THUD, THUD, THUD.’

Water splashed from the street puddles—the only sound echoing through the dark, deserted street. His mind uttered only one word, repeated like a desperate prayer: ‘RUN.’

To him, stopping meant losing something precious. The silence felt like a brewing storm, heavy and suffocating. As the cold wind hammered against his chest, every breath felt like a leaden weight. He clutched the papers to his heart, the only proof of his treachery. He had dared to go against the ‘Monster.’

The rain blurred his vision. Suddenly, he stumbled on the hard, marshy ground, and the papers scattered. He lifted his head—everything was over.

Sharp lights blinded him, cutting through the dark to reveal a circle of tall, muscular men. They wore tailored black suits that spoke of wealth and lethal discipline. Their eyes scanned him like predators, and their hands were adorned with rifles—trained, steady, and ready to fire, but they waited the time stopped, air still . Slowly the circular armour of men broke and from the darkness emerged  like a ghost reclaiming its territory. He didn't carry a weapon; he was the weapon. Clad in a heavy, charcoal-black overcoat that drank the surrounding light, he moved with a lethal, predatory grace that made the air itself feel thin.

His features were a masterpiece of coldness—sharp, aristocratic bone structure and a jawline that looked carved from frozen marble. Beneath his damp, dark hair, his eyes were like shards of obsidian—unblinking, hollow, and filled with a recognition that burned more than the icy rain. He was a vision of expensive, calculated ruin, a beautiful nightmare in a bespoke suit who didn't need to raise his voice to command the silence.

The man instinctively backed away, trembling.

"Spare me, Master! I was forced to do this. They have put my son's life at stake."

He expected mercy, but instead, he received only a cold, hollow laugh. As the Monster's deep voice rippled through the still air, it felt like a death sentence.

"You could have come to me," he whispered, "but instead, you chose to stab me in the back."

The man continued to utter muffled apologies, reaching out to touch the Monster’s feet in a final plea. But before he could, a bullet pierced his leg. An agonizing scream erupted, tearing through the silence. In a second more than hundred bullets pierced through his body, the scream died in his throat, he collapsed—turning into nothing more than a lifeless heap in the mud.

The Monster looked down at the mess with cold, dry eyes.

''I hate people who ask for fake sympathy."

_____________

~To be continued

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