Rachel’s face contorted, a mask of pure terror splitting open. The question… it hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. It wasn't just a hypothetical; it was an ultimatum, cloaked in a chillingly sweet query. Her eyes, wide and pleading, darted between you and Gabrielle, searching for a lifeline that wasn't there.

“What… what are you talking about?” she whispered, her voice barely audible, a fragile thread against the sudden, oppressive silence. Denial, the first desperate refuge for the cornered prey.

Gabrielle’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. They remained keen, observant, predator's eyes. “You heard Callie, Rach,” she said, her tone still calm, unnervingly so. “It’s simple. You’re… exposed. And in this world, that means you’re a liability. But more importantly…” She paused, a flicker of something dark crossing her face. “…you’re a delicacy.”

You stepped closer, mirroring Gabrielle’s movement, creating a triangle of dread around Rachel. Your smile hadn't faded, but it had gone cold, sharp. “We’re giving you a choice, Rach,” you purred, your voice low and confidential, as if sharing a secret. “A kindness, really. Better us, your friends, than some stranger who might… well, who knows what they’d do?” The unspoken threat hung heavy in the air – torture, humiliation, a drawn-out end. You knew your fast digestion was your secret weapon, a small comfort you could offer even now.

Rachel began to tremble, a full-body tremor that shook the armchair. “No… please… you can’t. We’re friends. You wouldn’t…”

“Wouldn’t we?” Gabrielle interjected, her head tilting. Her gaze was intense, stripping away Rachel’s last defenses. “Rachel, you’ve been living a lie. A dangerous lie. And now… well, the truth has caught up.”

You decided to reinforce the reality, to make the choice undeniably stark. Competition flared within you, a familiar spark. This wasn't just about securing a meal; it was about proving you were the best choice. The most efficient. The most… inevitable.

“Look, Rach,” you said, straightening up, puffing out your tiny chest slightly. “We know who we are. You know who you are now. There’s no going back.” You took a deep breath, a subtle preparation. “Let us show you.”

You opened your mouth, tilting your head back slightly. Your small tongue curled, revealing the entrance to your throat. It wasn't as cavernous as some girls', you knew that. It was tight, compact, reflecting your petite frame. But it was deep, a dark, slick passage that led down to the even smaller, ferociously acidic stomach that was your pride and joy. You pushed it open just enough for her to see the glistening wetness, the promise of heat and dissolution within. You held it open, presenting it, a silent offering and a terrifying threat all in one.

Gabrielle followed suit, a strangely elegant movement for such an act. She opened her mouth wider, her throat visibly larger than yours, a more traditionally impressive maw. It seemed deeper, wider, capable of a faster initial descent. You felt a familiar pang of competitive annoyance. Her swallow might be faster initially, but yours was tighter, more possessive, and your acids… your acids were legendary. She exposed the back of her throat, the rippling muscles visible, hinting at the powerful contraction she could command. It was a compelling display of predatory capability.

Two open mouths, two dark depths, presented like dreadful choices on a platter. Rachel stared, mesmerized by the horror, her eyes wide with a ghastly fascination. She saw the difference, the subtle variations in the deadly passages. Yours, small and tight, promising an intimate, perhaps slower but intensely inescapable squeeze, followed by rapid oblivion. Gabrielle’s, wider, faster, a quicker journey down, but maybe less… thorough?

The air crackled with unspoken tension, a silent competition playing out between you and Gabrielle, using Rachel as the judge. Who was the more appealing predator? Who offered the 'better' fate?

“See?” you asked, your voice a low hum, still holding your mouth open slightly. “Two options. Both… inevitable now. But you get to pick.”

Gabrielle closed her mouth, her expression unreadable as she watched Rachel. “It’s your decision, Rachel,” she said, reinforcement rather than offering comfort. “Who do you trust more?”

Rachel covered her face with her hands, a small, futile gesture against the overwhelming reality. Her body wracked with silent sobs. “I can’t… I can’t choose,” she choked out, the words muffled by her hands. “Please… just… don’t make me.”

“You have to,” you stated, your voice firm, the cheerleader’s edge returning. This was the final round. The stakes were everything. “This is it, Rach. Before someone else finds out. Before it’s out of our hands. It’s us… or someone else. And we’re right here. We know what we’re doing. We’re careful. We’re… friends.” The word felt like powdered glass on your tongue now.

She lowered her hands, her eyes red-rimmed, her face a picture of abject despair. The fight was gone. The denial had crumbled. She looked at you, then at Gabrielle, a terrible weighing happening in her mind. The tight squeeze versus the quicker drop. The competitive cheerleader with the legendary acids versus the cool, analytical photographer.

She took a shuddering breath, the sound ragged and broken. Her gaze settled, finally, on you. Her large frame seemed to cave in on itself, accepting the inevitable. The words were a whisper, barely audible, a confession of surrender.

“Okay,” she said, her voice thick with tears. “Okay… Callie.”

The single word hung in the air, a death knell. Your heart gave a strange, triumphant lurch. You had won. Not a cheerleading trophy, not a popularity contest, but something far more final. Rachel, your friend, the timid giant with the secret, had just chosen you.

A slow, complex smile spread across your face. It wasn't just hunger, or triumph. It was the chilling reality of a world where friendship could turn to predation in the blink of an eye, and where the ultimate kindness was offering yourself as the chosen end.

“Good girl,” you murmured, the competitive fire momentarily banked, replaced by the stark, terrifying anticipation of the meal to come.