gaping maw, lined with jagged, bloodstained teeth, pulsated at the center of the room. Bumble threw Oliver forward, but the boy scrambled away, screaming, “Help me!”
That’s when Fagin appeared, smiling wide—too wide. “Oh, you’ll make a fine thief, Oliver,” he hissed. “Steal for me, or The Mouth takes you.”
Oliver didn’t have a choice. Each night, he returned with gold. Each night, The Mouth demanded more. But it wasn’t satisfied with gold forever. One day, it whispered, “Bring me flesh.”
And Oliver started with Bumble.
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