Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Blood flowed with almost ritualistic ease through his fingers, dyeing them a vivid red that contrasted with the pale snow around him. The creatures of the night, vigilant at all times, raised their howls to the clouded sky, as if they were celebrating yet another bloody victory, yet another sacrifice that dyed the white ground with a bloody touch of beauty. The world of Daelth, perpetually shrouded in shadow, remained indifferent to the spectacle unfolding in its snowy streets, a place that had never known the blessing of sunlight, except perhaps as a whispered legend among its elders.

Since the dawn of the age, Daelth had been marked by the absence of light, its existence shrouded in eternal twilight. Light was a privilege granted only to the inhabitants of the south, those who lived under the grace of the sun. For the inhabitants of Daelth, darkness was a constant, and nights like this were just another reminder that nowhere was safe.

That night, however, something had changed. The barrier in the city had been broken in a more visceral, more personal way. The blood that now stained the snow was more than a mere spill – it was a symbol, a reminder of the vicious cycle in which he was trapped. He needed Lv to survive, to continue breathing in this world full of misery. It was a need she had instilled in him, a voice that echoed incessantly in his mind, even after he had silenced it forever. In some perverse way, he reveled in that self-imposed torment, that labyrinth of anguish in which he had allowed himself to wander.

There were other exits, other ways to escape that cycle, but he didn't look for them. Instead, he would rather lose himself in his own labyrinth, play with his own undoing, letting the blood and shadows envelop him once more. Every step he took, every life he took, took him deeper into his own darkness, while Daelth, the city that never saw the sun, remained the perpetual scene of his slow, inexorable fall.

The knife, that same blade that had so many times torn flesh and taken lives, now seemed to carry the weight of each act committed. His dagger, once firm and reliable, showed clear signs of wear. The marks left by the firm hands that wielded it so many times, and the dried blood that permeated the carefully carved wood, were silent witnesses of a violence that seemed to have no end. The knife, which had once been an extension of his will, now seemed to cry out for rest, but he was unwilling to grant it.

The metallic taste of blood still lingered in his mouth, a familiar taste that carried with it the memory of every life he had taken. The establishment was littered with bodies and dust, each telling a story of despair and death. The number of victims seemed to multiply by the moment, creating a tapestry that, to him, was strangely alluring.

The air was filled with the fresh scent of freshly spilled blood, a smell that, far from disgusting him, made him feel at home. It was a scent of death and destruction, so familiar that he no longer consciously perceived it. That smell was a constant in his life, a reminder of the path he had chosen to follow.

He had never shown mercy. The pleas, the cries of despair, all of this was irrelevant to him. The futility of his victims' resistance was something he almost found comical. His lips curled into a cruel smile as he reveled in the panic in the eyes of those who knew they were about to die. Their fear, their desperate attempts to escape the inevitable only served to feed his thirst for blood.

Each death was a work of art, and he was the artist who never tired of creating. The knife's edge, frayed but still deadly, continued to draw lines of death through the flesh as he became drunk on the sight and smell of his own carnage.

Men, women, children... they all met the same fate at his hands, and he eliminated them with a smile on his face marked by the tar that ran from his eyes, the result of an unfortunate incident with a curse once. With each blow, with each precise cut, his soul burned violently in his chest, as if it were fueled by the suffering of those who fell before him. It was a perverse, almost addictive sensation that made him feel alive in the midst of the death he spread. The torment of his victims was the fuel that kept the flame inside him burning, and he reveled in every scream, every expression of despair he witnessed.

But, contrary to what many might think, he didn't kill just for pleasure. There was a purpose behind each death, a need that went beyond mere personal satisfaction. Every killer carries a motive, and his was survival. In that cruel world, life was a cheap bargaining chip, and the only true law was that of the strongest. Kill or be killed was not just an expression, but a raw reality that he knew intimately.

Mortals, both humans and monsters, were just minor obstacles in his path. They represented challenges, yes, but they were not the true danger he avoided. What he feared was something far more terrible, something that lurked in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike. These creatures knew no mercy, and once they found prey, there was no escape. He knew this better than anyone, and it was this knowledge that drove him to keep killing, to keep surviving.

Every death he caused, every life he took, was one more step toward keeping himself out of reach of what he truly feared. The nights were long, and the darkness brought with it the whispers of nameless horrors, but he was determined to resist. And so, with the blood of his victims staining his hands and darkness enveloping his soul, he continued his journey, knowing that, in the end, it was only a matter of time before he too became a victim in that cruel game.

These beings, who roamed the darkest places—ancestral caves, abandoned houses, and every corner where darkness prevailed, be it a cloudy day or night—made the sun seem like a distant legend, a myth that mortals told themselves as they walked. They locked themselves in their bright houses, in a desperate attempt to ward off the darkness that was clamoring for their lives.

Killer, his hands laden with pitiful blood and his soul corrupted, moved with the coolness of one who knew true terror and knew that, compared to these creatures, he was but a shadow that truly lurked. He laughed at the screams and pleas of those who fell under his blade, for he knew that for them the end would be quick and almost merciful. They would never have to face the true darkness, the one that fed not only on flesh, but on hope, on soul.

By killing, he survived for Lv, but he also avoided the most terrible fate of all: falling into the clutches of the creatures that watched silently, waiting for the right moment to quench their endless thirst. Compared to them, Killer was not the terrible being they said, but rather, a fallen angel, the last vestige of mortality in a world where darkness reigned supreme in that world.

The darkness was more than a constant presence; it was a veil that covered every corner, absorbing any trace of light that dared to manifest itself. The creatures of the night, true living horrors, infested this world like red shadows, stalking every movement, every sigh, looking for an opening to devour what was left of life. Daelth did not forgive the heedless, and survival was a scarce commodity, exchanged for acts of unspeakable brutality.

Killer had molded himself into this environment, absorbing the savagery as an inevitable legacy, sculpting his being in the image of the very abyss that surrounded him. His home, if it could be called that, was a sanctuary built on blood, dust and shattered memories, where blackness ruled like an implacable tyrant. The creatures of the night were as familiar to him as the cold steel of their blades. He knew their habits as one knows the seasons; he knew his weaknesses with the precision of an anatomist, and eliminating them was almost a ritual, a macabre dance choreographed in perfect synchronization with the beat of his soul.

Every blow struck was not just a matter of survival. For Killer, every violent act was charged with a twisted sense of justice. He did not see his actions as cruel, but rather as a form of twisted mercy. If Killer was as cruel as his victims claimed to be, perhaps they should be grateful for the privilege of dying.

in their hands, and not under the claws of the true aberrations that crawled in the darkness. The so-called creatures of the night, or celibates of the mist, emerged from the shadows as the very personification of fear, hungry and insatiable. Your favorite prey? Everything that breathed and had the misfortune to cross its path. For him, his blood-stained hands were the manifestation of a dark providence, a force that intervened to spare the unfortunate from greater suffering. Life, in this world, had no intrinsic value; it was a bargaining chip, dispensed with at the slightest sign of weakness.

Killer didn't regret what he did, nor did he hesitate in his actions. He had adapted to the chaos, had merged with the darkness that permeated Dealth, becoming an inseparable part of the environment that had forged him. And so, as long as the creatures of the night continued to roam, he would be there, always alert, always ready to cut the thread of life with the ruthless precision of an executioner.

The area he called home was not hospitable to any living being except the creatures of the mist. They were monsters that dwelled in the darkness, ready to attack anyone who dared venture beyond the safety of the villages' dim lights. It was there that Killer found his livelihood and his reason for existing, an existence that fed on the deaths of others.

Without remorse, he continued to do what he did best. Each new victim, each new cut, was a reminder that to survive he needed to be ruthless. And in doing so, he saw himself as a kind of savior, albeit a dark one, a fallen angel who offered a quick death rather than prolonged torture in the clutches of the true beasts of this place. The creatures of the mist knew no mercy; he, however cruel he was, offered at least that.

The wooden bar, with a rustic and robust construction, exuded a heavy atmosphere, as if the walls themselves were permeated with the despair of the souls who met their end there. The exposed beams, supporting the low, smoky ceiling, seemed to groan with every breath of the wind outside, while the plank floor creaked under the weight of the footsteps of the unlucky few who dared to cross the front door. Light was scarce, cast only by a few wax candles that flickered on tables scattered around the room, casting flickering shadows and increasing the feeling of confinement.

The walls, made of thick, uneven boards, were covered in a layer of dirt and grime, accumulated over decades of neglect. The ceiling beams, visible and robust, supported a weight that seemed greater than the building itself, as if they were carrying the burden of the lost souls that perished there.

Outside, screams of horror echoed through the night, muffled by the dense fog that enveloped the place. But inside the bar, these screams were nothing more than a prelude to what was to come.

Killer moved through the space with eerie calm, his footsteps barely audible on the wooden floor. He was the shadow that crept between the few customers, who, one by one, began to realize that something was terribly wrong.

His knife, an extension of his own will, slid across the first victim's throat with surgical precision. Blood gushed out hot, splashing onto the floorboards and staining Killer's ankles, but he barely blinked. There was something addictive about the way the scarlet liquid spread, painting the scene bright red against the eerie surroundings. The victim didn't even have time to scream, he just opened his eyes wide in shock before falling to the ground, his life quickly draining away.

Killer moved to the next person, a woman who was shaking uncontrollably at a table in the corner. Her eyes begged for mercy, but Killer didn't grant it. He appreciated that fear, that exposed weakness. The knife plunged into her chest, piercing flesh and bone again and again with ease, and the woman let out one last moan before succumbing. Her blood mixed with what already covered the floor, creating a pool that glowed brightly in the candlelight.

As more victims fell around him, each of them with frozen expressions of terror on their faces, Killer felt a rising wave of satisfaction. It wasn't just the act of killing that gave him pleasure, but the feeling of absolute control over life and death. The power to decide who would live or die on that dark, cold night.

With each swing of his knife, he spread more fresh blood, the muffled sound of bodies falling to the ground becoming a lovely melody in his ears. The wood of the bar, once pale, was now drenched in red, the metallic smell of blood dominating the air.

Killer didn't stop to reflect on what he was doing or why he was doing it. He just followed his instinct, his desire to see the ground covered in blood, to feel the heat of the victims draining through his fingers, to acquire all that LV with such ease. There was no remorse, just a deep sense of accomplishment, as if each life taken was one step closer to his purpose.

The floor, made of dark, weathered wood, creaked under every movement, its knots and crevices filled with ancient dust that rose in small swirls with each step. Now, that dust mixed with the blood that flowed in abundance, forming a red mud that dyed everything around. The tables and chairs, scattered and battered, were toppled over, some broken by the bodies that had fallen on them in their desperate struggle for life.

The bodies were scattered chaotically across the floor, each of them in different states of mutilation, as if they had been abandoned there by time itself. There was a man hunched over the counter, his arms outstretched as if he was trying to reach something, but his head hung in an unnatural position, a deep cut in his throat still oozing the last trickle of blood. His eyes, empty and wide, reflected the terror of his last moments.

Further ahead, a woman lay slumped over an overturned table, her dress now a sodden, blood-stained mass. Her hands still gripped one of the knives Killer had plunged into her chest, her fingers frozen in a futile grip. Her face was partially hidden by her disheveled hair, but an expression of terror and agony stood out through the sodden locks.

In the darkest corner of the bar, the indistinct shapes of monsters lay amidst the darkness. They weren't exactly bodies, but remains, reminders of what they once were. And they were now nothing more than a mixture of dust and bone fragments. Dust spread across the ground, like a shadow that refused to disappear completely, the last traces of the monsters that Killer had mercilessly mowed down.

This powder had a subtle, almost imperceptible shine, a reminder that even in death they still retained something of their old essence. In some places, the dust clumped together, forming small piles around the brittle bones, as if it were being drawn into a final funeral gathering. It was an unsettling sight, a contrast to the mutilated human bodies that shared the space.

The smell, a pervasive mix of fresh blood, rotting wood, and the bitter odor of decaying supernatural creatures, permeated the air. It was the scent of death and decay, of a place where hope had been extinguished long ago. And there, in the midst of it all, Killer remained, a spectator of his own work, surrounded by a setting that reflected the darkness that resided within him.

As more victims fell around him, each of them with frozen expressions of terror on their faces, Killer felt a rising wave of satisfaction. It wasn't just the act of killing that gave him pleasure, but the feeling of absolute control over life and death. The power to decide who would live or die on that dark, cold night.

When the last scream finally died down, and the bar fell dead silent, Killer looked around, contemplating his handiwork. The wooden floor was completely submerged in blood, and the walls, stained with splashes of the vital liquid, seemed to pulse with a hallucinating negative energy.

He took a deep breath, smelling the acrid smell of blood mixed with the scent of aged wood and cheap alcohol, a combination that always made him smile. For Killer, that scene was the only truth he knew, the only moment he felt like the world made any sense.

Killer watched with a satisfied smile as the vibrant color of freshly spilled blood stained the dark wooden floor. Every drop, every splash that met the ground, contributed to the vast tapestry of terror and violence that now covered the bar. He moved with an unfazed calm, as if he were simply completing a meticulous job.

As he approached the counter, his footsteps were silent on the bloody floor. His boots, partially covered in bloodstains, did not make the slightest sound, and his concentrated gaze did not deviate from his task. The counter, a sturdy and dirty structure, was covered in old and new stains, a grotesque mixture that only accentuated the scene of carnage.

With a precise and calculated gesture, Killer opened the counter drawer and removed some dusty glasses. The glass was covered in a fine layer of dust, but he quickly wiped it away with his shirt sleeve, revealing the translucent surface. With glasses in hand, he headed to a shelf behind the counter where, among broken bottles and faded labels, he found a bottle of red wine. The liquid

The dark inside of the bottle seemed to glow beautifully in the dim light that filtered through the broken windows.

Killer removed the bottle in one fluid movement and placed it on the counter. His fingers slid over the bottle with reverent care, as if it were a newly discovered treasure. He removed the cork with a muffled click and, in a ritualistic gesture, poured the wine into the glass with almost ceremonial precision. The liquid flowed slowly, creating a striking contrast to the intense red of the blood on the floor. The glass filled with a ruby wine that seemed as alive as the blood that covered the aged wooden floor.

He raised the glass to the light, watching the waves of wine move gently, mixing with the reflection of the uncertain light that passed through the broken windows. The smile on his face widened, a gleam of satisfaction shining in his cold, black orbs. With a calculated movement, he lifted the glass and brought it to his lips, taking a sip with a calm that was almost dismissive. The taste of the wine mixed with the metallic odor of the blood, creating a combination he knew intimately.

Finishing his sip, Killer placed the glass back on the counter with a soft clang, his gaze slowly passing over the fallen bodies and the fresh blood that was now firmly soaked into the floor. The scenario he had created was perfect in its twisted vision of art and violence. It was a masterpiece of blood and control, a demonstration of his mastery over death and destruction. He was, indeed, an artist, and the bar, now drenched in red and dust, was his final canvas.

Killer remained motionless for a brief moment, contemplating the extent of his work. The bar, once a place of laughter, conversation and life, had turned into a chamber of nightmares, where the smell of fresh blood mixed with the rancid odor of ancient death. The wooden floor, once polished by the constant coming and going of boots and shoes, was now covered in a grotesque layer of viscous red, and the bodies, contorted in positions of final agony, lay like abandoned marionettes.

Only the distant sound of the wind whispering through the broken windows disturbed the silence that had settled in after the screams of horror had been brutally silenced. The monsters were now nothing more than dust, the last remnants of their existence mixed with the blood of those who had tried to survive.

Killer took a few steps towards one of the bodies, coldly observing the terrified expression still on the victim's face. The glassy eyes, open in a last and useless plea for mercy, reflected the flickering light of an almost extinguished candle in the corner of the bar. He crouched beside the corpse, running his fingers through the clotted blood around the slit throat, feeling the warm texture that was already beginning to cool. A shiver of satisfaction ran down his spine as he realized how his blade had done the job with surgical precision, the victim's life slipping through his hands like sand through his fingers.

Slowly standing up, Killer looked towards the bar door, still ajar, swaying slightly in the night breeze. Outside, the twilight shadows stretched out their icy fingers, as if wanting to invade the haven of death he had created. He knew he would eventually have to leave, but for now, the bar was a sanctuary, a place where he could revel in the consequences of his work without rushing.

With an almost meditative slowness, Killer returned to the counter, his boots leaving footprints marked in the blood, as if he wanted to engrave his trail in the very essence of the place. He picked up the bottle of wine and poured himself again, this time directly from the bottle, without worrying about the glass. The dark liquid ran down his throat, mixing with the metallic taste of blood he felt on his lips. Each sip seemed to revive memories of his actions, as if the wine carried with it the voices of the dead, whispering regrets and curses that would never be heard.

He then sat down on one of the still intact chairs, the weight of the enveloping silence pressing down on his shoulders. The room was filled with an unsettling calm, a pause between the storms he knew were coming. Killer let his head fall back slightly, his eyes staring up at the ceiling as he allowed the echoes of his darkest thoughts to wash over him.

“They will never understand”, he thought, his mind running through the tortuous paths of his justifications. Survival, for him, was a raw art, and death, an inevitable means of expression. The bar, now immersed in almost total darkness, had become a mausoleum, a monument to his cruel existence. He knew that soon the place would be just one of many in the darkness, infested by the creatures, but for now, he would let that scene burn itself into his memory, as a reminder of what he was and what he had become.

The strong aroma of alcohol mixed with the metallic odor of the blood around him, creating a dense and almost suffocating atmosphere. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, letting the bitter taste spread through his mouth, when a subtle movement caught his attention.

Coming from the broken windows, a light breeze carried something with it. A petal, solitary and delicate, floated through the heavy air of the bar. She danced with the wind, oblivious to the carnage below her, until she finally landed softly on the counter, next to her glass.

Killer watched her with a mix of curiosity and coldness. The petal was such a deep red that it almost blended in with the fresh bloodstains around it. Her eyes analyzed the object with precision, and a subtle smile appeared on her lips, carrying the sarcastic tone that was so natural to her.

To him, that petal seemed a perverse reminder that even in the midst of chaos and destruction, beauty insisted on manifesting itself, however ephemerally. He wondered, for a brief moment, about the meaning of that unexpected detail, but quickly dismissed the thought as irrelevant. After all, he was in his element, and nothing, not even a single strange petal, could distract him from the cold satisfaction he felt at finishing yet another bloody work.

Killer kept his gaze fixed on the petal for a few more seconds, as if he was deciding what to do with that fragment of intrusive beauty amidst his work of chaos. He reached out, his pale, skeletal, blood-stained fingers moving with almost meticulous precision, and touched the petal with his fingertips. It was soft, smooth, so different from the violence he had just committed. The irony of the moment was not lost on him — the red petal, so fragile and brief, was a stark contrast to the brutality he had imposed on everyone there.

With a carefree gesture, he let the petal slip from his fingers, falling to the dirty wooden floor, where it would soon be absorbed by the scene of destruction he had created. Killer sighed, a barely audible sound, and brought the glass to his lips again, taking another sip of the wine.

He leaned back against the counter, his eyes scanning the room one last time, assessing every detail of his work. Inert bodies scattered across the floor, their expressions frozen in masks of terror and pain, as dust danced in the air, illuminated by beams of light that entered through cracks in the walls.

The environment, already filled with a heavy atmosphere, plunged even further into darkness when the last torches wavered and went out, leaving the place almost immersed in complete darkness. The only remaining source of light came from the door, which slowly opened, revealing a cold and dense fog, gray as death, that enveloped the outside. The torches outside, once alive, were being extinguished one by one, as if something was absorbing the little life that still existed in that place.

Killer, accustomed to the nuances of fear and death, felt a slight discomfort run down his spine. An almost imperceptible movement, but his instincts led him to wield his knife with disguised readiness. Its orbits, accustomed to deciphering the darkness, captured what was approaching: a low figure, covered in tar, with tentacles that writhed on its back, the entity moved like a living shadow, invading the place with a presence that was both fascinating how disturbing, as she carried a rose in her hands, perhaps, the source of that single, delicate petal.

The dim light of the mist only partially illuminated the monster, revealing a peculiar, almost enchanting smile that clashed with the sharp canines that gleamed as the figure crossed the doorway. Killer, without moving a joint, watched intently, his gaze fixed on the unusual sight, his fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of the knife, prepared for any threat that might arise. However, instead of aggression, the figure displayed an almost aristocratic confidence, moving with a grace that seemed oblivious to the carnage around it.

The skeletal monster charged forward, its coal-black skin covered in goo that glistened in the dull light coming through the broken windows. Instead of a right eye, there was a void filled with the viscous substance that dripped, giving it a grotesquely attractive appearance, with its single thin greenish orb, fixed on Killer at all times. He walked among the bodies as if they were mere unimportant obstacles, his high-heeled boots stained in the fresh blood that covered the wooden floor, while the long overcoat that hung from his shoulders almost touched the corpses.

With an almost mocking elegance, the figure adjusted the scarf around his neck, as if preparing for a business meeting rather than being surrounded by death and destruction. Each movement was slow, deliberate, designed to attract Killer's gaze, who didn't dare take his attention away from that being. As he approached, the stranger stopped in front of him, the smile still fixed on his face, an expression that did not

he showed fear, but rather a peculiar satisfaction, as if he were standing before a work of art rather than a scene of carnage.

“May I sit down, Monsieur?” The voice came out with a rare courtesy, like that of a monarch who once had the entire court at his feet. It was an etiquette that seemed out of place in this setting, a distant memory of times when respect and decency still had value.

Killer, although he kept his guard up, nodded. His eyes never left the strange figure, which moved without haste, without fear. He gripped the knife a little tighter, hidden behind his back, but allowed the being to take a seat. The monster settled on the next bench, his legs crossing with an elegance that seemed almost natural, although he had no intention of seducing. He leaned his elbow on the counter and cocked his head slightly to the side with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was and who he was talking to.

The tension in the air was palpable, a mix of distrust and fascination. Killer, who had faced so many threats, found himself facing something new and intriguing. And yet here he was, sharing a peculiar moment with a monster who, like him, seemed to find morbid pleasure in the darkness.

Killer observed the figure in front of him with a calculating gaze, his mind working quickly to decipher the stranger's intentions. The monster, with his elegant air, seemed to enjoy playing with words, his voice carrying a seductive tone that, somehow, managed to disturb and attract Killer like blood spilled in expensive glasses.

"I see you did a great job here, I wonder how many times you've been doing this same thing..." The tar being commented with an almost casual lightness, as if he were praising a painting hanging in a gallery. With a fluid movement of his tentacles, he picked up the bottle of wine that Killer had set aside, as well as an extra glass. He wiped it with the black viscosity that emanated from his body and, without needing to use his hands, filled both glasses with sinister dexterity, offering a glass to the killer.

Killer accepted the wine with some reluctance, but he didn't stop watching the monster's every move. He took a sip of the drink, keeping the knife still firmly in his hand, ready for any unexpected action. Yet the figure continued to speak, its words like whispered venom.

"You're reaching your limit, you know? Boredom is starting to take over you. It can be seen in your works, my dear Monsieur." The monster's voice was soft, almost melodic, each syllable carefully intoned to resonate in the depths of Killer's psyche. The killer felt something stir inside him, a discomfort that didn't come from fear, but perhaps from recognition. It was true that lately the killings had become more automatic, less satisfying.

Even so, Killer maintained his posture, raising the cup to his lips and watching the monster over the rim. His cold eyes were attentive, analyzing every gesture, every word, looking for clues. "What do you want?" He asked, his voice thick with suspicion.

The monster smiled at that question, a smile that exposed his sharp canines even more. He leaned back against the counter with almost insolent confidence, using one of his tentacles to lift the glass to his lips, savoring the wine before answering. "Isn't it obvious? An assassin needs sponsorship, and a sponsor needs his assassin~"

Killer was silent for a moment, leaning back against the counter, intrigued by what this being could be suggesting. Interest began to rise in his chest, even as caution remained. "What are you talking about? How did you find me here?" He asked, curiosity mixed with a hint of irritation at being manipulated like this.

The monster took another sip from the cup, raising his hand with the rose and touching its petals delicately, in a smooth movement before responding, his voice low and engaging. "Creatures of the night always track blood from miles away, you should have known that since you were a silver hunter, right, Killer?"

The killer remained silent, the monster's words swirling in his mind like a snake coiling around prey. He knew he was dealing with something much bigger than a simple contractor. This being, covered in tar and darkness, knew more about him than anyone should know, and the fact that it revealed itself to be a creature of the night bothered him even more, because even if he was used to it, being so close reminded him of the day he it all started.

Killer kept his gaze fixed on the creature, trying to decipher its intentions behind that bizarre smile. The figure, covered in tar and darkness, seemed almost to become

having fun with the palpable tension in the air, as if he were perfectly at ease in that environment of death and decay. His tentacles moved with lethal grace, wrapping around the glass of wine as he took another sip, each movement exuding a strange combination of elegance and menace.

"You speak as if you've known me for ages," Killer said, his voice low but sharp like the blade he hid behind his back. "But I don't recognize your face. Should I?"

The monster let out a low laugh, a laugh that echoed through the empty bar, mixing with the wind that whispered through the broken windows. "Oh, but I know you, Killer. I know your work, your talent... and your tiredness." He paused, watching Killer with that penetrating gaze. "I'm just an admirer, a friend, someone who sees the potential in you, a potential that maybe you don't even understand. So I suggest that with the advice of a good friend, you put down that knife and be more… courteous."

Killer frowned suspiciously. "Admirer or manipulator? I don't trust anyone who appears out of nowhere with veiled promises."

The monster smiled wider, its sharp teeth gleaming in the gray light that still filtered through the cracks. "Manipulation is a strong word. I prefer the term influence. And I'm not here to make promises, but to offer an opportunity."

"What kind of opportunity?" Killer asked, curiosity finally breaking through his cautious facade, and so, he did as the monster asked, lowering his knife but keeping his guard up.

The monster leaned forward, tentacles reaching around Killer's nearly empty wine glass, refilling it as if with careful, gentle hands. "You're already bored, I can see that in your work. The deaths, although satisfying, are starting to lose their luster for you, aren't they? You seem like just another soul among many, just waiting for death to come to you." , even if you don't admit it." The creature gave a crooked smile, watching Killer's reactions with dark, glowing eyes. "I can provide you with challenges, a true hunt. Something that will ignite the fire within you again. And in return, all I ask for is food. A killer like you deserves a greater purpose and creatures of the night need to eat even during the day." Don't you think?"

Killer took another sip, his eyes never leaving the figure in front of him. What that being was offering was dangerous, yes, but at the same time, he couldn't deny that something inside him was stirring with the promise of a new challenge, after all, what would he lose in a world sinking into misery? The routine of killing simple survival had become boring, almost meaningless. It was true that he only surreptitiously waited for death to take hold of his soul, and his main objective that night was to wait in the darkness until the creatures appeared and butchered him alive. But it seems that his plan of life - or rather, of death - went down the drain due to that strange creature in front of him, or rather, a creature of the night who had theappearance of a monster.

And his idea of  a real hunt, of a greater purpose, was tempting.

Killer watched the creature with a mixture of fascination and skepticism. The revelation that that being was a creature of the night, one of the entities that populated the shadows of the world, left him even more intrigued. He wondered why such a powerful creature would need the help of a mere mortal like him.

“Why would a creature of the night need a mortal like me?” Killer asked, voice thick with disbelief. “You already dominate the earth. What could an assassin like me offer you that you can’t get for yourself?”

The monster smiled with a touch of mischief and a gleam of hidden wisdom in its orbs. “Even creatures of the night have their needs, Killer. We need more than just our nature to survive and thrive. Feeding on blood is not all we seek. Sometimes we need something that goes beyond our own essence, something that helps us maintain our influence and power, something like amortal.”

Killer tilted his head, pondering the monster's words. “You seem to be more aware than any creature of the night I have ever encountered. It's not typical for you guys. How can you communicate with such clarity and rationality when most creatures of the night act in more primitive and instinctive ways?”

The monster took another sip of its wine, its tentacles moving with an almost hypnotic rhythm. “This is a private matter and mine alone, Killer. What I can tell you is that there are forms and levels of existence that you still do not fully understand. Mortals who are spared a worse fate can sometimes transcend the common condition of creatures of the night. If you survive long enough and know what to do, you might come to understand.”

The monster's enigmatic tone was clear, but it still left Killer with more questions than answers. “Who are you then, if you can differentiate yourself like that from other creatures of the night?”

The monster leaned forward, his smile widening almost triumphantly. “My name is Nightmare. I am the Lord of the night, an entity of greater power and influence than you could imagine. And now, as you know, you are in a position where you can benefit greatly from a sponsor like me.”

The name “Nightmare” seemed to carry a special weight, a title that suggested a position of authority and deep control. Killer felt a mix of respect and apprehension. The idea of working for such a powerful entity was both an opportunity and a colossal risk.

Nightmare raised his glass in a gesture of silent celebration, his dark eyes fixed on Killer with almost palpable expectation. "So, Killer, will you accept the offer of a sponsor that isn't just limited to shadow and blood, but can provide a greater purpose and a reward for your loyalty?"

"Suppose I accept your offer," Killer began, his voice cautious. "What exactly would I have to do?"

The monster smiled, a wide smile full of hidden intentions. "Ah, that, my dear monsieur, you will discover in time. But I can assure you that it will be something worthy of your skills. And, of course, my investment."

Killer contemplated the invitation, his gaze straying to the surrounding scene of carnage and then returning to Nightmare's calculating gaze. For a moment, Killer hesitated, but then, with a subtle, calculating smile, he raised his glass, tapping it lightly against the monster's. “So be it.”

The two drank in silence, sealing what seemed to be the beginning of an alliance as dangerous as it was mysterious. The light from the torches outside finally went out, plunging the bar into a deep darkness where only the residual glow of the wine and the sporadic gleam of the monster's sharp teeth could be seen. Killer knew he had crossed a line, a line from which there would be no return. But in his chest, the flame of excitement was lit again, and he yearned incessantly about what might be coming.

The light from the torches, now non-existent, left the bar immersed in darkness, and the sound of Nightmare's breathing mixed with the atmosphere full of tension and expectation. Killer knew he was about to enter an even more complex world, and somehow that excited him.

Nightmare extended his hand elegantly, holding the rose full of thorns, with a graceful gesture, and his smile was an implicit invitation for Killer to join him. Its single cyan orbs glowed with an intensity that caught the light of the few remaining torches, and the monster's aura seemed almost ethereal, as if it itself were a living shadow.

Killer hesitated for a moment, his gaze fixed on the outstretched hand and the rose. The hesitation was brief, and he brought his own hand closer with calculated caution. Upon making contact, he felt an unusual sensation—a subtle, unsettling energy, almost as if invisible magic enveloped his fists, sending goosebumps down his spine. Nightmare's smile widened with satisfaction, as if the pact between them was now sealed with an ineffable power, while Killer's palm bled with the rose's thorns, mixing with Nightmare's black goo.

With the glass still in his hand, Nightmare stood with the grace of a nobleman, his slender figure standing out against the shadowy background of the bar. His other hand intertwined with Killer's fingers, he guided him with a fluid and determined movement towards the exit. Each step was taken with lightness, and Killer found himself captivated by Nightmare's almost disturbing elegance.

In the middle of the bar, Nightmare stopped abruptly. Her tentacles extended, and with an almost imperceptible movement, she lifted a fallen corpse from the ground. The body, still with fresh blood gushing from an open wound, was lifted with a mixture of disgust and fascination. Nightmare positioned the cup under the corpse's throat, capturing the blood in a continuous flow, as if it were the finest nectar. He then threw his body back to the ground with a dismissive gesture, his expression remaining unfazed.

He lifted the cup, now filled with scarlet blood, and took a long drink. The wine that poured from the cup had the same deep, red hue, and Nightmare smiled as he tasted the blood as if it were a divine delicacy. The taste seemed to be an unusual satisfaction, a delight that went beyond simple worldly pleasures.

Killer watched the scene with a mixture of fascination and curiosity. The new stranger, with his sophisticated manners and supernatural abilities, had just made a pact with him. The presence of Nightmare, a monster of such magnitude and complexity, awakened a series of questions in Killer's mind.

The shadows in the bar seemed to lengthen and deepen as they passed together through the door and away from the bar. Fresh blood still stained the wooden floor, and the scene of carnage, now immortalized in the dim light, seemed to echo with a mixture of triumph and terror. Killer felt like he was on the cusp of something monumental and curious, a world that could extend beyond simple nights of murder and blood.

Killer barely had time to process the strange sensation of an enveloping, slimy presence before, with a snap of Nightmare's fingers, darkness overtook them. The shadows, in a fluid and voracious movement, expanded from Nightmare's tentacles that wrapped them like a package and dragged themselves across the stage, forming a black mass that swallowed light and sound. It was a darkness so dense and palpable that it seemed to have an existence of its own, as if space and time itself were distorting in front of it. The enveloping darkness seemed to have an almost liquid texture, clinging to his bones and permeating his thoughts with an intense cold. Each attempt to escape only sank him deeper, and the weight of the darkness seemed to intensify, crushing his senses and his deepest fears.

Killer felt a sudden, violent pull, as if invisible claws were grabbing his feet and dragging him down, tearing at his bones and soul. His screams, an echo of terror and surprise, mixed with the screams he himself had caused earlier, distorted and amplified by the darkness. The feeling of being consumed by something undefined and negative was accompanied by the familiar and disturbing voices of people from his turbulent past, whose words and screams reverberated in the shadows like distorted and accusatory memories.

When the pitch finally lifted, Killer found himself in a completely different scenario. He was sitting on the damp grass of a cloud forest, surrounded by tall, dead trees whose leaves had long since disappeared. The sky above was a hazy mix of gray and black, crows flew perching in the trees watching the new visitor, and the surroundings seemed constantly shrouded in a dense, impenetrable fog. The ground was covered in a thick layer of dry leaves and broken twigs, and the air smelled heavily of roses, as if the forest itself were in mourning.

In the center of the scene stood an imposing castle of black stone, with Gothic architecture that stood like a shadowy monolith against the hazy backdrop. The castle's towers were tall and angular, ending in razor-sharp spiers, and the windows were like empty, lifeless eyes that surveyed their surroundings with a desolate coldness. The castle walls were covered in moss, and although the castle was gloomy, it still had the elegance matching Nightmare. The large gates, decorated with complex symbols and runes, stood ajar as if awaiting the arrival of a fated visitor.

As Killer tried to process the magnitude and oppressive presence of the castle, Nightmare appeared before him, stepping out of the shadows with an imposing bearing. Opening his arms theatrically and raising his tentacles in a posture that seemed both welcoming and threatening, Nightmare wore a smile of satisfaction and pride.

“Welcome to my domain. And now... your home” said Nightmare, his voice resonating with an echo that seemed to blend in with the dark surroundings.

Killer carefully observed the surroundings of the castle, his gaze getting lost in the thorny rose bushes that formed a natural wall around the imposing black stone structure. The rose bushes were dense and intertwined, with sharp thorns that seemed to protect the castle from any unwanted intrusion. The fog that shrouded the castle gathered around the rose bushes, adding a touch of beauty and an air of menace to the scene.

His thought wandered to the small red rose petal that had landed on the bar counter. He clearly remembered the petal, so delicate and beautiful, that it seemed so out of place amidst the massacre and carnage that had unfolded there. Now, as he looked at the thorny rose bushes that surrounded the castle, a subtle understanding began to form in his mind.

Killer smiled with a mixture of malice and mockery of fate's sarcasm. The pact he had made with Nightmare seemed to lead to an experience far deeper than anything he had encountered thus far. The castle and the rose bushes represented a new layer of darkness, a darkness that was not merely what he knew from the mortal world. He understood that despite his previous experiences, there was an even deeper and more primal dimension of darkness that was now unfolding before him.

The little red petal he had seen seemed like a premonitory symbol, an indication that he was about to enter a realm where darkness was not just an absence of light, but a living, pulsating force, governed by an entity that truly understood the world. true meaning of terror and darkness. Killer's smile widened as he realized that, unlike his previous experiences, he was now faced with genuine darkness, something that transcended the limitations of the mortal world and delved into a dimension of pure, immersive evil.

As his eyes continued to roam the thorny rose bushes and the castle of shadows, Killer felt a mixture of excitement and curiosity. The pact with Nightmare had opened a door to a new experience in his life, where he found himself on the threshold of discovering the true scope of power and darkness that his new home had to offer.

In the end…

UntilRose in nightmare's hands had thorns, and with the thorns, the darkness made into a rose bush was born.

Chapter Text

The worn stones of the castle exuded a damp chill that seeped into his bones, even through the layers of cloth he wore. The place seemed to have been abandoned for ages, every surface covered in a layer of dust so thick that it bore witness to the ineffable passage of time. The darkness there was almost tangible, as if the light had been expelled from that space by an unknown force, a negative energy that Killer knew all too well. The silence was so dense that any noise, no matter how small, echoed through the corridors like a distant scream, intensifying the feeling of isolation and desolation.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head between his hands, leaning forward in clear frustration. His bones were soaked with an icy dampness that seemed to have been absorbed from the walls themselves during the night. The feeling of cold that invaded him was almost as unbearable as the weight of the memories that still hung over him. His thoughts were a confused whirlwind, where glimpses of the night before appeared like disturbing flashes: fragments of violence, threatening whispers, and the suffocating presence of Nightmare, the Dark Lord. The memory of that being oppressed his mind, a constant shadow that seemed to cling to every thought, every breath.

His recent servitude still made him curious, just as it surprisingly terrified him. It had only been a week since he had submitted to the service of that shadowy being, sealing a contract where the price of any failure was life itself. There was no turning back, no mercy. The only certainty he had was that each dawn could be his last. Despite feeling a morbid fascination and satisfaction at being so close to such a vast and merciless power, the constant threat of annihilation was overwhelming. The feeling of duality was confusing to Killer, but he only knew that he liked feeling so threatened, after all, it was a kind of fun he had acquired since moving to this castle.

As his dark orbs moved around the room like a restless specter, he couldn't help but wonder how he was still alive. It was as if fate was toying with him, granting him an ephemeral extension of life only to keep him on the edge of the abyss. Every breath was heavy, the air thick with the weight of innocent people's blood on his hands and unfulfilled promises. The walls seemed to whisper stories about his life, about the sane person he once was, reminding him of his mental decay over the years... since the "awakening" happened.

Serving Nightmare was like walking on a sharp blade, where the balance between power and annihilation was precarious. He knew that every false step could be his last. But as he watched the shadows move slowly under the influence of the few lit torches, he understood that, for now, the price of his survival was to continue playing the Dark Lord's game - a game where victory seemed increasingly distant and defeat inevitable. And that excited Killer, as if he were walking on a thin rope, where what was at stake was his own life.

Killer's room was a silent paradox, a singular haven of peace in the midst of the chaos that was his life. There, in the corridors of the castle, he found a sanctuary that ironically reminded him of the last field of roses in his old town, now reduced to ashes and ruins.

The walls were covered in an elaborate pattern of dark vines, whose intertwined leaves seemed to create a complex web of shadows and lights. The stained glass windows, tall and gothic, let in a softly filtered light that cast ruddy reflections on the heavy velvet curtains. The bed, large and imposing, was the center of the space, covered in luxurious fabrics that fell gently to the floor, like a cascade of blood. The sheets and pillows, all in shades of deep red, seemed to whisper memories of better days, before the smell of death and the constant need to fight for survival.

Above the bed, a large chandelier hung from the ceiling, its arms twisted like the branches of a weathered tree, holding candles that flickered in the dim light, casting dancing shadows across the walls. The soft light of the candles accentuated the contrast between the luxury of the room and the brutality of the outside world, creating an atmosphere that was both welcoming and melancholy.

It was here, between these four walls, that Killer found a fragment of genuine peace. It wasn't the pleasure of killing, it wasn't the bloodshed that comforted him, but the memory of a past life, of a time when fields of roses bloomed under a clear sky. This room, with its red flowers entwined in the windows and the heavy atmosphere, was the only place where he could breathe without the constant weight of darkness on his shoulders. Every detail of the room, from the roses that seemed to spring from the shadows to the silence that reigned there, offered him a respite, an illusion that, for a brief moment, peace could be found in the midst of destruction.

However, he knew that this peace was fleeting, that this comfort was only temporary. Just as the roses in his city were decimated, he feared that eventually even this refuge would be snatched away from him. But until then, he would allow himself these moments of stillness, of reconciliation with what remained of his humanity, before returning to the darkness that awaited him beyond the bedroom doors.

He felt the weight on his soul, like an invisible anchor pulling him down into the depths of pain that never ceased. The screams of pain and agony echoed in his mind, but this time it wasn't the victims of his blade. It was them. The creatures that had taken everything from him, the ones that, even though he now served a dark being, he never stopped hating.

Those damned women had taken away everything he valued: his house, his home, his family... Every memory of that past stuck in his mind like daggers. He could still taste the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, the viscous heat running through his fingers. The scene repeated itself like a curse, every detail burned into his memory, every second of that eternal massacre. His soul seemed to beat wildly in his chest, a storm of despair and rage, and once again, he gasped. His hands were shaking, sweaty and cold, as he squeezed the reddish target on his chest, as if he wanted to rip the pain out by the roots.

His vision blurred, taking him back to that fateful night, to the white snow he had once loved, but which was now nothing but an icy, bitter memory. The landscape that had once brought peace and joy had become a scene of horror and despair. He swore he could still hear the laughter of his loved ones, see their warm smiles, their eyes shining with affection... But all that was fading away, replaced by giant footprints in the snow and the fire that was consuming his city, turning everything he loved into ashes and darkness. And there, standing in the middle of that chaos, he found himself laughing - a mad, uncontrolled laugh, the laugh of a man who had nothing left to lose.

Killer clutched the blanket he was sitting on tightly, trying to hold back the scream that rose in his throat, the desperate desire to beg time to come back, to end his life that night. But he couldn't. His soul, so corrupted by hatred and the desire for revenge, still pulsed with a single purpose: to destroy those damned creatures who had condemned him to that miserable existence. Until he felt the pleasure of complete vengeance, until he saw their blood dyeing the snow he despised so much, he would not give in to death. Not yet.

The comfort that the room offered him was not enough to extinguish the fire that burned inside him, the flame that kept him alive, even when peace seemed so tempting. He knew that death awaited him, but not before he had satisfied his rage, taken revenge for everything that had been taken from him. And until then, he would cling to that anger, that hatred that kept him on his feet, that prevented him from falling into the final darkness. Because, deep down, he knew that as long as he had something to hate, he was still somehow benign.

The storm washed over Killer like a relentless wave, sweeping over him with a force he couldn't control. His scarlet soul began to beat fast, hammering against his chest as if it wanted to explode. The air around him suddenly seemed denser, almost suffocating, as he tried in vain to draw in a full breath. It was as if his body was drowning, trapped in a tide of panic that rose up from the depths of his soul, swallowing him whole.

His thoughts began to spin in a whirlpool of pain and despair, memories and fears intertwined in a storm that never let up. He saw, in disturbing flashes, the loving hand entwined with his own, the blood of the one he loved and the fear he felt, and still feels today. The walls of the room came closer to him, as if they wanted to crush him, and he couldn't distinguish between the past and the present. Everything was a blur of pain and agony, the images of his burning city superimposed on the darkness of the room.

Killer's hands trembled uncontrollably, squeezing the blanket until his knuckles stiffened almost completely. Cold sweat dripped down his face, mixing with the stinging tears he couldn't allow himself to shed. He was lost in that sea of panic, the sound of his ragged breathing filling the silence of the room like a symphony of despair. The weight on his chest was unbearable, as if an invisible hand was squeezing his soul, trying to crush him. He wanted to scream, to tear that pain out of him, but he was paralyzed, trapped in his own body.

With every beat of his soul, every second that passed, the crisis intensified, the screams and laughter becoming unbearable. He was back in that hell of snow and fire, trapped in an endless repetition of his own tragedy, with no way out, no relief. The laughter echoed in his mind, cruel, mocking his pain, and the infinite white of the snow blinded him, suffocated him, until he felt he could bear it no longer.

Then, at the height of his anguish, something began to change. Slowly, like a ray of light piercing the darkness, he began to feel the cold stone floor beneath his feet and the sound of a bell, the same bell he had heard all week at the same time, replacing the snow that always seemed to be there. The solid, firm feel of the stone beneath his bones was a tangible reminder that he was in the present, not the past. His breathing, which had previously been a painful effort, began to soften, the air filling his joints more easily.

Killer still felt his soul racing, but now there was a rhythm, a control that was beginning to re-establish itself. The images that tormented him began to dissipate, like smoke blown by the wind, giving way to the reality of where he really was. He forced his orbits to adjust to the familiar darkness of his room, focusing on the shapes that emerged from the contours of the bed, the soft glow of the candles, the shadows dancing on the walls. Slowly, he began to remember where he was, who he was now.

With a final, deep sigh, Killer felt the anguish finally release its grip on him. The weight on his chest eased, his hands stopped shaking, and the feeling of suffocation dissipated. He loosened the blanket, feeling his bones relax, and allowed his feet to sink into the mattress more lightly.

His orbits, once cloudy and full of terror, were now clearer, focused on the reality around him. He was in his new room, not in the city ravaged by darkness. The cold stone floor beneath his feet was real, a reminder that the night had not yet completely consumed him. The restless peace of that room enveloped him once again, and Killer, although aware of the shadows that awaited him outside, found a vestige of sanity to cling to.

For a moment, he was safe. For a moment, the storm had passed.

The sound of the bell echoed through the room, a sound that had become familiar, almost an addictive soundtrack to the last seven days. Killer turned his head slowly, his tired eyes focusing on the rope beside the bed, swaying gently as if it were calling him, insistent, tireless. He sighed deeply, the air escaping his soul in an expression of exhaustion that seemed to weigh more heavily every day.

He slid onto the mattress, feeling the softness that, in other circumstances, might have been comforting, but which was now just a reminder of how exhausted he was. With mechanical movements, he stood up, adjusting his black underwear against the reddish Ecto, a fabric that clung to him like a second skin. His hand instinctively went to his neck, rubbing the base with a tired gesture, as if trying to massage the chronic tension that lodged there, an ache that had never completely left him during his 30 years.

His steps were slow, dragging, as if each movement required more energy than he had to give. The previous night had been unfortunate, even by Killer's standards. Of course, more killing, as usual, but with a touch of horror that he didn't often experience. Invading a creature's nest, facing that kind of abomination, was something that left him exhausted in ways he preferred not to analyze too closely. The image of the confrontation still haunted his mind, a memory he tried to erase but which insisted on remaining, like a persistent shadow.

As he entered the bathroom, he saw his reflection in the mirror. The orbs that stared back at him were surrounded by deep dark circles under his eyes, the marks of sleepless nights, of the decay that was settling in on him like a slow, relentless disease. He stared at his own image for a long moment, as if trying to find some trace of the person he had once been. But all he found was a worn-out figure, a man who survived by sheer stubbornness, or perhaps by a desire for revenge that still burned somewhere inside him. A nasal laugh escaped from his nose, dry and devoid of humor. His life had become a pathetic joke, an endless cycle of violence, pain and exhaustion.

With a sigh, he opened the cupboard behind the mirror, revealing the pills that had become his constant companions. They were the same pills he carried in his bag, a fine line that kept him sane, or at least as sane as was possible for someone in his situation. And when sleep refused to come, when the silence of the night became unbearable, he would take them in excess, drowning himself in alcohol and medicines, seeking in the substances some temporary relief, some escape away from the demons that haunted him.

He took some of the pills, looking at them for a moment before swallowing them without hesitation. Then he washed his face in the sink, letting the cold water relieve, however briefly, the tiredness that weighed him down. As he dried himself with the towel, he felt a glimmer of clarity returning, a small window of sanity that he knew wouldn't last long.

Returning to the center of the room, he picked up his uniform from the rack. The dark, heavy fabric had molded itself to his body over time, like practical armor, an extension of himself. Then he picked up the set of knives he always carried with him, each blade a faithful companion in his life. Killer ran his fingers along the blades, feeling the cold of the metal against his bones, which brought him back to the present with bitter clarity.

~~

"Did you get a good night's rest? I think I saw too much for one person yesterday," Nightmare's voice was soft, almost melodious, but it carried a hint of irony that didn't go unnoticed. He was sitting at the dining table, his hands delicately under his glove, handling the fork and knife with almost supernatural precision. In front of him was a plate adorned with what looked like a fine meal, although Killer couldn't say exactly what it was - or preferred not to know.

Nightmare brought the goblet to his lips, sipping the thick, red liquid which, in any other context, could easily be mistaken for a rare wine. But Killer knew very well what was in that goblet, and the way Nightmare savored the blood only reinforced the sadism that emanated from every word, every gesture. The whole scene had a surreal, almost theatrical quality, as if everything was a carefully rehearsed act for his enjoyment.

Across the table, Killer nodded silently, his eyes fixed on some point on the table, avoiding Nightmare's penetrating gaze. Exhaustion weighed on him like an anchor, and the memory of the night before was still fresh in his mind - the horrors he had faced, the bloodshed, the feeling of being on the verge of collapse. He knew that Nightmare was aware of everything, that his question was not an expression of concern, but a way of reveling in his servant's misery.

Killer clenched his jaw, controlling the urge to respond in a scathing way, to throw all the hatred and contempt he felt in Nightmare's face. But he knew it would be pointless, not least because he knew that if he had refused this job, his head would probably have been served to the creatures. Instead, he remained silent, a somber and stoic figure in the face of his master's overwhelming presence. He was a pawn in that cruel game, and as much as anger burned inside him, the need to survive spoke louder.

Nightmare watched him with an almost affectionate smile, like a predator who delights in toying with its prey before the final blow. He seemed to revel in the palpable tension in the room, in Killer's resigned stillness. "I hope you have the energy for what comes next," Nightmare added, his voice low and laden with irony.

Killer just closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, mentally preparing himself. He knew that hell wasn't over yet. In fact, it had only just begun.

Nightmare set the goblet down on the table with a slow, deliberate movement, the sound of crystal against wood echoing softly through the room. Its single cyan orb, like a deceptively endless sea, locked onto Killer with an almost hypnotic intensity. "I'm sure you're looking forward to the next mission... But I wonder if you'll actually make it," he said, his voice laden with an unshakeable confidence, a subtext of superiority veiled in every syllable. He lifted a piece of meat with his fork, examining it with a slight smile, as if the conversation was just a game to him, something to pass the time between feasts.

Killer watched from his position, his fingers drumming lightly on the table in a gesture that barely disguised his unease. "Looking forward to it, of course," he replied, his tone casual, almost nonchalant. A smile formed on his lips, laden with a weary sarcasm, as if he were mocking his own situation. "Because, after all, who wouldn't want another night of fun and screaming?"

Nightmare raised an eyebrow, interested but not surprised. "Oh, you seem to be getting used to all this, monsieur," he retorted softly, the hint of a smile curving the corner of his mouth. "Perhaps even beginning to really enjoy serving me?" The suggestion hung in the air, a sweet poison disguised as courtesy.

Killer let out a short, humorless laugh. "Like it? Well, when life gives you lemons, right?" He raised an eyebrow back, his expression amused, but his eyes betrayed the weariness that had taken root in his soul. "Maybe I should write a survival guide for aspiring servants of creatures of the night," he continued, sarcasm dripping from his words. "Chapter one: How to pretend you have any choice." His voice was light, almost playful, but the bitterness was unmistakable.

Nightmare watched him for a long moment, his orbs glowing with a mixture of fascination and something else, something predatory. He savored Killer's every word, every note of disguised defiance, like a rare wine that should be enjoyed slowly. "You really are a rare jewel, Killer," he finally said, with a tone that bordered on affection, although tinged with a subtle threat. "But be careful, even the toughest jewels can break under pressure."

Killer held Nightmare's gaze for a few seconds, his expression never wavering. "Ah, but the beauty of jewels, my lord," he replied, with a slightly insolent tone, "is that they shine even brighter when they threaten to break." The answer was bold, but he knew it was the game he had to play-provoke, but without crossing the line, always keeping to the fine line between insubordination and submission.

Nightmare laughed softly, a sound that reverberated through the hall like distant thunder. "We shall see, monsieur, we shall see," he said, the satisfaction evident in his voice. "But for now, I hope you're prepared. After all, I don't want you to lose your luster too soon."

Killer just shrugged, lifting the fork to his lips, as if what came next was just another mundane task on his endless list of horrors. "I'll be shining, sir," he replied, a glimmer of something dangerous behind his tired smile. "To the last drop."

Nightmare nodded slightly, approving the comment with an air of finality. The meal continued, each lost in their own thoughts, but the subtext of the conversation hung heavy in the air, a dance of words that only the two of them could fully understand. The next move was to come, and they both knew that the board was ready, the pieces in motion. It was only a matter of time before the next act began.

Nightmare put down the cutlery with a careful gesture, crossing his hands in front of him as he fixed his sharp gaze on Killer. There was an air of anticipation in the air, as if the true purpose of that conversation was finally about to be revealed. "Your next task," he began, his voice silky with a hint of command, "will take you to the city of Delphi."

Killer raised an eyebrow, not trying to hide his surprise. "Delphi? Wasn't that a place to go for a walk in the old days?" The attempt at humor barely disguised the displeasure in his voice. He knew that Delphi had fallen into ruin, now a lair for everything that crawled and hid in the shadows.

Nightmare continued, ignoring Killer's comment. "The city is under the domination of the creatures of the night," he explained, as if he were describing a trivial fact. "The population has been devoured or transformed, and what remains are beings thirsty for blood and chaos. It's a place where darkness reigns, where light is only a distant memory." He paused, allowing his words to seep into Killer's already weary mind. "So I suggest you set off during the day, when the creatures are still weak and sleepy."

Killer tilted his head, studying Nightmare suspiciously. "And what's the point of that? You certainly wouldn't send me there just for a sightseeing tour. What do you want from Delphi?" He felt there was more to it, something important enough for Nightmare to send him to such a dangerous place.

Nightmare smiled, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "You're right, my dear. I wouldn't send you to such an abyssal place without a clear objective. I need you to retrieve something for me. A box." He made a vague gesture, as if he could already see the object in his mind. "It's a dark wooden box with silver details. Inside, there are items of great value to me." His tone suggested that the contents of the box were something more than simple treasures. Something more... significant.

Killer crossed his arms, pondering Nightmare's words. "And what exactly is in this box that's so important? Because it seems I'm risking more than usual for a simple object."

Nightmare leaned forward, the intensity in his gaze growing. "What's inside is none of your concern, Killer. Just know that your success will be well rewarded." He leaned back in his chair, his countenance returning to its calculated calm. "Three bags of golden Deltas. A generous sum, especially in times like these, when money seems to be worthless, but it can still guarantee you a comfortable survival in the cities that remain."

Killer let out a sigh, running his hand over his skull as if trying to ease the weight of the task. "So that's it? A wooden box in a city infested with horrors. Sounds easy," he commented, the irony evident in his tone, but the weariness that had overwhelmed him since the night before still echoed in his words. He knew that nothing was as simple as it seemed, especially when Nightmare was involved.

Nightmare watched him for a moment, his expression inscrutable. "Easy or not, the task is yours, and the reward is waiting for you. I suggest you don't delay. Delphi is not a place to waste time."

Killer remained silent, his thoughts racing ahead, imagining the difficulties he would face in Delphi. Finally, he gave a slight, resigned nod. "Understood. Let's see what I can find in that damned city," he muttered, already feeling the weight of the mission on his shoulders.

Nightmare smiled again, satisfied. "Excellent. I'm sure you'll bring what I need. And who knows, maybe you'll even find a bit more fun along the way." He raised his glass again, as if to toast the journey Killer was about to embark on, while the shadow of the mission hung like a dark cloud over them both.

Nightmare watched Killer for a few moments, the silence between them laden with unspoken intentions. The soft clink of the cup as he set it back down on the table was the only sound that filled the void. "Tomorrow morning, then," said Nightmare, ending the conversation with a calm that only he could maintain. "Make sure you're prepared. Delphi doesn't forgive carelessness."

Killer let out an exasperated sigh, leaning back slightly in his chair. "Ready? I'm always prepared," he replied, sarcasm dripping from his words, but the fatigue in his gaze told another story. Even so, he knew that arguing further with Nightmare would be pointless. There was no room for negotiation; there were only orders to be carried out and tasks to be accomplished. "I'll bring your box, but I hope those bags of Deltas aren't filled with chocolate coins," he added, trying to disguise his apprehension with humor, even though his soul was heavy.

Nightmare, not bothering to reply directly, just gave him a look of restrained amusement. "You have my oath, Killer," he said in a final tone, with a subtle hint of menace wrapped around the promise. "The coins will be genuine, and your life, if you're lucky, will remain yours."

Killer didn't answer, he just shook his head almost imperceptibly, accepting the burden that had been imposed on him. He knew there was no room for hesitation. When dealing with Nightmare, the price of failure was always death, and not a quick or merciful one.

He pushed back his chair and stood up slowly, his movements reflecting his mental exhaustion, but his disguise maintaining itself to please that negative being. "If there's nothing else, I think I'll retire. I need all the rest I can get before I dive into that city."

Nightmare made a slight gesture with his hand, dismissing him. "Rest, Killer. Tomorrow, you'll need every ounce of strength you have left." His voice was calm, but there was something in his tone that told Killer that his rest would be brief and possibly insufficient.

Killer took one last look at Nightmare, his thoughts briefly wandering to what he would find in Delphi. He didn't like mysteries, especially when they involved dark beings, but now he had no choice. "Good evening, sir," he said, bowing before turning to leave the hall.

As he walked through the castle corridors, his footsteps echoing off the cold stone walls, Killer felt the weight of the job settling on his shoulders. He was used to dangerous missions, but something about Delphi bothered him. He had visited the city once before with his old family, when it was still beautiful and festive. And he hated the idea of revisiting his past.

When he reached his room, he pushed open the door and entered, closing it behind him with a heavy sigh. Exhaustion overtook him as he threw himself on the bed, but his thoughts were still racing, full of images and possible scenarios of what he might find the next day. The wooden box with the silver details... Why did Nightmare want it so badly? And what were the items he needed?

These questions danced in his mind as he stared at the ceiling, knowing that sleep would be hard to come by that night. Even with the sarcastic humor and the facade of bravado, he felt discomfort and unease growing in his chest. The city of Delphi was just another destination on his never-ending list, but something told him that this mission would be... curious. Perhaps more lethal, more personal, in some way that he still couldn't understand.

Finally, forcing his mind to quieten down, he closed his eyes, allowing the physical fatigue to overwhelm him. Tomorrow would be a new day, a new hell to face. And he would do it as he always did-with sarcasm, strength, and the increasingly fragile hope that, perhaps, one day he would find something more than just survival in a world that seemed determined to destroy him.

~~

The first ray of light seeped through the heavy curtains of Killer's room, bringing with it the uncomfortable reminder that the new day had already begun. He awoke slowly, his senses adjusting to the familiar surroundings, but his mind remaining clouded by the remnants of a sleep that was anything but restorative.

Killer rolled onto his side and lay there for a few moments, staring at the ceiling as if hoping that the answers to his doubts and worries were hidden there. But the ceiling, like the rest of the world, remained mute. He let out a deep sigh, knowing that being late was not an option. Nightmare expected him to be on his way to Delphi at dawn, and although he felt like staying there, hiding in his refuge of dark fabrics and silence, reality was pulling him away.

With a low groan, Killer threw his legs off the bed and sat on the edge, running his hands over his face to ward off the exhaustion that still stuck to him like a shadow. His bare feet touched the cold stone floor, a shock that brought him a little closer to reality. The room was shrouded in a cozy dimness, the air charged with the subtle scent of the red roses that decorated the space, a stark contrast to the day that awaited him.

He stood up with a slow movement, walking over to the dressing table where a small oval mirror reflected his worn image. The dark circles under his eyes were still there, dark and deep, a reminder of the price his body and mind were paying for each sleepless night.

Without thinking too much, he picked up the jug of water on the table and poured some into his hands, splashing the cold liquid on his face. The sensation was invigorating, but just enough to clear away the fog that still hung over his thoughts. He dried his face with a towel and began to get ready, moving with an efficiency that came from years of practice.

His uniform was folded on a nearby chair, impeccable as always. Killer put on the dark clothes with automatic movements, the familiarity of the fabric against his false skin bringing a strange comfort. The heavy leather jacket, the sturdy pants and the boots with reinforced soles. Each piece was a shield against the outside world, an armor he put on to be prepared for his momentary amusement and a pleasure that wouldn't satisfy him later.

Then his hands moved to the set of knives hanging on the wall next to him. He examined them one by one, checking the sharp blades, before attaching them to the belt around his waist. These knives had always been with him, even when he was a silver hunter, and he didn't feel truly complete without them by his side.

As he adjusted his belt and slid the blades into their respective sheaths, his mind briefly wandered to the possible course of the day ahead. A box, nothing more than an object that Nightmare desired. But to retrieve it, he would have to cross a city dominated by creatures of the night, beings who had nothing but hatred and hunger in their corrupted hearts. The task seemed simple, but Killer knew he couldn't let his guard down for a second.

Finally, he grabbed his last essential item: a small but sturdy pouch containing basic supplies and some of the pills he used to keep his sanity intact. He hesitated for a moment, looking at the bag with an expression that mixed contempt and need, before finally attaching it to his belt as well. Survival, he thought, was a cruel joke in times like these.

Ready to leave, Killer took one last look around the room. The roses, the elegant furniture and the red and black details. This place, as gloomy as it was, had become his refuge, the only place where he allowed himself to feel something close to comfort. But now, duty called, and he knew that when he walked out of that door, he would leave behind any trace of peace he had found.

He walked to the door and opened it, the castle corridor stretching out in front of him like an endless road. Killer let out one last heavy sigh before leaving, closing the door behind him with a soft click. Every step he took echoed off the stone walls, and the reverberating sound seemed to mark the beginning of yet another journey, yet another fight for survival in a world that always seemed to be on the verge of collapse.

Killer walked through the winding corridors of the castle, his footsteps echoing softly against the ancient stones. The light was dim, filtered only by the gloomy stained glass windows that shrouded the room in eternal gloom. He walked on, focused on his thoughts, when something peculiar caught his eye as he turned a corner.

In front of him was a dark wooden table, finely carved but covered in a little wax that fell from the lighted candles that warmed anyone who came near. On the table, an arrangement of wilted flowers rested sadly in a vase, their stems bent as if carrying the weight of death itself. The decay of the flowers matched the atmosphere of the castle, where life seemed to be a distant and forgotten concept. Above the table, a large, dusty mirror reflected his figure, but the glow in its orbs seemed absent, consumed by the darkness that surrounded him.

In the center of the table, however, something small and unexpected caught his eye. A tiny cage, forged from dark metal with intricate gold details, rested there. Inside the cage, with its wings closed and its breathing rapid, was a hummingbird. It was a rare creature, almost mythical in this day and age, where the absence of sunlight and the destruction of flowers had turned the world into a desert of ash, snow and shadows. Seeing a hummingbird still alive was something he would never have expected.

Killer approached, his eyes fixed on the small bird. There was something melancholy about the sight: the last apparent survivor of a species that had once colored the skies with its speed and grace, now trapped in a cage, at the mercy of the same fate that hung over them all. He remembered Nightmare's words, about how birds were able to sense the presence of the creatures of the night, but only moments before they were captured. A useful tool, but not infallible.

With a gentle gesture, Killer opened the desk drawer and found a small syringe containing nectar. The hummingbird looked hungry, its fragile body trembling slightly as it watched the syringe. Killer placed the tip of the syringe between the bars of the cage and carefully offered the nectar to the bird. The bird desperately began to suck the sweet liquid, its wings fluttering slightly in satisfaction.

As the hummingbird fed, Killer watched it in silence. The creature's fragility touched him in a way he hadn't expected. He ran his finger gently over the top of the bird's head, stroking its soft feathers with unusual tenderness. It was a gesture of silent solidarity, a mutual comfort in the midst of the desolation they both shared.

"We seem to be in the same situation, don't we, partner?" murmured Killer, his voice low and tired. The hummingbird raised its head, its small, bright eyes meeting his. The bird responded with a small chirp, an almost imperceptible sound, but one that somehow seemed to echo in Killer's soul.

He put the syringe away in the drawer and carefully attached the cage to his belt. The additional weight was almost imperceptible, but the significance of the little fellow by his side was undeniable. With the hummingbird now secure, Killer continued on his way through the corridors, feeling a little less alone, even though he knew that the journey ahead would be anything but easy.

As he approached Nightmare's office, the air seemed to become heavier, as if the Dark Lord's very presence permeated the surrounding walls. Killer stopped in front of the door, taking a deep breath before pushing it open. The command awaited him, and with it, further proof that, even in a world of shadows, there were still small glimmers of light - even if they were weak and momentary, like the flapping of a hummingbird's wings.

Killer pushed on the heavy wooden door, which opened with a low creak, revealing Nightmare's office. The room was imposing and gloomy, an extension of his master's very being. The high ceiling was supported by ornate columns, and the soft candlelight that hung from a majestic chandelier in the center of the ceiling cast dancing shadows across the walls. The tall, narrow windows, decorated with ancient stained glass and darkened by time, let in a gray light that barely cut through the darkness of the room.

The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were filled with ancient tomes and dusty parchments, silent witnesses to bygone eras and forgotten knowledge. Statues of figures, fallen angels and creatures seemed to watch every move, making the atmosphere even more oppressive. In the corner, a sturdy wooden table was covered in books, quills and a black inkwell.

In the center of the office, a large rug adorned with antique patterns was laid out under Nightmare's desk, made of dark wood and decorated with intricate gold and silver details. Behind the desk, Nightmare sat, his imposing figure standing out in the dim light. He held a black quill and wrote slowly on a piece of parchment, his expression focused, without raising his gaze.

Killer fell silent, the heavy atmosphere pressing down on his shoulders like a burden. He advanced to the front of the desk and, without hesitation, knelt in front of Nightmare. The cold wooden floor contrasted with the warmth of the room, but he kept his posture firm, waiting for any word or sign from his master.

Only the sound of the quill scratching the paper was audible, echoing almost ghostly through the office. Killer waited, his eyes fixed on the floor, while the weight of the atmosphere almost suffocated him. Finally, Nightmare stopped writing, slowly raised his head and watched Killer with an intense gaze, the silence filled with expectation.

"Get up," said Nightmare, his voice firm but laden with a calm that was more threatening than welcoming.

Killer obeyed, standing in front of the desk and keeping his eyes fixed on Nightmare's face, waiting for the next order or instruction.

Nightmare remained silent for a moment, watching Killer with his piercing eyes, as if he were evaluating every fragment of his soul. When he finally spoke, his voice was controlled, but there was a slight inflection that carried the weight of unquestionable orders.

"There are more details about your task in Delphi," he began, his voice reverberating in the quiet office. "As I said, the city is infested by creatures of the night, a place where even daylight is corrupted. However, the object you must retrieve is not anywhere in the city. It is hidden in an old, abandoned laboratory deep in the northernmost sector. In the past, this laboratory was the center of experiments that used people. Many have perished trying to get to the northern sector, so you must be cautious."

Nightmare leaned forward slightly, his hands resting on the desk, his long fingers crossed with almost meticulous precision. "The laboratory is not easily accessible. The site was abandoned years ago, and the entrances have been sealed off for obvious reasons. The air will be heavy, contaminated by toxic fumes from failed experiments, and the creatures that live there are not merely undead. They are the remnants of corrupted lives, something beyond their understanding, who persist in a state between death and madness."

Killer listened to every word with an almost disinterested expression, but his soul showed the concern that was beginning to emerge behind the usual tiredness. "It sounds like a lovely excursion. Nothing like breathing in poisonous fumes first thing in the morning to start the day off right," he commented sarcastically, a wry smile appearing on his lips.

Nightmare ignored the answer with a slight raise of his eyebrows, continuing as if Killer hadn't spoken. "The object you must bring, as I said before, is a box. Inside it, there are items that are... priceless to me. This box is unique, and any mistake in handling it could be disastrous. I don't need to tell you what happens if you fail."

He then opened a drawer in the desk, taking out an aged piece of paper, which he held out to Killer. On the paper, there was a sketch of the box, detailed in fine lines that showed its rectangular shape, the silver patterns adorning its surface, and what looked like a seal in the center. Next to the sketch were the exact coordinates of the laboratory, along with some notes on how to get there without attracting unwanted attention.

Killer took the paper, looking at the drawing for a few moments before putting it in his pocket. "Three bags of golden Deltas, right? I hope these 'priceless items' are worth the effort. And about these creatures, any useful advice on how to avoid being turned into one of them?"

Nightmare allowed himself a slight, almost imperceptible smile, which didn't reach his eyes. "Use your instinct, Killer. And remember, the hummingbird will be your guide. If it starts singing, you'll know it's time to get ready and hide. Now go. And don't fail, or your survival will be as brief as the song of the bird you're carrying."

Killer nodded briefly, turning on his heels to leave the office. As he walked down the corridor, he felt the small cage with the hummingbird dangling from his belt, a reminder that at least he wouldn't be alone this time.

Behind him, Nightmare returned to his writing, as if he had already left the task in Killer's hands and was concentrating on new plans, always one step ahead, always manipulating the pieces on the board with calculated precision.

Killer descended the castle stairs with determined steps, the sound of his boots echoing off the cold stone walls. The mission that Nightmare had entrusted him with still weighed heavily on his mind, but he knew that the first stage of his task would begin at the stables, where Calypso, the black steed that Nightmare had given him, was waiting for him.

The air in the courtyard was freezing, and the wind carried with it flakes of snow that had accumulated in the corners of the old buildings. Killer walked through the silent courtyard, his footsteps crunching the thin layer of snow that covered the ground, until he reached the solitary stable.

As he opened the heavy wooden door, he was greeted by warm, muggy air, the smell of hay and old leather dominating the room. At the back of the stable, in a spacious compartment, was Calypso. The black steed raised his head as he heard Killer approach, his nostrils flaring slightly as he sensed the familiar presence.

Calypso was an impressive sight - a powerful horse with a coat as black as the deepest night, except for a white mark on his forehead in the shape of an irregular star. His stature was majestic, with sculpted muscles visible under his shiny coat. Long, dense manes fell over its neck, framing a face marked by a wild, ferocious expression. His legs, covered in thick, white hair at the ends, resembled furry boots, giving him a robust yet graceful appearance.

Killer approached cautiously, aware of the steed's wild temperament. Calypso was known for his resistance to accepting anyone, a creature with an indomitable spirit that, as Nightmare had told him, many feared to get close to. However, between him and Killer there was a silent understanding, a bond forged over days of living together and mutual respect.

Killer reached out slowly, allowing Calypso to feel his presence before touching him. The steed neighed softly, shaking his head in a gesture of mild impatience, but didn't back down. Killer smiled slightly, recognizing his companion's usual behavior. He then stroked Calypso's neck, feeling the softness of the fur under his gloved hand.

"Ready for another trip, partner?" Killer murmured, his voice soft, almost a whisper.

Calypso snorted, as if he understood what was coming. Killer then began to prepare the steed, adjusting the saddle and reins with precise movements. The horse stood motionless, a powerful statue, its eyes shining with an almost human intelligence.

As soon as Killer had finished grooming the horse, he mounted him and adjusted the reins in his hands. Calypso, feeling Killer's weight on his back, snorted softly and took a small step forward, as if he was already impatient to leave. Killer tugged lightly on the reins, containing Calypso's enthusiasm for a moment. "Easy, boy," he murmured. "It's not time yet."

Finally, with the saddle firmly in place, the stirrups adjusted and the reins firmly in his hands, Killer felt they were ready. He gave Calypso's flanks a gentle nudge with his heels, and the black steed moved forward, leaving the stable with a firm, determined stride towards the castle gate. At that moment, the snow began to fall more heavily, but neither Killer nor Calypso hesitated.

~~

The day passed slowly, with snow falling intermittently, covering the landscape around Killer and Calypso. The forest they were riding through was dense, but the snow, reflecting the little sunlight that penetrated through the treetops, illuminated the path ahead. The ground was covered in a thick white blanket, and Calypso's every step sank slightly into the snow, producing a muffled sound that broke the wintry silence.

The cold was biting. The air seemed to bite into his exposed bones, and he took a black cloak from his bag and draped it over himself for warmth. His breath came out in clouds of steam, and he had to rub his gloved hands together several times to keep warm. The wind, when it blew between the trees, brought with it a low moan, as if the forest itself was lamenting the harshness of the constant winter.

Despite his discomfort, Killer considered himself lucky that daylight was still present. Even though it was weak and filtered through the clouds, it was enough to guide his way. The forest, which could be frighteningly dark at night, was now a sea of whiteness and silence, a cold but dangerous beauty.

Finally, after hours of riding, the dense wall of trees began to open up, revealing a road partially covered in snow. It was the remains of an ancient stone road, leading to the city of Delphi. Killer led Calypso out of the forest, the two of them emerging from the sea of dead trees onto a more open path. At the end of the road, he spotted something that looked like the entrance to the city.

As they approached, Killer noticed an old wooden sign, almost destroyed, hanging precariously from one of the posts flanking the path. The words "Welcome to Delphi" were still vaguely legible, although faded and partially obscured by snow and moss growing in the cracks in the wood. The sign swayed slightly in the wind, the sound of rusty nails creaking the only sign of life in that desolate place.

The city of Delphi revealed itself as Killer and Calypso advanced. The place had seen better days; now it was covered in an aura of abandonment and oblivion. The streets were narrow and winding, with stone and wooden houses lined up irregularly, many of them with roofs collapsed under the weight of the snow. Windows were broken or covered with boards, and doors hung off their hinges, as if they would be torn off by the wind at any moment. Snow piled up in the corners of the streets, forming dirty heaps that contrasted with the pure whiteness of the forest.

A few old lamps were still up, albeit unlit, their glass globes covered in frost. Killer noticed that the silence that reigned in the forest seemed even more oppressive there, in the deserted city. Delphi was dead, a city that had been forgotten by time and men. The only sound, apart from the wind, was the jingling of the reins and the muffled sound of Calypso's hooves as they moved over the snow-covered stones.

As they made their way through the deserted streets, Killer felt something strange. The hummingbird he carried in the cage on his belt began to stir, its wings beating frantically against the metal bars. He cast a quick glance at the small creature, realizing what this meant. The bird was beginning to sing, but it wasn't a full melody. It was a fragile, nervous sound, as if the creature itself was trying to warn him of something.

Killer stopped Calypso, who also seemed restless, moving his head from side to side, his wide eyes watching the shadows between the ruined buildings. Something was wrong.

He looked around, studying every detail of the ruined city. The half-open doors swayed slightly in the wind, but there was no sign of human life, only the echo of a distant past. However, Killer's keen instincts told him that they were being watched. Delphi, with its air of abandonment, and the anxious song of the hummingbird was a constant reminder that danger was not far away.

Killer moved Calypso forward slowly, now with all his senses on alert. Every corner, every shadow, could hide an enemy, a trap, or worse, the corrupted creatures Nightmare had mentioned. Delphi was not just an abandoned city; it was a sleeping battlefield, waiting for the right moment to reveal its true horror.

The sound of a dry branch breaking on the frozen ground echoed through the deserted street, a noise so sudden that it cut through the icy air like a knife. Killer spun on his heels instinctively, pushing Calypso's rear hard, urging the black steed to run. Calypso neighed loudly, his huge paws digging into the snow as he tried to pick up speed.

But before Killer could prepare himself, something rushed at him with frightening speed. It was a creature that seemed to have materialized out of the darkest shadows, as if the darkness itself had taken on form and life. Its eyes glowed like coals in hell, a sinister orange that pulsed with insatiable fury. Its mouth, open in a deadly snarl, revealed sharp, dripping fangs that seemed longer than necessary to destroy any prey.

The creature was a grotesque being, similar to a wolf, but distorted beyond belief. Its body was crumbling in patches of liquid darkness, as if it were being corroded from the inside, and exposed ribs emerged from its back, covered in a viscous substance that shimmered like black lava. Its paws were long and deformed, each equipped with claws that scraped against the snow and stone with an ear-splitting sound.

Killer only had time to draw his knife before he was knocked to the ground, the creature's huge paws pressing down on his chest. He struggled fiercely, driven by adrenaline, while the hummingbird attached to his belt screamed in despair. The knife gleamed for an instant in the darkness before being plunged into the beast's flank. A black liquid, thick as tar and hot as magma, gushed from the wound, but the creature only growled louder, ignoring the pain as it struggled to reach Killer with its razor-sharp fangs.

The monster's face was now so close that Killer could smell the rot emanating from its breath, a mixture of decomposed flesh and something indescribably corrupt. The being's incandescent eyes stared at him with a hatred that seemed to come from ages past, an ancient resentment that wanted only one thing: destruction.

The creature growled again, a hellish cacophony that seemed to make the very snow around Killer vibrate, and its jaws closed in a deadly arc, almost grabbing Killer's arm. With a desperate effort, he managed to turn his body, away from the claws that reached out to tear at his flesh. The fight was far from over, and the piercing cold of the night only added to the terror of the battle, while the shadows of Delphi seemed to close in around them, like spectators at a macabre play.

With a cry of defiance, Killer thrust his knife into the creature again. The blade of Killer's knife once again tore into the creature's spectral flesh, but instead of retreating, the beast advanced with renewed ferocity. Its every move was an explosion of black, almost liquid energy that spread around it like a miasma of pure malevolence. The force pushing Killer to the ground was almost unbearable; he felt every bone in his body resisting the crushing weight of the creature's paws, while its sharp claws began to penetrate through the layers of his clothing.

The monster raised its head, letting out a howl that reverberated through the ruins of the city, a sound so deep and ancient that it seemed to come from the bowels of the earth itself. The shadows around them vibrated, as if drawn to that call, and for a moment, the whole of Delphi seemed caught up in a macabre dance of light and darkness, with the creature as the center of this infernal whirlpool.

The creature's fiery eyes glowed brightly as it prepared to deliver the final blow, its fangs dripping with a black substance that resembled both blood and something far more evil. But Killer, though suffocated by the creature's weight, was not one to give up easily. With a quick, precise movement, he turned the hilt of the knife, twisting the blade already buried in the creature's flank, looking for a vital point that could at least make the beast flinch.

The effect was immediate. The creature let out a hideous cry, something between the howl of a wolf and the scream of a monster in agony. Its dark flesh began to pulse around the blade, as if the beast's own body was trying to swallow the weapon. The black liquid gushed out of the wound in greater quantities, dripping onto Killer, who felt the corrosive heat of the tainted blood burning through his clothes, causing pain in every part of his bones that it touched.

With a monumental effort, Killer managed to free one of its legs, using his boot to kick the creature in the stomach, gaining crucial space. Taking advantage of the opening, he pulled the knife out of the beast's flank, making a wide arc with the blade that left a trail of slashing darkness in the air. The creature staggered backwards, letting out another howl of pain, its form oscillating between tangible and ethereal, as if it were about to fall apart.

For a brief moment, Killer could partially stand up, breathing hard as the hummingbird in its cage desperately flapped its wings, a blur of color in the monochrome chaos around him. He felt the black blood still running down his arms, pulsing as if it had a life of its own, eating away at the fabric of his clothes and attacking his skin with a boil that made his nerves scream with pain.

But the creature was not defeated. Even in its distorted, faltering form, it was still a deadly threat. With a move too fast for Killer to keep up with, the beast charged again, its jaws opening in a terrible arc, revealing an abyss of teeth and darkness. It grabbed Killer's arm, its fangs piercing deep, tearing through his bones with a stabbing pain that almost made him drop the knife.

Killer's face contorted into an expression of pure agony, but he bit his lip to hold back the scream, fighting against the pain that threatened to dismantle his control. He didn't have time to weaken, not with such a creature lurking, ready to tear him apart. He used his free hand to grab a handful of snow, crushing it against the wound in a desperate effort to stop the bleeding.

The creature, fueled by the smell of his blood, came closer, its fangs sinking even deeper. But Killer, in a last act of sheer willpower, raised the knife in a desperate thrust, aiming straight for the beast's glowing eyes. He drove the blade in with all his might, pushing it deep, all the way to the hilt, as a scream of pain and hatred exploded from the monster's throat.

The reaction was immediate and catastrophic. The creature's body began to contort violently, as if it were being torn apart from the inside out. Its forms began to crumble into liquid shadows, spewing darkness everywhere as the creature struggled in a frenzy of pure fury and despair. The ground around Killer began to shake, snow being thrown in all directions as the spectral being struggled in its imminent death.

With a final, terrible howl, the creature reared back, pulling Killer along with it, and then collapsed, its forms crumbling into a pool of darkness that quickly began to evaporate, as if it were being sucked back into the abyss from which it had emerged. Silence returned to Delphi, broken only by Killer's heavy panting and the frantic beating of the hummingbird's wings, which were now in a state of absolute panic.

Exhausted and wounded, Killer fell to his knees, his hand still firmly holding the knife now blackened by the creature's essence. He stared into the void left by the beast, still smelling the pungent odor of rot and sulfur in the air, like a mark that this place was far from normal. But he had survived, once again, although the price was stamped on every pain, every open wound.

Calypso, now distant, slowly returned, his horse clearly shaken, but faithful as ever. The steed stopped beside Killer, tilting his head, as if instinct had made him realize that his master had suffered yet another difficult battle. Killer, still breathing hard, raised his hand to stroke Calypso's neck, silently thanking him for having such a loyal ally in that hostile environment.

But as he stood up, his eyes fixed on the horizon, he knew that that had only been the beginning. Delphi still held, and the box he had been sent to fetch was there somewhere, waiting for him. With the hummingbird still trembling in its cage, Killer prepared to continue his journey, aware that the real nightmare had only just begun and the storm had not yet ceased.

Killer forced himself to stand, each gesture a new wave of pain radiating through his wounded arms and legs. He took a deep breath, looking around, his cautious eyes scanning every shadow, every movement in the deserted ruins of the city of Delphi. The snow continued to fall silently, covering the scars left by the recent battle. Not far away, he noticed a small flickering light in what appeared to be a house still standing, contrasting with the oppressive darkness that dominated the place.

Keeping moving was essential; stopping meant giving space for the deadly cold and exhaustion to take hold of his body. With slow, cautious steps, he began to walk towards the light, the muffled sound of his boots on the snow mixing with the heavy breathing that came out in visible clouds. Each step made him aware of the wounds that needed urgent attention. Blood ran down his clothes, mixing with the white snow, leaving a trail behind him.

When he finally reached the house, Killer allowed himself a brief pause, leaning against the aged wooden door. The dim light escaping through the cracks indicated that there was at least a source of heat inside, but entering without a strategy could be dangerous. He decided that he needed to take care of his injuries first before thinking about anything else.

He let himself slide slowly through the door until he was sitting on the threshold, feeling the cold seeping through his clothes. With trembling hands, he opened the pouch attached to his belt, taking out a small glass vial of amber liquid - an anti-infection remedy, essential to prevent the creature's filthy claws from doing any more damage than they already had. Without hesitation, he opened the bottle and poured the contents directly onto the deepest wounds on his arm and the side of his body.

The liquid burned immediately, like liquid fire going through his bones, making him clench his teeth tightly to hold back the scream that threatened to escape. He could feel the substance working, eliminating any trace of contamination, but the pain was almost unbearable. His hands, still stained with dried blood, worked with precision as he took the gauze strips from the bag. Tearing off the necessary pieces, he began to wrap them tightly around the cuts, sealing the wounds with a skill that came from years of practice in situations like this.

Each movement was meticulous, each loop made with care to ensure that the bleeding stopped, but without restricting his movement for the next fights which, he knew, were yet to come. When he finally finished, Killer's arm and torso were bandaged and tight, but he felt a slight improvement - the medicine was starting to take effect, relieving the intense pain and giving him some comfort.

With the work on his wounds finished, Killer leaned forward, taking the cage off his belt. The tiny hummingbird inside was shaking violently, its wings beating frantically against the metal bars, fear stamped in its tiny eyes. The sight made Killer sigh heavily. He knew that the bird was not just a guide, but a tenuous link to something more benign inside - a fragile and vulnerable thing in the midst of so much chaos.

He brought the cage up to his face, watching the little bird with an expression that mixed worry and tiredness. "Hey, it's okay... it's over..." he murmured in a barely audible tone, trying to calm the little creature down. He then brought the cage close to his mouth and gently blew a stream of warm air in the bird's direction, hoping that the warmth and familiarity of his scent would help calm the hummingbird's agitated nerves.

Gradually, the frantic flapping of its wings subsided. The bird began to calm down, its small eyes still wide, but now focused on Killer with a calm curiosity rather than sheer terror. Killer continued to blow warm air, repeating the process until finally the bird settled on its perch, its feathers adjusting as the anxiety slowly faded.

Killer felt a subtle relief when he saw that the creature was calmer. He couldn't allow his companion to falter now, especially on the road they still had. He tucked the cage back into his belt, knowing that both he and the hummingbird would need to be ready for whatever came next. He looked up at the illuminated door, took a deep breath and decided that the next step would be to investigate that house. Perhaps there he would find answers... or at least a moment's peace before continuing his mission.

Recomposed, Killer approached the door cautiously, the weight of the knife in his hand offering a familiar sense of security. Every movement was calculated, his orbits examining the aged wood and the small details that might hint at what awaited him on the other side. The faint light escaped through gaps, casting distorted shadows on the snow-covered ground around him. He took a deep breath, focusing his mind and slowing down his breathing.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he brought his hand up to the doorknob, the cold metal contrasting with the rising heat in his chest. He turned the handle, which responded with a slight creak, and pushed the door open just enough to peek inside. The darkness that greeted him seemed almost impenetrable, broken only by a few faint flickers of yellow light from old lamps hanging from the ceiling and a small bedside lamp in a far corner.

He opened the door a little wider, creating enough space for him to pass through. The floorboards creaked under his weight, a low sound that echoed through what appeared to be a two-storey house, worn by time but still standing up against the elements and abandonment. The nearest lamp flickered on again, emitting a flickering light that made the shadows on the walls dance uneasily.

Killer kept the knife in front of him, ready for any surprise, as his orbs slowly adjusted to the darkness. The air in there was still, heavy with the smell of dust and old wood, mixed with something fresher - perhaps the residual scent of burnt food or an unlit fireplace. He advanced a few more steps, as silent as a predator, his senses sharp, picking up every detail.

To his left, a narrow corridor stretched with closed doors along it, and to his right, a wide archway led into a partially lit living room. He chose to explore the room first, moving with the precision and discretion of someone who had already infiltrated much more dangerous places.

The living room was small, with a worn leather sofa pushed up against one wall and a dark wooden coffee table in the center. The table was covered in a thin layer of dust, except for an area where a porcelain cup, now cold, still stood on a small saucer. Next to the cup was a framed photo of a smiling family - a man, a woman and a child - all sitting together on what appeared to be a spring afternoon. The picture was slightly crooked, suggesting that it had been touched recently, perhaps by the last resident before he left in a hurry.

Killer bent down, his eyes analyzing every detail. The sight of the photo didn't touch him; he was too used to the relics of abandoned lives. However, the presence of the cup was a clear indication that the house had been left in a hurry. He put the photo back on the table and continued to explore the room.

On the walls, there were more photos, some framed, others attached with frayed ribbons, all capturing happy moments of a family that once called this place home. There was a bookcase in the corner, filled with books whose spines ranged from novels to technical manuals. Some of the books were out of place, indicating that someone had moved them recently.

On one of the shelves, Killer found a can of canned food, stacked with others on a sideboard. His hand gripped the knife tightly as he picked up the can, examining it. It was a small stock of beans and vegetables, nothing fancy, but something that could come in handy in times of need. He opened his bag and put away the cans he found, mentally thanking himself for the small victory.

Continuing, he moved into the kitchen, a small room with a stained porcelain sink and old cupboards. The light coming from a lamp in the ceiling illuminated just enough to show a sink full of dirty plates and cutlery, abandoned as if the family had left in the middle of a meal. The kitchen table was covered with a tablecloth that had once been white, but was now stained and faded. More photos were scattered on it, some of them still inside an open family album, revealing a sequence of images documenting birthday parties and celebrations.

He opened the cupboards, finding more non-perishable food - packets of rice, tins of soup, and a few bottles of water. As he did so, a feeling of strangeness began to invade his mind. Something seemed out of place there, as if the house had been abandoned in an instant of panic, but with no obvious signs as to whether it had really been that family that had rushed out.

Killer picked up a bottle of water and took a few sips, letting the cold liquid slide down his throat, helping to clear his mind. He needed to continue exploring the place, but before he did, he turned to the small window next to the sink. Outside, darkness and snow still dominated the landscape, but he knew he needed to keep a watchful eye, even inside this apparently safe place.

With the knife still firmly in his hand, Killer decided to climb the stairs to the second floor, where he hoped to find some sign of what had happened to the inhabitants of that house. As he climbed, his footsteps were silent, making him a shadow in the darkness. Each step creaked under his weight, but he didn't back down, determined to explore every corner of that mysterious place.

At the top of the stairs, the corridor was immersed in darkness, except for a small line of light that escaped from under a closed door. He made his way towards that light, pushing the door gently with the knife at the ready. The light came from a small bedside lamp that had been left on in a room that looked like it belonged to a child.

The room was decorated with colorful posters on the walls, toys scattered on the floor and an unmade bed with patterned sheets. In the center of the room, a large teddy bear lay on its side, its button eyes reflecting the light. However, what caught Killer's attention most was an open diary on the desk. He approached it and read the words written on the page, but found only hasty scribbles, as if the child had been interrupted in the middle of a thought.

There was something deeply unsettling about that scene. Every detail seemed like a reminder that that family had left, perhaps never to return. Feeling that he had seen enough, Killer returned to the staircase and went back downstairs, where he knew he still had to make a decision about where to spend the night.

The air inside the house was thick and still, almost suffocating, as if time had stopped in that place. He was alone there, but the feeling of abandonment and despair that permeated the room was palpable. He closed the kitchen door and went back into the living room, where he decided he needed to rest, albeit briefly, before continuing his journey.

He sat down on the sofa, letting the exhaustion finally take over his body for a few moments. The house was absolutely silent, except for the faint hum of the oscillating light bulb. Despite the appearance of safety, Killer knew he couldn't let his guard down. He kept the knife in his hand, the only thing standing between him and the stranger around him.

Gradually, he allowed his eyes to close, knowing that somewhere in that house, in the shadows he hadn't yet explored, there might be answers to what happened there - or perhaps, new dangers waiting to be discovered.

However, Killer was abruptly awoken from his brief rest by a repetitive and disturbing sound, as if something were tapping rhythmically on a hard surface. His immediate instinct was to tighten his grip on the knife, his senses all on alert as he tried to identify the source of the noise. The room, once silent and still, now seemed to pulse with an unsettling energy, the noise echoing from some obscure point in the house.

He stood up slowly, his eyes scanning his surroundings for any movement or anomalies. The sound wasn't coming from above or the sides, but from under the floor. Someone or something was knocking, insistently, as if trying to attract his attention. With his knife in hand, Killer began to move around the room, following the sound that seemed to be getting clearer and clearer.

As he approached the center of the room, he noticed a small crack in the floor, partially covered by a rug. He pushed the fabric aside with his foot, revealing a wooden door embedded in the floor, its outline marked by scratches and signs of wear. The wood looked old, rust covering the hinges and handle. The door wasn't large, perhaps designed to go unnoticed, but now it seemed to call out to him, as if the sound of the knocks were inviting him to investigate.

Killer knelt beside the door and ran his hand over the rough surface of the wood, feeling the slight tremor of the knocks echoing from the other side. He adjusted the bird on his belt, feeling that it was strangely quiet, only trembling slightly. A sign that, at least, there was no immediate danger below. Pushing these thoughts aside, he decided that the only way to find out what was going on was to open the door and go downstairs.

With a firm tug, he opened the basement door, which emitted a low groan, as if resisting the movement. The darkness that revealed itself below was dense, a darkness that seemed to absorb all the light in the room around it. He couldn't see the bottom of the stairs, only the dark void that awaited him.

Killer knew he would need light, so he headed for the kitchen, where he looked for something to light the way. He scoured the counter, pushing over old dishes and utensils until he found a forgotten candle in one of the corners. The candle, long and almost completely used up, still looked usable, but he would need a match to light it. With the candle in one hand and the knife in the other, he began to rummage through the drawers one by one, opening them and rummaging through the contents until, finally, he found a small matchbox, already worn out by time.

When he opened the box, he found some worn-out, but hopefully still functional, matches. He scraped one of the matches against the side of the box and, lucky for him, a small flame ignited, briefly illuminating the kitchen with a flickering light. Carefully, he moved the flame closer to the candle, which caught fire with a soft, steady glow, spreading a warm yellow light all around.

With the lit candle in one hand and the knife firmly in the other, Killer returned to the cellar door. The knocking sounded louder now, as if he was getting impatient. He descended the first step cautiously, feeling the weight of the silence around him. Each step down the wooden stairs sounded like muffled thunder in the enclosed space, but he continued, descending deeper into the darkness.

As he advanced, the candlelight cast shadows on the narrow, damp basement walls, revealing the rough, cracked surfaces. The air there was heavy and cold, smelling of mold, damp and rotten meat, which only added to the feeling of isolation and suspicion. The sound of knocks became more and more distinct, more urgent.

Reaching the end of the stairs, Killer found himself in a small, cramped space, with cobweb-covered walls and a dirt floor. The dim candlelight showed that the basement was essentially empty, except for a few old boxes and pieces of wood stacked in one corner. But it was on the opposite wall that the sound of banging echoed most strongly.

He approached slowly, the candlelight illuminating a part of the wall that seemed different from the rest. The knocks came from a section of the wall where the plaster looked newer, as if it had recently been repaired or reinforced. With each step, the sound of the knocks got louder and, when he finally stopped in front of the wall, he could feel the vibration of the surface.

Holding the candle close to the wall, Killer examined the area carefully. There were small cracks, and he realized that the sound seemed to be coming from something or someone trapped behind the wall, which looked fake. A sense of urgency came over him. Who or what was back there? He didn't know, but it was clear that he couldn't just leave it unanswered.

With his knife in hand, he began to scrape the plaster off the wall, determined to discover what was hidden there, while the sound of the knocks continued, now with an almost desperate intensity.

Killer continued scraping away at the plaster with his knife, determined to find the source of the noise. As he removed more and more of the wall, the sound of the knocks became more and more intense, almost desperate, until finally, with one last effort, he opened a hole big enough to see what was on the other side and get through.

When the dust cleared, he saw something that made him freeze in place. In the dark corner of the basement, there was a shrunken figure, who, on seeing him, quickly moved away, as if his presence was the worst thing he could imagine. Killer's eyes widened in shock as he realized the terrible condition of this monster. It wasn't just a living being, but one that seemed to be on the brink of death, its body reduced to little more than bones and an ecto-body, which was the only thing keeping it warm in the cold environment of the basement, due to its probably meager magic emanating from it. His bluish ecto emanated a faint purple luminescence.

The skeletal being was completely malnourished, its thin, translucent fake skin stretched over prominent ribs and bony joints. Its body was naked, breasts that might once have been beautiful were now thin, and what remained of its fake flesh was covered in wounds, scratches and dried blood that permeated the air with a putrid, unbearable smell. The sight was almost unbearable, an image of prolonged and extreme suffering.

Around its neck, the creature wore a heavy metal collar connected to a short chain that held its skinny arms behind its back. The chain made a low metallic sound with each sudden movement, echoing eerily in the confined space. The monster's legs were also bound by chains that connected it to the bloodstained stone wall, restricting any attempt to escape.

The surrounding scenery was even more disturbing. The floor was dirty, covered in dried blood marks, scattered glass fragments, rusty needles and a collection of objects of an undeniably perverse nature, suggesting a long history of abuse and torture. These items were scattered chaotically across the floor, forming a grotesque landscape that only intensified the sense of despair and pain.

The being's face was partially covered by a red scarf that seemed to have been there for a long time, hiding his eyes from the light that clearly seemed to be bothering him. However, underneath the fabric, Killer could see tears glistening faintly, running down its skeletal cheeks. The eyes, red and blue, shone brightly from behind the scarf, full of fear and agony. The monster was trembling uncontrollably, as if it was fighting the urge to succumb to its final despair.

Killer, stunned, stood still for a moment, unable to fully process the sight before him. The figure in front of him was a being who was somehow still alive, even after everything he had been through. He knew that this vision would remain etched in his mind, an image of absolute suffering that no one should have to endure.

Finally, Killer carefully put the knife away and approached slowly, keeping the candle burning in front of him to light the way. The bird on his belt remained still, only trembling slightly, as if it too sensed the gravity of the situation. He knew he had to help, but at the same time, he had to be cautious.

"STAY AWAY FROM ME!!!!" Screamed the monster in despair

Killer stopped immediately when he saw the being's reaction. He knew that going any further would only increase his terror, and the last thing he wanted was to cause more panic, even more so in a being that saw the usefulness of seeing a possible family opportunity in a situation as mediocre as his own. The hoarse, desperate cry echoed through the basement, and for a moment, everything was silent, except for the being's irregular, panting breathing, and the sound of the chains rattling with every movement.

"Calm down," Killer murmured, keeping his voice low and controlled, trying not to scare her even more. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to help you."

The monster, with its red and blue eyes filled with tears, didn't seem to believe him. He stepped back as far as the chains would allow, his teeth showing in a grimace of pain and fear. His words came out slurred, as if each one had been torn from his body with effort.

"Stay away from me..." he repeated, his voice shaking as much as his body. "You... all of you... you always say that... you always say you're going to help... but you only bring more pain... more suffering."

Killer felt a knot tighten in his throat. That being's voice, even hoarse and full of despair, carried a deep sadness, a weight that spoke of old and repeated torments. He lowered his hand, showing that he had no aggressive intentions, trying to convey as much calm as possible.

"I'm not like them," Killer said firmly. "I know it's hard to believe me, after everything you've been through. But I'm not here to hurt you. I promise."

His eyes were full of distrust, but also of a pain that cried out for relief. He shook his head frantically, the chains jingling, as if he were trying to dismiss Killer's words, as if believing them was a trap.

"Please," Killer continued, taking a step back to show that he wasn't going any further. "I just want to loosen these chains. Let you free... I know it may sound suspicious, but believe me... it's not the first time I've met someone like you. I'm not like them."

The being looked at him, its tears still falling, but this time, there was something else in its eyes besides fear - a small, almost invisible spark of hope. It said nothing more, just closed its eyes and turned its face away, resigned, waiting for whatever came next.

Killer knelt beside him, examining the chains that bound her. They were rusty and encrusted with dried blood. The collar around the monster's neck was so tight that it had cut his skin in places, and his wrists were swollen and purple from the shackles. Carefully, he positioned the knife and began to work on the chains, his movements precise and quick.

With each snap of the chains being cut, the monster's body shook with pain and relief. Finally, after considerable effort, the chains fell to the ground with a metallic sound, and the skeletal being was free, but still fragile and frightened.

Killer stepped back, giving him room to move, but he remained there, kneeling on the ground, without the strength to get up, his whole body shaking. He held out his hand, offering to help him up.

"Let's get out of here," he said softly, "I'll get you out of here."

The monster looked at the outstretched hand for a moment, as if deciding whether it could trust him. Finally, with a hesitant movement, it reached out its thin, bloodied hand, grasping Killer's. It felt the deadly cold of his bone, but held on tightly, helping him up carefully. He felt the deadly cold of his bone, but held on tightly, helping him to his feet carefully. However, the monster could barely stand, clearly one of its legs was broken, and Killer would need to fix it later. Soon, Killer removed his cloak and placed it over the trembling monster and picked him up, and the monster remained still, without so much as a complaint.

And so, slowly, they began to climb the basement stairs, in a hurry, knowing that Nightmare would probably kill him.

As Killer climbed the stairs carrying the monster in his arms, his face remained impassive, but his mind worked in a whirlwind of thoughts. He hadn't saved that monster out of empathy; feelings like compassion or pity weren't in his nature. No, Killer was a pragmatist. He saw the usefulness of people, even the most despicable beings, and that monster in his arms had potential. Potential to be shaped, potential seen precisely in the color of its eyes, potential to be transformed into something useful, into a tool he could use in the future.

There was something else, something he didn't like to admit even to himself. The deplorable condition of that chained and mistreated monster brought back memories of his own past. He remembered a time when he himself was imprisoned, his life controlled by others, with no hope of escape. The feeling of the chains cutting into his skin, the constant pain, the hopelessness... All this echoed in the image of the monster he now held tightly.

Even though he was an assassin, someone who took lives without hesitation, Killer had his principles. He believed that life, while useful, should be preserved, and that even the weakest of beings could become a powerful weapon in the right hands. He also knew that once the chains were broken, the monster in his arms could become loyal to him, not out of gratitude, but out of necessity. And that loyalty, however forced, was a valuable currency in his world, one that he himself had exchanged with Nightmare and now had the opportunity to do the same.

So, as he climbed those dark, damp stairs, feeling the light but significant weight of the monster in his arms, Killer wasn't thinking about redemption or justice. He was thinking of utility, of strategy, and of how to turn that weakness into strength. The creature would live, at least for now, because Killer saw it as an opportunity - and he never wasted one.

Killer climbed the stairs, feeling the light but significant weight of the monster in his arms. When he reached the top, he pushed open the basement door with his foot, slamming it shut with a dull thud. The house was cold and silent, almost deserted. He made his way to the worn-out sofa in the center of the room and carefully placed the monster there. It was shivering with cold and hunger, its scrawny body curled up under the cloak Killer had thrown over it.

Killer looked around, searching for something to warm up the room. His eyes landed on some wood lying in a dark corner of the room. Without wasting any time, he grabbed the logs and matches he found on a nearby shelf. Then he knelt down in front of the fireplace and started to prepare the fire. The flames soon began to lick the dry wood, and the warmth began to spread through the room, bringing a little comfort to the intense cold that hung in the air.

With the fire lit, Killer got up and went upstairs in search of the bathroom. He needed something to clean the monster, to take care of the wounds that were clearly getting infected. He found a basin, a bar of soap and a dusty towel in an old cupboard. He filled the basin with warm water - which wasn't very clean from the water tank, but at least it would do - and went downstairs again, determined to support the monster, not out of kindness, but out of pragmatism.

When he reached the monster, who was still shivering on the sofa, Killer knelt down beside him. He soaked the cloth in water and carefully reached out to start cleaning the wounds. However, before he could touch him, the monster grabbed his fist with surprising strength. Its eyes glowed intensely, and it looked at Killer with uncontrolled fury.

"DON'T HIT IT!" The monster's voice was a low growl, full of pain and anger. The monster's eyes were clearly bothered by the light from the fireplace, as if it were causing unbearable pain in its skull.

Killer didn't move. He sighed, keeping his cool, and slowly lowered the monster's grip on him. His eyes searched the room until they found the scarf he had been wearing earlier. Without saying a word, he stood up, picked up the scarf from the floor and placed it gently over the monster's head, covering its eyes from the blinding light.

"Better, huh?" Killer muttered with a half-smile. He then dipped the cloth in the basin again and turned his attention to the monster's wounds. "I'm not going to hurt you, but let me clean you up. There are wounds here that are sure to become infected... I don't know how you resisted, but let me take care of you."

The monster, still suspicious, sighed deeply and shrank back, giving in, knowing that there would be no way out anyway, and if he was already in hell before, there was no way it could get any worse. He allowed Killer to start cleaning the cuts and bruises, his body still trembling, but less tense. Killer's every touch was meticulous and careful, almost as if he were repairing a delicate weapon. And, in a way, that's exactly what he was doing.

Killer began to clean the monster's wounds with precision and care. The cloth dampened in the basin of warm water flowed, carrying with it the dirt and dried blood that had accumulated for so long on the creature's skeletal skin. With each swipe of the cloth, the water in the basin grew darker, carrying with it the visible traces of the suffering the monster had gone through.

Killer said nothing for a long time, concentrating on the task of cleaning and bandaging the wounds. His movements were precise, as if he were disassembling and reassembling a weapon. He knew exactly where to apply pressure so that the pain was minimal, and where to avoid touching so as not to aggravate the wounds. As the work progressed, the monster, wrapped in the scarf that covered his eyes, began to relax a little, although he was still visibly wary.

Finally, while bandaging one of his wounded arms, Killer broke the silence.

"What's your name?" he asked, without looking away from what he was doing.

The monster hesitated for a moment, as if the question had taken him by surprise. It seemed to be struggling with the answer, but eventually gave in.

"Dust..." he muttered, almost inaudibly.

Killer nodded, engraving the name in his mind. He continued his work, now bandaging Dust's swollen ankles.

"How did you get down there?" asked Killer, bluntly, as he finished bandaging the last wound. "What were you doing down there?"

Dust remained silent, his skinny fingers closing and opening repeatedly, as if the memories were too painful to reveal. The expression on Dust's face showed discomfort, as if he was struggling to find the words or, perhaps, trying to decide whether he could trust Killer.

"I was there... a long time ago," Dust began, his voice low and hoarse, "I was used for... the pleasure and sadism of many travelers." His voice wavered, but he continued, although he didn't look at Killer. "I was just an object, something for them to enjoy. I... had no choice."

Killer watched Dust with an impassive expression, but inside, a flame of anger flared briefly. He knew what it was like to be treated like an object, something disposable. This only reinforced his decision to save Dust, not because of anything, but because of principle. No one should be treated like that, and he knew that Dust could become more than just a victim.

The basin of water was now almost black, full of the filth and blood that had previously covered Dust. Killer stood up and took the towel, carefully drying the clean, bandaged areas. Dust was still shivering, but the warmth of the fireplace and Killer's care had brought some relief.

Killer took a step back, examining his work. Dust was clean, his wounds properly treated, and the light from the fireplace cast dancing shadows on the scarf that still covered his eyes.

"Now, rest," said Killer, his voice firm, but not without a hint of understanding. "You'll need your strength. I can't fully care for your wounds here, and that leg of yours is certainly broken, I'll have to take you to the castle."

Dust didn't answer, he just curled up on the sofa, clearly exhausted, but also relieved to finally be free of the chains and torments of the basement. Killer, for his part, picked up the basin of filthy water and walked away, leaving Dust to rest.

He knew that Dust would need time to recover, but he also knew that, with the right time and care, Dust could become a force to be reckoned with, a sharp weapon forged in the flames of his own pain and suffering.

After making sure Dust was comfortable on the sofa, Killer went upstairs in search of clothes for the skeleton. The house was old and dusty, with the marks of time evident in every corner. Entering a room that looked like it had belonged to a couple, he went straight to the closet, opening the creaking doors with a gentle push.

Inside, he found some clothes that seemed suitable for Dust. There were simple but warm clothes, perfect for the cold weather that was intensifying outside. Among the garments, a simple wool dress in a neutral color caught his eye. It was modest, but sturdy enough to protect Dust from the cold. There were also clean underwear, something Killer knew would be necessary, given Dust's condition. Finally, he spotted a delicate veil, which could help cover Dust's sensitive face and eyes.

Gathering up his clothes, Killer folded them carefully and went downstairs. When he returned to the living room, he saw that Dust had fallen into a deep sleep, exhausted by the pain and relief of his newfound freedom. Not wanting to disturb him, Killer put the clothes on the table, facing the sofa where Dust was resting, ready for him to put them on when he woke up.

Killer then went into the kitchen, where he began to prepare something for Dust to eat. The snowstorm outside was getting worse, with the wind howling against the windows, and the darkness of night was beginning to envelop the house. Killer rummaged through the cupboards and found some cans of food, which he opened with precision. He poured the contents into a pot, using a spoon to mix and prepare the meal in such a way that it would be easy for Dust to eat.

As the food warmed up slightly, Killer looked out of the window, watching the violent storm raging outside. He knew it would be a long night, and to go out in the midst of this chaos would be suicide. The house, as precarious as it was, offered safe shelter for the time being. Killer accepted that they would spend the night there, waiting for dawn before moving on.

With the food ready, he placed it on the counter and took a small cage from his belt. Inside it, a hummingbird was perched, its feathers vibrating softly with its breathing. Killer opened the cage door and, surprisingly, the little bird didn't fly out. Instead, it came out quietly, landing on the counter and watching Killer with its bright eyes.

Killer took a small portion of the prepared food and offered it to the hummingbird. The bird pecked at the food delicately, while Killer sighed, observing the scene. There was a certain tranquillity in this interaction, a momentary pause amidst the chaos that surrounded them.

After feeding the hummingbird, Killer left the jar of canned food for Dust on the counter and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms as he felt the cold penetrate his bones. The sound of the storm outside was frightening, with thunder echoing in the distance and the howling of the winds carrying with it the distant cries of the creatures of the night. Killer knew that the night would be difficult for anyone outside. The gods would have to be merciful to those who crossed the path of the beasts that lurked in the darkness.

For now, Killer knew he was safe, but he didn't relax completely. His eyes kept alert to his surroundings, while his body remained prepared for any eventuality. It would be dawn soon, and when it was, he and Dust would leave. But this time, Killer was sure that he wouldn't be alone while the storm was far from over.

Chapter Text

Dust’s thoughts were a relentless repetition of his reality, a spiral that sucked him back into that damp, cold basement, where time seemed to have been consumed by an eternal void. He had been trapped in that house for so long that the concept of time itself had become a distant memory, diluted amidst the constant torment that enveloped him. Each second seemed to drag on like an eternity, and each eternity was filled with an agony that gnawed at his mind and soul.

He had only remembered his own name when Killer, in a rare display of human interest, had questioned him. “Dust.” The sound had escaped his cracked lips as a whisper, an empty word that barely seemed to belong to him. It was a name, but what did it mean now? Nothing but dust, a vestige of what he had been, of what he might have been before the darkness had consumed him. In this house, he was nothing more than a body, an object to be used and discarded, a being whose worth was measured only by the satisfaction of others’ most depraved desires.

The basement where he was locked was a suffocating pit, buried deep within a house that reeked of decay and despair. The walls, covered in slime and pungent with mildew, seemed to close in on him, as if trying to crush him, annihilating any shred of hope. The cold stone floor bit into his bones, every stone and piece of wood a sharp reminder that he was alive, but only in a cruel, inhuman sense. There were no windows to the outside world, no source of natural light; the sun, if it even existed at all, was an abstract idea, something he could barely conceive of anymore. The only light came from a dim bulb hanging precariously in the center of the room, its constant flickering creating shadows that danced with unsettling malice.

Dust’s body was exhausted, not just from the physical captivity, but from the continual torture he had endured at the hands of those who kept him there. Men…men he despised, hated with every shred of humanity left in him. They had bought him, sold him like a commodity, traded him like currency to satisfy their most sordid desires. His own father had made the hellish pact, selling him into sex slavery, caring little for the fate that awaited him. The betrayal of the one who was supposed to protect him was an unbearable burden, a deep scar that would never heal, a constant reminder that he was nothing, deserving of nothing but pain.

The abuses Dust had suffered were indescribable, each more degrading and dehumanizing than the last. They had used him in every conceivable way, each touch a new level of torment, each scream muffled by the fear that resistance would result in something even worse. His mind, once sharp and skilled, was now a wreck, every thought shattered by the memory of the horrors he had endured. He had become a vessel for suffering, a broken, destroyed being, reduced to nothing more than a slave whose only desire was escape, even if it meant death.

When Killer found him, pulling him out of that cellar, Dust offered no resistance. He accepted his release with a desperate apathy, his desire to escape overriding any fear or distrust he might have had. Killer’s intentions didn’t matter; whether it was to kill him, use him, or simply abandon him, anything would be better than remaining in that hell. He was so drained, so worn out from years of abuse, that the idea of fighting back was ridiculous. If Killer wanted to harm his already tainted body, Dust knew there was nothing he could do to defend himself. He was no longer the skilled, ruthless killer he had once been, the one who wielded knives with deadly precision and read fates from cards like a skilled fortune teller. Now he was just a shadow, a shadow longing for a hell that at least wasn’t as unbearable as the one he already knew.

In the nightmare that consumed him, Dust watched the walls of the cellar close in, writhing like living creatures covered in claws and teeth, ready to devour him. The faces of the men who had purchased him emerged from the shadows, their cruel smiles twisted into masks of sadistic pleasure. They called to him, laughing, their voices a chorus of malice, as their spectral hands clawed at his body, tearing away chunks of his false flesh, tearing at his soul. Every scream he made was drowned out by the darkness, until there was nothing left but silence, a deafening silence that echoed in his mind even after he woke.

And when he woke up, still sweating and shaking, relief never came. Because deep down, Dust knew that his nightmare didn't end with the dawn. It just changed shape, from unconscious terror to the cold reality of his existence. The time when he was a killer seemed to belong to another life, to another person. Now, he was just a lost soul, wandering among the shadows, waiting for something he didn't know if it would ever come.

Killer handed Dust a can of canned food, the label partially torn away to reveal only fragments of words. The can made a muffled sound as it was opened, the metal cutting through the silence with a barely audible snap. The smell of food—perhaps a vegetable and meat soup, or something that had been preserved for so long that its true identity had become irrelevant—filled the air, and Dust felt his mouth water instantly. His body, starved and emaciated, reacted to the stimulus with an intensity that was almost painful. He could hardly remember the last time he had eaten anything that could be considered a meal.

For a moment he hesitated, his natural wariness rising, but hunger was an overwhelming force, breaking down any resistance he might have had. With trembling hands, he took the jar from Killer, the heat of the metal radiating to his fingers. Without waiting, he raised the container to his lips, swallowing the first spoonful with a greed that bordered on desperation. The taste was salty, metallic, but also full of the promise of nourishment that his body had long craved.

But almost immediately, he felt his insides churn. His empty, battered stomach rejected the food with uncontrollable violence. Dust didn’t have time to process what was happening before nausea overcame him, and he vomited, the food coming out in a bitter spray that stained the floor in front of him. His body convulsed, and it felt as if he were vomiting more than just the recent food—it was as if he were purging years of pain and despair, a stale, stagnant magic that had taken root in his soul. Each spasm was a reminder of his frailty, of how far he had fallen.

Still panting, he wiped his mouth with the blanket that covered his body, his eyes lowered in shame. His voice came out as a whisper, barely audible, as he addressed Killer. "I'm sorry..." The words carried the weight of a deep-rooted guilt, not only for having vomited, but for being so miserably weak.

Killer, who had been watching the scene with a skeptical look until then, shrugged almost carelessly, although there was a noticeable tiredness in his voice. "It's okay. Hunger does that to us. Your body just needs time to get used to it again. Try again, but slowly this time. Your stomach needs to relearn how to deal with food... and vitamins."

Dust nodded slowly, still surprised by Killer’s patience. Kindness was foreign to him, something that didn’t fit with the world he knew, but at the moment, he was too exhausted to question the intentions of the skeleton in front of him. Hunger roared inside him like a trapped animal, and even if he had to risk another bout of nausea, he was willing to try. Picking up the bowl more carefully this time, he brought another small spoonful to his lips, swallowing hesitantly, feeling the liquid trickle down his throat. Food was a strange presence, but a necessary one.

As he ate, Dust couldn't help but glance at Killer out of the corner of his eye. The usually sarcastic and sarcastic skeleton seemed unusually attentive and almost... concerned? He stood up, heading to a small table nearby, where he had laid out some carelessly folded clothes. Killer's hands touched the fabric with unexpected attention, as if the simple task of arranging the clothes was something significant. "I found these in the house. They're not much, but they'll fit. You can get dressed whenever you want."

Dust, still sitting, looked at the clothes with a mixture of relief and discomfort. There was something comforting about having something to cover his body, something that could give him back some of his lost dignity, but at the same time, he noticed how Killer barely looked at his naked body. This was a disconcerting novelty. Before, he was used to being touched, examined, treated like an object by those who used and abused him, regardless of whether he had his Ecto summoned or not. Now, sitting there, without his ecto to suffocate him with the loss of magic, he felt almost invisible under Killer's gaze. He wondered if he really looked as horrible as he felt, or if Killer was just being kind, polite. The latter seemed unlikely; kindness was too rare for Dust to believe it was real.

The silence between the two was only interrupted by the sound of Dust taking a few more sips of the soup, trying to make the liquid stay in his weakened stomach. However, something was bothering him, a feeling of helplessness that grew by the minute. He dropped the pot aside, his thin, bony hands shaking slightly as he tried to move, trying to get up from the couch. But the simple act of putting weight on his legs resulted in a sharp pain that made his face contort. He grunted, a sound of pure agony, and Killer, watching him carefully, immediately realized what was happening.

"Hey... what's going on?" The question was laced with curiosity that masked a hint of concern. Killer, who rarely cared about anything, felt a twinge of uncertainty. If Dust couldn't walk, if he was truly disabled, he would be more of a burden than a help.

Dust hesitated before answering, his voice low and filled with frustration. “I… I can’t feel my legs.” The words came out brokenly, almost as if confessing them was more painful than the physical pain itself.

Killer frowned, leaning forward to take a closer look at Dust’s legs. The scrutinizing look he gave wasn’t one of pity, but of a problem-solver, a pragmatic solution to a pressing issue. His eyes narrowed as he studied Dust’s thin, pale legs, and then something caught his eye. “Wait… this isn’t right.” He lightly touched one of Dust’s legs, avoiding further injury. “They’re not exactly… paralyzed. They’re dislocated. That’s probably what made you think you lost your movement.”

Killer took a long, thoughtful breath, wondering whether it had really been worth saving that malnourished, weak skeleton. Dust, in this state, was barely useful for anything. However, there was something he couldn't ignore—the possibility that, with proper care, Dust could regain some semblance of usefulness; after all, those eyes truly indicated who Dust was and his usefulness.

“We need to fix this,” Killer muttered, more to himself than to Dust, before looking up at the skeleton beside him. “It might hurt a little... but I can try to put those joints back together.”

The thought of more pain made Dust hesitate, but he didn’t have many options. If he wanted to walk again, pain was a price he was willing to pay. And as wary as he was, there was a small part of him that wanted to believe that Killer really did want to help him, that somehow he might still be valuable, even in a world where he felt completely useless.

The hunger, the discomfort, the uncertainty about his immediate future—all of it weighed down on Dust like a mountain, but in that moment, he decided to hold on to what Killer offered him, even if it meant going through even more pain and suffering. After all, the only thing worse than feeling pain was the feeling of being completely empty.

Killer stepped closer, watching Dust with an expression that was a mix of impatience and concern. He knew he needed to check Dust’s legs, but he also understood the skeleton’s reluctance to let anyone touch him, given the history of abuse Dust clearly carried with him.

"Look," Killer began, his voice low but firm. "I know you don't like this... being touched and all. But if I don't do anything, your situation is going to get worse. I need to check your legs, unless you want to lose what little movement you have left."

Dust swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on a random spot on the floor, avoiding Killer's gaze. The offer felt like a trap, a repeat of what he had been through before. His mind told him to refuse, to protect what little dignity he had left. But his body, weak and exhausted, knew he had no choice. Fear pulsed in his chest, but he finally nodded, almost imperceptibly, allowing Killer to approach.

Killer, seeing Dust’s hesitation, sighed softly, realizing how suspicious he was. He knew there wasn’t much he could do to alleviate his fear, but he could at least try not to make things worse. He carefully lifted one of Dust’s legs, his cold but steady hands touching the surface that was already beginning to show signs of deterioration. His eyes roamed over the thin, scarred surface, examining every detail with clinical precision.

The leg was covered in bruises, dark patches that stretched like shadows beneath the thin skin. Killer frowned as he took in the extent of the bruises, which suggested not only dislocation of the joints but also a growing internal fragility. His fingers moved deftly over the bones and joints until he found what he was looking for—a magical bubble, the substance that connected the joints, infected and burst. The bones around it were inflamed, pulsing faintly with a degenerating, unstable magic.

"Shit," Killer muttered to himself, his dry tone not hiding his growing concern. The situation was worse than he had imagined. If he didn't act quickly, Dust would not only lose the use of his legs, but he would also risk an infection that could spread to the rest of his body, consuming the last of his life force.

He glanced at Dust, who had his head turned to the side, eyes closed as if he were expecting the worst. "Look, your left leg is just dislocated. I can reposition that without much trouble. But your right leg... I'll have to dislocate it again before I can put it back in place. It won't be easy, and it'll hurt. But if I don't do it now, you'll lose your mobility forever."

Dust slowly opened his eyes, staring at Killer with a mixture of fear and acceptance. He had no other choice. Every word Killer said was a blow to his resistance, but he knew he couldn't refuse. Taking a deep breath, he nodded again, trying to prepare himself for the pain he knew was coming.

Killer wasted no time. He eased Dust’s left leg into position, carefully supporting it as his skilled hands pressed just the right spots to realign the joint. A muffled popping sound filled the air, and Dust grunted in response, his teeth gritted against the sudden pain. Killer did his best to be gentle, but the process was inevitably painful. Once the left leg was in place, he focused on the right.

"Now for the hard part," Killer said, more to prepare him than anything else. He gripped Dust's right leg with the same careful grip, but this time, with more force. He felt the joint tense beneath his fingers, Dust's body stiffening in anticipation.

With one precise movement, he dislocated his leg, hearing the dry snap of the joint coming loose. Dust let out a muffled scream, the sound full of agony and despair as he felt tears well up in his eye sockets.

The mind-blowing pain washed over Dust, making him swear that everything around him was slowly spinning, and his agonizing scream was just the beginning of the pain he felt, not only in his leg but in his soul.

The pain took over Dust with an intensity he could barely bear. It was as if his legs were engulfed in hot coals, burning every fiber, every nerve, sending waves of agony reverberating throughout his body. He barely had time to react before a dry scream escaped his throat, and soon after, tears began to run down his face, uncontrollable. The crying came hard, uncontrollable, his tears falling so fast he couldn't even swallow them, but Killer maintained control, his hands firm and determined, as he repositioned the leg, adjusting the joint with the same precision he had used on the first.

"There... That should hold things together, at least for now," Killer said, releasing Dust's leg and stepping back, giving the skeleton a moment to collect itself.

Dust gasped and cried, the pain still vibrating in his mind, but he knew that Killer had done what was necessary. "I... I don't know what to say..." he murmured, his voice shaky and weak.

"You don't have to say anything," Killer replied, his tone tired but sincere. "Just... try to rest now. Things will get better, but you'll need time."

Dust nodded again, still trying to process everything. He felt vulnerable, exposed, but there was also a small thread of hope intertwining with his fear.

His chest ached with the force of his sobs, and every breath was a battle to maintain control. But he failed. There was no holding back the suffering that was taking over him. The pain in his legs was so excruciating that it made his vision blur, his mind spinning in a whirlwind of despair. Reality seemed to be falling apart, and all that was left was the raw pain and the feeling that he was falling apart, piece by piece.

Killer watched in silence, his eyes fixed on the broken skeleton before him. He sighed deeply, recognizing the extent of Dust's suffering. Without a word, he walked over and, with a gentle gesture, pulled Dust towards him. The blanket that partially covered Dust's thin body was adjusted to better envelop his nakedness, hiding him from the cold and the world, as if it could protect him somehow. Killer wrapped Dust in his arms, feeling the other's body shiver and twitch beneath his touch.

At the unexpected embrace, Dust cried even harder, his sobs intensifying, and he wondered if the pain that was making him collapse now came from his legs or his soul. This—a hug—was something he hadn’t experienced in so long that he didn’t even know if he could recognize it anymore. He had forgotten what it was like to be held by someone, what it was like to feel a touch that wasn’t cruel. Now, this display of affection shook him deeply, opening wounds he hadn’t even known still existed.

Killer, aware of the storm Dust was facing, began to gently stroke the back of the skeleton's neck with one hand, while the other rubbed his back, trying to warm him. The touch was strange to Dust, who could hardly believe it was happening. And yet, he couldn't help but cling to this small kindness, even as his skeptical mind insisted that it was an illusion, a falsehood that would soon dissipate.

Dust’s crying wouldn’t stop. He was sobbing and coughing, releasing years of pain, trauma, fear. It was as if his body was finally releasing everything he had bottled up for so long, a purging of emotions he had barely known were still there, but now spilling out uncontrollably. He wanted, needed, a safe place, something he could hold on to, even if it was just a sweet lie. And Killer was there, repeating words that, though simple, cut like a gentle knife into his mind: “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Those words... Dust knew they weren't right. He knew that nothing was right, that his life was a mess, that his body was destroyed, that his soul was in pieces. But he wanted to believe, just for a moment. He wanted to stay in that illusion, feeling weak, useless, stupid, but at least holding on to something. Something that would make him feel like there was still a reason to keep going, even if it was just for a moment of false security.

The pain, both physical and emotional, began to wear on him. His head was spinning, his vision blurring, the world around him beginning to fade into darkness. He kept repeating one phrase, between sobs and tears: “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” It was all he could say, all he felt he had to say. He was apologizing for everything—for being weak, for being there, for needing help, for not being able to control himself. And yet, Killer’s answer was always the same, firm but gentle: “It’s not your fault.”

Killer's words pierced the pain in his chest, like an answer he never expected to hear. And as consciousness slowly left him, Dust repeated his apologies, clinging to those words, trying to believe them, trying to find some comfort in them. "It's not your fault..." he repeated to himself, until darkness enveloped him completely, taking him to a sleep where, for a brief moment, he could forget all the pain.

Killer realized that Dust had passed out, exhausted both physically and emotionally. He sighed, feeling a weight settle on his shoulders. Carefully, he lifted Dust in his arms and placed him on the couch, adjusting his thin body on the torn and worn cushions. The skeleton was devoid of strength, his breathing irregular but steady. Killer looked at the small table next to him, where he had left Dust's clothes. Without hesitation, he picked up the pieces, beginning to dress him with firm but gentle movements.

As he dressed Dust, Killer made sure that each piece was fitted for maximum comfort. The fabric, though worn, was warm, which would help keep Dust's frail body warm. After putting the last piece of clothing on him, Killer covered him again with the blanket, pulling it up to the sleeping skeleton's chin.

As Killer prepared to pull away, he felt something grab his wrist. He stopped, looking down, only to see Dust's hand gripping his with surprising strength, considering his condition. Dust's face was slightly flushed, a mixture of fever and barely concealed shyness. His half-closed eyes, though clouded with unconsciousness, showed a silent plea. In a weak, trembling voice, Dust murmured, barely audible, "Don't pull away... please."

Killer took a deep breath, his gaze hardening momentarily before softening. He knew there was work to do, obligations he couldn’t ignore. Still, something about that request struck a chord with him in a way he hadn’t expected. With a resigned sigh, Killer sat down on the edge of the couch, allowing Dust to continue to grip his arm as if it were the last thing he could hold onto in his life.

"I have work to do," Killer began, his voice low and controlled, "but I promise I'll come back for you."

Dust, already on the brink of unconsciousness, began to cry silently, his tears streaming down his thin, blotchy face. He shook his head slightly, the silent weeping revealing the depth of his pain. “You’re going to abandon me… your words… are empty,” he whispered, the pain in his voice cutting like a sharp blade. There was a bitterness there, a despair that was rooted in years of disappointment and betrayal.

Killer, feeling the grip on his arm tighten, looked directly at Dust. His gaze was serious, almost stern, but there was an undeniable sincerity in his words. "I may be many things, Dust, but I am not a liar."

The words came out like a firm promise, a silent oath in the midst of all that chaos. Killer was not given to sentimentality, but the truth in his statement was undeniable. He felt Dust's grip loosen a little, as if those words had managed to penetrate the layer of distrust and pain that surrounded the skeleton's heart.

Dust continued to cry silently, but the despair seemed to have receded somewhat, replaced by a melancholy resignation. Still, he wouldn't let go of Killer's arm, holding on as if his very life depended on it. Killer sat there beside him, feeling the warmth of Dust's feverish body beside him, as the skeleton slowly slipped back into unconsciousness, his words and fears lost in the darkness.

“I’ll be back,” Killer repeated, his words hanging in the air like a solemn promise. He knew Dust might not be conscious enough to hear him, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that he had promised, and Killer was, above all, a man of his word. Even in the midst of so much darkness, even in a world so broken, that was something he refused to lose.

Dust sighed softly, his fingers weakening until they finally released Killer's arm. Feeling the weight of the skeleton ease off his wrist, Killer slowly stood up, making sure Dust was comfortably wrapped in the blanket. With silent steps, he walked away, moving towards the kitchen.

There, Killer began to change his clothes, trading in the worn and bloodied pieces for the sturdier, cleaner uniform. The sound of thunder echoed outside, making the windows shake slightly, reminding him that the storm still lingered, furious and relentless from the night before.

As he adjusted his belt, Killer’s gaze fell on the candle on the counter. Near the flickering flame, his little guide hummingbird was nestled, sleeping peacefully, enjoying the little warmth the candle provided. With rare gentleness, Killer reached out and gently picked up the bird, bringing it closer. The hummingbird woke with a soft chirp, blinking its tiny eyes and rubbing its head against Killer’s fingers in an affectionate gesture.

Killer let out a short laugh, a sound almost forgotten on his lips, as he petted the small creature. "We have work to do, my little one," he murmured, his voice firm but not without an unusual tenderness. "We need to get back before dark."

Carefully, he picked up the cage from the counter, opening it just enough to place the hummingbird inside. After closing the door, he attached the cage to his belt, where the bird settled comfortably. Next, Killer grabbed his cloak and threw it over his shoulders, ensuring that he was well protected from the cold and snow. He grabbed his collection of knives, each one meticulously sharpened, and headed toward the door.

Before he left, Killer took one last look at Dust, now slumped on the couch, completely unconscious. Even in his sleep, the tear tracks were evident on his thin face, but there was a certain serenity in his expression, a momentary peace that he clearly hadn’t known in a long time. Satisfied that Dust was, at least for now, safe, Killer opened the door and closed it quietly behind him.

He stepped out into the rain, the cold wind whipping his face, but he didn’t waver. With determined strides, he made his way to the back of the house, where his faithful horse, Calypso, waited patiently. The storm showed no signs of letting up, but Killer, with the hummingbird clutched at his waist and his knives ready, knew there was still much to be done before night fell completely.

Killer approached the back of the house, where Calypso was. He was sitting under the roof, wrapped in a warm blanket that Killer had carefully placed over him during the night. The sight was almost comforting; the mutual loyalty between rider and mount was evident in even the smallest gestures. Upon noticing Killer approaching, Calypso immediately stood up, huffing softly as if ready for whatever his rider needed.

Killer walked forward calmly, pulling an apple from the bag he carried with him. He held the fruit out to Calypso, who accepted it willingly, biting into it with satisfaction as he received an affectionate pat on the cheek. "We have much work to do, my friend," Killer murmured, his voice carrying the weight of the responsibilities that awaited him. "And we have already taken too long."

Calypso responded with a soft neigh, as if she understood the urgency of the situation. Killer then climbed onto the horse's back in one swift movement, feeling the warmth of Calypso's fur contrast with the cold that surrounded them.

Before he left, Killer took a crumpled sheet of paper from his bag—the clue Nightmare had given him about the location of the box he needed to find. The paper was slightly damp and stained, but the words were still legible: a precise indication of the lab where the box was hidden.

He read the location once more, committing it to memory, before carefully putting the letter away. Holding the reins tightly, he nudged Calypso’s flanks lightly with his heels, urging her to move off. Calypso set off immediately, quickening her pace as they left the shelter of the rooftop and entered the snowstorm that raged around them.

The bitter cold enveloped them, and Killer felt every icy breath that passed through his cloak, as clouds of steam rose from their breath. The snow fell relentlessly, making the path ahead more difficult and dangerous, but Killer was determined. As Calypso strode steadily through the snow, the world around them blurred into a white, icy blur, but none of that mattered. With the roar of the storm raging around him and the chill that seemed to chill him to the bone, Killer remained focused on the mission at hand.

The path Killer walked was a landscape of desolation and ruin, each step reverberating with the buried history of a city that had once throbbed with life. The road, now covered in a thick layer of snow, was not only a trail of destruction, but a silent testament to the inevitable decline that had befallen this place. The buildings that lined the path were falling apart, their skeletal structures standing out like tragic monuments to a forgotten time. The woodwork was rotted and the roofs had collapsed, with entire sections of what had once been homes now devoured by time and cold.

The snow, a pristine white veil, hid the deepest scars of the land, but it could not erase the sense of loss that hung in the air like a constant shadow. The ruins cast long, distorted shadows in the weak sunlight that timidly struggled to penetrate the dense, snow-laden clouds that covered the sky. Each gust of wind was a chilling breath that seemed to whisper forgotten secrets, carrying with it the pungent odor of damp wood, rusted iron, and a faint but persistent hint of decay.

As Calypso made her way along the treacherous trail, the sound of her horse’s hooves reverberated through the empty space, echoing in the deserted streets. The sound was a contrast to the oppressive silence that dominated the city, a silence that was only occasionally interrupted by a distant growl that carried an implicit threat. These were the creatures of the night, hidden in the deep shadows, who did not dare show themselves in the light of day, no matter how weak. Their presence was palpable, an invisible terror that moved through the desolate streets like a hungry predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

As he walked, Killer noticed the details that dotted the path back home. Skeletal trees, stripped of their leaves, reached like gnarled fingers toward the sky, while the hard, frozen ground was crisscrossed with cracks that seemed to grow wider with every step, as if the earth itself were trying to swallow the city whole. The remains of broken wagons, surrounded by drifting snow, lay abandoned along the road, testament to the desperate attempts at escape that, it seemed, had not been successful.

Time seemed to drag, the freezing cold cutting through Killer's heavy clothes. The journey seemed endless, each moment prolonged by the feeling that he was being watched, that something deep in the shadows was watching his every move. And yet he persisted, guided by a clear purpose.

Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity of traversing the frozen wasteland, Killer reached his destination: the laboratory. It was located in the farthest part of the city, as if someone had deliberately tried to hide it from the rest of the world. The building, an imposing and forbidding Gothic structure, looked more like a mausoleum than a place of science and study. Its walls, built of black stone that absorbed what little light was available, were covered in moss and lichen, giving the structure an even more sinister and decaying appearance.

The windows, many of them broken or covered in thick layers of dust, were like blind eyes peering into the void. The only visible entrance was a solid wooden door, half-rotted, distinguished by its faded color and the rust that corroded its hinges. Above the door, an emblem that had long since lost its clarity was engraved in the stone, as a reminder of the purpose that this place had once served, now unrecognizable.

As he approached, Killer was enveloped by a sickening odor that seemed to emanate from deep within the laboratory. It was an unmistakable smell of rot and decay, a mixture of decaying flesh, mold, and something even more indescribable, something that seemed beyond comprehension—the stench of death mixed with the essence of the creatures of the night that inhabited the place. Their presence was felt even before he entered: an inexplicable unease, a sense of something wrong permeated the air around him, as if the very atmosphere was saturated with a corrupt, negative energy.

The landscape around the laboratory was equally desolate. The snow that had accumulated over the years formed irregular mounds, hiding beneath them the remains of objects and bodies that had not withstood the passage of time or the violence of the creatures that now dominated the area. The wind whistled through the cracks in the walls, emitting a sound that seemed to be an endless lament, an eerie music that made the skin crawl and the heart race.

Finally, upon reaching the laboratory door, Killer pulled Calypso’s reins, bringing him to a halt. He dismounted in one fluid motion, feeling the cursed snow give way beneath his feet as he took the first steps toward the entrance. Each step was like a funeral march, as the shadow of the laboratory loomed over him, a shadow that seemed alive, pulsing like a forgotten memory. He knew that when he stepped through that door, he would enter a place where science had mingled with the unnameable, where life and death had intertwined in grotesque ways. And yet, without hesitation, he reached out for the door, feeling the rough, icy wood beneath his fingers, ready to face whatever was lurking within that cursed place.

With his hand firmly on the blackened wood, Killer pushed the door hard, but when he noticed that the door was stuck, he used the weight of his own body to throw himself against the door and open it after so much effort. The sound of the rusty hinges echoed through the void, a metallic groan that seemed to announce the arrival of an intruder to a domain that had been abandoned to darkness and oblivion. Upon entering, the first thing he felt was the dense and stifling air, impregnated with a fetid odor that seemed to cling to the bones, burrowing into his soul with each forced breath.

The interior of the laboratory was a realm of shadows and silence, where the little light that managed to filter through the broken windows seemed to be absorbed by the walls, making the environment even more claustrophobic. The walls were covered with a layer of moss, damp and sticky, which dripped in some places, forming puddles of dirty water on the stone floor. The atmosphere was suffocating, as if the building itself was alive, breathing slowly and heavily, threatening to swallow anyone who dared to enter.

The ground, covered in a mixture of melted snow and debris, crunched beneath his feet as he advanced. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Killer began to make out the outlines of the furniture and objects that had been left behind. Worn wooden benches lined the walls, their surfaces covered with rusted instruments and broken vials still containing residues of unknown substances. Glass vials, many of them cracked or broken entirely, littered the floor as if they had been abandoned in a hurry, containing strangely colored liquids and compounds that, now exposed to the air, gave off acrid, metallic odor.

In the far corner of the room, an operating table lay on its side, its leather straps still dangling from the sides, stiffened by time and the congealed blood that stained them. Here, where lives had been irrevocably altered, the sense of unease was palpable, as if the walls whispered the horrors they had witnessed, each word a silent indictment of what had transpired within this unholy space.

The air was thick with an oppressive, almost tangible humidity, as if something unseen was lurking in the shadows, watching Killer’s every move with predatory eyes. Every step he took was accompanied by the muffled echo of his own feet, a steady beat that reverberated off the walls, marking the time of an inexorable march toward the unknown. With every breath, he could feel the corruption permeating the air, as if the structure itself was breathing in the death and desolation that had long since settled there.

Advancing cautiously, Killer noticed that the hallway ahead of him narrowed, leading to a partially opened door from which emanated a faint, eerie glow. The light that escaped through the cracks was cold and blue, casting dancing shadows along the walls that seemed to take on a life of their own, writhing and twisting like tormented beings. He knew that this was the way, the place where the answers he sought were hidden, but also the place where the greatest horrors could manifest.

As he approached the door, the stench of decay became almost unbearable, a sickening mix of rotting flesh, stagnant fluids, and the indelible presence of the creatures of the night. It was as if the place were permeated with the putrid essence of the place, a corruption so deep that it seemed to have tainted the very air, every molecule charged with the memory of unspeakable suffering. Every breath was a struggle against the gag reflex, every exhalation a fleeting relief.

Finally, with a determined push, Killer pushed open the door, revealing the interior of the laboratory. The room was larger than he had expected, a cavernous space that seemed to stretch in every direction, lit only by the faint blue light emanating from a series of vials and containers scattered throughout the room. In the center, a large metal table was covered in yellowed documents, bloodstains, and chemical residue that gave off a strange, unsettling glow. The walls were lined with shelves crammed with ancient books and scrolls, many of them weather-eaten, their exposed pages torn and illegible.

But what really caught Killer’s attention was the soft, steady sound coming from the back of the room—the low, ragged breathing of something alive, hidden in the shadows. He knew he was approaching the heart of this place, a place that had been buried and forgotten by all but those who still wandered the darkness. The smell of decay intensified as he walked, each step bringing him closer to the epicenter of this corruption, where the creatures of the night made their nests and where what was left of humanity had been twisted beyond recognition.

Killer paused for a moment, feeling the crushing weight of the atmosphere around him, as if the building itself were watching him, judging his motives, testing his resolve. The silence was so profound that he could hear his own soul pounding in his ears, a thrumming that mixed with the distant sound of thunder, a constant reminder of the storm that still raged outside.

With one last look at the room, where the darkness seemed to close in around him, Killer took a step forward, entering even further into the abyss of that cursed place, prepared for whatever was lurking in the shadows, aware that every movement could be his last.

The moment Killer noticed a quick, fleeting movement behind him, all his survival instincts went on high alert. His body reacted automatically, raising the sharp-bladed knife as he turned sharply to face the threat. The dense darkness of the laboratory enveloped everything around him, making every shadow a potential enemy. However, his eyes, trained to identify danger even in the most adverse conditions, failed to capture anything immediately. Only the deep silence and the oppressive feeling of being watched remained, as if the very air was filled with a heavy presence.

The hummingbird on his belt began to chirp desperately, its small cries echoing through the space. Killer knew that the bird was sensitive to danger, a reliable guide in situations of extreme risk. Before he could react properly, he felt another draft move behind him. Once again, he spun around with the knife ready to pierce anything that moved, but again, the void awaited him, playing with his perception and patience. Dread crawled down his spine, but he kept his guard up, knowing that he could not afford to falter in this cursed place.

Suddenly, something heavy and brutally strong came down on him, smashing him into the cold, hard ground. A cry of pain escaped his lips as he felt his ribs protest under the impact. But the physical pain was quickly eclipsed by an even worse sensation—the horrific double bite that sank into his right leg, tearing through joints and bones. Killer groaned in agony, his eye sockets wide with surprise and rage. The creature attacking him was a vision out of one’s worst nightmares: a two-headed humanoid wolf, its fur filthy white, partially torn off in some areas, revealing exposed, rotting entrails. The two heads, each with rotting teeth and empty eyes, stared at him with irrational hatred, while a low, steady growl reverberated through the air.

With desperate strength and the momentum of someone who knows death is just a hand's breadth away, Killer drove his knife repeatedly into the creature's head, piercing flesh, bone, and what was left of any consciousness within it. The first thrust made the creature shudder, but it was a succession of quick, precise strikes that finally forced it to release him, staggering backward with a distorted howl of pain. Blood ran freely from Killer's leg, but he barely felt the pain; adrenaline pumped through his brain, focusing him on one thing: survival.

But the terror was far from over. Before he could even plan his next move, Killer felt another shadowy presence approaching. He turned in time to see something gigantic descending upon him, a grotesque figure that could barely be described as a horse. In an almost superhuman reflex, he slid to the side, feeling the air displaced by the deadly blow that could have taken his head off. The creature attacking him looked like something out of a macabre fable: thin, skeletal, with paws that more resembled those of a dog, a long, thin tail, completely white and empty eyes, and a white, curved horn on its forehead, stained with blood.

Killer, his leg now numb with pain, forced himself to stand, ignoring the blood that stained the floor beneath him. The two-headed wolf creature was recovering, while the monstrous "horse" prepared for a new attack. He knew he could not face both at the same time in his weakened state. Wasting no time, Killer began to run, his mind working at full speed to find a way out. Behind him, the creatures pursued him relentlessly, their clumsy bodies knocking over objects and causing a cacophony of chaos to echo through the laboratory.

The two-headed creature’s loud, piercing roar filled the space, a sound so horrifying it seemed to pierce the very soul. It was a call, a summons that echoed through the depths of the lab and beyond. Killer’s stomach sank as he heard distant responses, growls and howls that meant only one thing: he was surrounded, and more creatures of the night were coming.

The full weight of his situation hit him like a punch to the gut. He was trapped in a living nightmare, a hell from which escape would be nearly impossible. But Killer was not one to give up easily. With fierce determination, he prepared himself, knowing that every move counted, every mistake could be his last. The creatures of the night were hungry and furious, and he was the prize they sought.

Killer knew his only chance of survival was to run, but the searing pain in his leg and the weight of exhaustion made every step torture. The sound of heavy footsteps and growls echoed down the hallway behind him, getting closer and closer, like the echo of a death knell. The creatures chasing him were only a few feet away, and he could feel their overwhelming presence getting closer and closer, like shadows surrounding him on all sides.

Heart pounding furiously, Killer forced his legs to move, ignoring the protests of his muscles and the blood still seeping from the bite. The walls of the hallway seemed to close in on him, the heavy, fetid air making it hard to breathe. The dim light that filtered through the broken windows was barely enough to illuminate his path, creating long, distorted shadows that played with his senses, making it difficult to discern what was real and what was the product of his mind on the verge of collapse.

Suddenly, one of the creatures leapt at him, its sharp claws ripping through his cloak and striking his back with brutal force. Killer was thrown against the wall by the impact, feeling the wind knocked out of his soul in a muffled scream. He writhed, struggling to free himself from the fierce grip that threatened to crush him. With a swift movement, Killer plunged his knife into the creature's flesh, feeling the metal sink into something hot and viscous. The monster let out a roar of pain, retreating, but not before delivering one final blow that tore open his shoulder, leaving a trail of blood and exposed bone.

Killer barely had time to recover before another creature attacked him, this time from the side, knocking him to the dirt and debris-strewn ground. He rolled away at the last moment, feeling the creature's jaw slam into the ground where his body had been moments before. The adrenaline in his body was all that kept him upright as he got back to his feet, his legs shaking and his body throbbing with pain. He ran, forcing himself to keep going, even as the creatures' erratic blows continued to hit him every now and then, tearing at his body and increasing his despair.

Stumbling, Killer spotted a door ahead of him—his only hope of escape. He ran toward it, feeling the creatures’ footsteps grow closer and closer, as if the very ground were shifting beneath him. When he finally reached the door, his hands, shaking with pain and exhaustion, struggled to turn the handle. For an agonizing moment, he thought the door wouldn’t open, but then, with a loud creak, it swung open, and Killer threw himself into the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

Wasting no time, he spotted a metal bookshelf in the corner of the room, covered in dust and cobwebs, but heavy enough to serve as a barrier. He ran to it, his joints protesting with every movement as he pushed it toward the door. The bookshelf scraped the floor with a sharp, metallic sound, but Killer didn't stop. When he finally got it positioned against the door, he pushed with all his strength, digging his feet into the floor and forcing the bookshelf to lean against the door, creating a makeshift barrier.

The door shook violently under the pressure of the creatures on the other side, who were throwing their bodies against it in a frenzy of violence. Killer could hear the deafening roars and the desperate scratching of the creatures’ claws on the wood, as if the door itself were crying out in pain. Each impact made the bookcase tremble, and Killer knew it wouldn’t hold for much longer. The wood was already beginning to give way, creaking under the brutal force coming from outside.

Killer breathed heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he looked around the room for a way out. The smell of rot and congealed blood filled the air, making his stomach churn. He knew time was running out. These creatures would not give up so easily, and soon, very soon, the door would give way completely, leaving him at the mercy of the claws and teeth of monsters that knew no mercy.

Killer, his breath coming in short gasps and his entire body throbbing with pain, knew he couldn't afford to rest, even as the grip of exhaustion tightened on him. He looked around the dark room, his eyes searching every corner for a way out or anything he could use to strengthen the flimsy barricade he'd improvised. The bookshelf he'd pushed against the door continued to shake with each impact from the creatures, and the wood was already showing alarming cracks. There wasn't much time left.

The sound of the roars and the claws scratching at the door was a constant reminder of the monstrous presence outside, as if fear itself had taken shape and threatened to engulf him. Each knock on the door was accompanied by a loud crack that echoed through the room, heightening the sense of urgency. The air was heavy and suffocating, permeated with the sickening smell of decay that only served to increase Killer's desperation.

He forced himself to ignore the searing pain radiating from his wounds. His shoulder throbbed intensely where the flesh had been torn, and his right leg was numb, throbbing with a sharp pain that threatened to topple him with every step. Blood still trickled from where the creatures had bitten him, mixing with the cold sweat that covered his skin. Every movement was a monumental effort, a battle against his own body that begged for rest. But Killer knew he could not afford to falter. He was in enemy territory, surrounded by horrors that waited for only one mistake to end him.

The hummingbird attached to his belt chirped frantically, sensing Killer's agitation and the threatening presence of the creatures outside. Killer lightly stroked the small bird with his fingertips, a gesture quick but filled with concern. He needed a way out, and he needed it now. His eyes scanned the walls of the room, noticing the disorder and debris that filled it. Shelves filled with jars and scattered papers, broken equipment that had once been instruments of scientific research, now nothing more than forgotten relics amidst the chaos.

He walked, or rather limped, towards one of the walls where a broken control panel was blinking faintly, its damaged circuits emitting an intermittent greenish light. Killer pressed a few buttons, expecting something to happen, but the panel only emitted an error sound before shutting down completely, plunging the room into even deeper darkness. Frustrated, he slammed his fist against the wall, feeling a fresh wave of pain radiate from his wounds.

Desperate to find a way out, Killer began to investigate the room more carefully, feeling along the walls and pushing aside piles of debris. Every movement made his body protest, the open wounds burning like live coals, and blood stained his clothes and the floor beneath him. He could feel the sticky wetness of his own bleeding, a constant reminder that he was losing time, strength, and life.

After a few minutes of fruitless searching, Killer finally found something that caught his eye. In the far corner of the room, partially hidden by a jumble of boxes and debris, there was a small, barely noticeable opening in the floor. Darkness seemed to emanate from it like a mist, and the smell of decay was even stronger there, almost overpowering. The narrow entrance suggested that it might lead somewhere beneath the lab, perhaps a tunnel system or a basement.

Killer approached cautiously, his eyes fixed on the opening. He knew that any movement could trigger a collapse of the floor above or alert the creatures still outside. Still, he had no choice. It was either that or wait for the door to finally give way, letting the creatures in and finish him off.

He knelt beside the opening, feeling a sharp stab of pain in his leg as he did so, but he ignored it, concentrating on carefully moving the boxes and debris. Each piece of rubble he moved aside revealed more of the opening, which seemed to lead down into a narrow, rusty staircase. He peered inside, trying to make out anything in the darkness, but what awaited him below was a complete mystery. The air rising from the opening was thick and heavy, heavy with damp and the smell of something that had been rotting for a long time.

With one last glance at the bookshelf that was still shaking from the impacts of the creatures, Killer knew he had to act quickly. He took a deep breath, ignoring the growing pain, and began to descend the rusty stairs. The steps creaked under the weight of his body, threatening to give way at any moment, but he kept going, each movement a battle against the very pain that insisted on overcoming him.

Darkness enveloped him completely as he descended, and the sound of the roaring above grew muffled but still present, a reminder that he was not safe. When he finally reached the bottom, his feet touched a wet, slippery floor, and the smell of decay hit him full force. He was in an underground corridor, the walls damp and covered in slime, and the sound of dripping water echoed through the narrow space.

Killer leaned against the wall for a moment, breathing hard, trying to steady himself as the pain in his leg intensified. He could feel the pulse of his wound, each beat of the red soul in his chest sending a wave of agony through his body. But he knew he couldn't stop. Not yet.

With his free hand, he gripped his knife tightly, his fingers digging into the hilt as if it were the only thing keeping him anchored to reality. The pain was a constant companion, a flame that burned inside him, but it was also a reminder that he was still alive. He had to keep going, had to find what he was looking for before it was too late. The quest wasn’t over yet, and he wasn’t going to let the creatures or the pain itself stop him.

With careful but determined steps, Killer began to advance down the corridor, each step echoing in the damp darkness. He did not know what he would find ahead, but the fear of the unknown was overcome by the need to survive and complete his mission. The laboratory, or what was left of it, still held the box, and Killer was determined to fulfill his mission, even if it meant facing the horrors that waited in the shadows, because after all, he was still the hunter he once was, and he loved danger, even if he was tired.

Killer walked down the dark, damp hallway, each step a silent torture. The slime-covered walls seemed to pulse with a life of their own, exuding a stench of decay that invaded his nostrils and made his stomach churn. The pain in his leg was becoming unbearable, radiating in a throbbing fashion through his body, making him feel every beat of his soul like a blow. Yet he continued to ignore his exhausted body that screamed for rest.

The corridor seemed to stretch on forever, plunging him into an almost palpable darkness. The steady drip of water was the only sound that broke the silence, echoing eerily off the narrow walls. The torch he had improvised from stone, oil, and found wood glowed dimly, casting a flickering, insufficient beam of light over the path ahead. Every shadow cast by the walls seemed like a threat, a presence hidden in the darkness.

He tightened his grip on the hilt of his knife, his fingers stained with dried blood and dirt, as he advanced. The hummingbird, now silent, seemed to sense the gravity of the situation, remaining motionless on his belt. The creature looked as exhausted as he was, both of them sharing the tension that permeated the air.

The pain in his leg grew with every step, a constant torture that forced him to limp. Blood slowly seeped from the open wound, mixing with the damp, dirty ground, and each movement made the bones around the wound contract in protest. Killer gritted his teeth, refusing to give in. He knew the pain was just another obstacle, something he had to live with if he wanted to survive.

The hallway finally opened up into a larger room, a space that looked like it might have once been a workspace or perhaps a conference room. The walls were covered in rusted metal panels, some hanging from their mountings, revealing loose wires and old electronic components. Desks were overturned and torn apart, papers and instruments strewn everywhere. The smell of decay was strongest here, as if something dead had been rotting for a long time. Killer could feel the nausea building in his throat, but he pushed it back. He needed to focus.

The room, even in its deplorable state, seemed safe enough for a quick moment of rest. He leaned against one of the tables, feeling his body sway. The pain in his leg was now a constant burn, and he knew that if he didn't treat it soon, infection would set in. But as much as he needed to take care of himself, the priority was finding what he had come for.

He looked around, searching for some indication, some clue. On one of the walls, a large screen was cracked, with most of the monitors destroyed, but one of them still flickered faintly with a series of codes that he could not decipher. The lights, now mostly inoperative, still cast an eerie light on the room, amplifying the feeling that something terrible had happened there.

He began to search the room, pushing aside the rubble and examining the few papers that weren’t completely destroyed. He could feel the pain pulsing through his body, and each movement sent a fresh wave of agony through his body, but he kept going. His determination was unwavering, his desire to survive and complete the mission stronger than the physical pain.

At the back of the room, something caught his eye. There was a large, metal cabinet that looked intact. He limped toward it, his body screaming in protest, and pulled the door open with force. Inside was filled with old documents, but among them, something gleamed in the dim light. It was a small box, sealed with a sturdy padlock, but showing signs of rust, just like the one in Nightmare’s drawing. Killer’s heart beat faster—this could be what he was looking for.

Wasting no time, he bent down, exhaustion weighing on his bones, and began prying at the lock with his knife. The blade scraped against the metal, small sparks flying through the air as he concentrated on breaking the last barrier between himself and whatever was inside the box. Finally, with a loud crack, the lock broke, and the lid of the box creaked open.

Inside was a small vial, protected by weathered foam. The liquid inside was a greenish color, emanating an eerie glow that illuminated Killer’s face with a ghostly light. He knew he had found what he was looking for—the key to the next phase of his mission, or perhaps, to his very survival.

But before he could celebrate his victory, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway behind him. Killer's soul paused for a moment before it began to beat frantically. He quickly picked up the box and put it away in his bag. There was no time for anything else.

The sound of footsteps was getting closer, and he knew he couldn’t face the creatures directly. The pain in his leg was making him slower, more vulnerable. He had to find a way out, and fast. He turned, his eyes scanning the room for any escape route. A small ventilation shaft, perhaps wide enough for him to fit through, was partially hidden by an overturned table. It was cramped, and probably risky, but it was his only chance.

Killer, ignoring the pain and fatigue, dragged himself to the duct and began to force the rusty grate that blocked the entrance. With one last tug, the grate gave way, and he squeezed into the duct, feeling the metal edges tearing at his already injured bones.

Inside the shaft, the darkness was total, and the claustrophobic space made every movement seem like a monumental effort. But he kept moving forward, driven by the need to escape, to survive. Behind him, he could hear the roars of the creatures in the room he had just left, their howls echoing through the abandoned laboratory as they continued their hunt.

The sound of scraping metal and the echo of distant footsteps accompanied Killer as he crawled through the shaft, each meter bringing a new wave of pain and exhaustion. The path was narrow and suffocating, but he knew that stopping was not an option. The end of the shaft was near, he could tell by the wind coming from that side.

Finally, the duct opened into another corridor, this time less dilapidated, but still oppressive and damp. He fell to the cold, damp floor, feeling the impact on his ribs and groaning in pain. But there was no time for lamentations. He stood up, using the wall for support, and began to walk, limping and dragging himself down the corridor. The pain was constant, and he could feel the blood running down his leg and from the wounds in his hands, but his determination was greater than any agony.

Killer knew he was close to his goal. Pain, suffering and fear would not stop him. He had faced creatures of the night, fought against death itself, and now he was about to disappear from that place. And he would not stop, not while there was still life in his body and the mission to be accomplished.

Killer continued to trudge down the dimly lit corridor, each shuffling step echoing off the metal walls like the sound of a death knell. The acrid smell of blood, mixed with the sweat and rot that permeated the air, was suffocating, invading his nostrils and putting his mind on high alert. He knew he was in a race against time, but the fatigue and pain in his leg made him slower and more vulnerable.

The walls around him seemed to close in, squeezing him, suffocating him. He knew the creatures were coming—he felt it in every fiber of his being. The sound of claws scraping the ground, the low, steady growl of monsters hunting him, grew louder and louder. The air seemed to grow heavier, denser, as if the shadows themselves were gathering to consume him.

Every time he turned a corner, his watchful eyes scanned the hallway in front of him for any possible exit, any relief that might free him from this nightmare. But the lab was a hellish maze of hallways and closed doors, each leading to new paths of despair. The pain in his leg, radiating an almost unbearable burning, was a reminder of his vulnerability and that he could not let his guard down for even a second. He knew he was leaving a trail of blood behind him, a trail that the creatures of the night would follow with ease, and time was running out.

The hummingbird on his belt began to chirp frantically again, its high-pitched cries echoing off the narrow walls. It was as if it were trying to warn Killer of impending danger, something he already knew—he was trapped. The sound of growls and footsteps echoing through the hallways confirmed his worst fears. The creatures were closing in on him, closing in on him in a deadly circle, tightening their trap ever tighter.

He paused for a moment, leaning against the cold wall, his chest heaving for air. The cold that had previously been pooling around his body now seemed to gather inside his veins, freezing him from the inside out. He needed to think, needed to find a way to escape, but fear and exhaustion were clouding his thoughts, making every decision a challenge.

As he forced himself to continue, turning another hallway, he found himself faced with a sight that made his heart stop for an instant. There they were, the creatures. They formed a grotesque line, blocking his path, their deformed and disgusting bodies moving in a sinister manner. Some were still bleeding from the wounds he had inflicted, but that only seemed to make them hungrier, more ferocious. Their empty eyes and rotting teeth, half open in an animalistic grin, reflected imminent death.

Killer instinctively backed away, but another growling sound made his blood run cold. Looking back, he saw that the corridor was similarly blocked by other aberrations of the night, their shapeless forms barely illuminated by the few beams of light that still worked. He was surrounded. A sense of despair grew in his chest, squeezing him with invisible claws.

He raised his knife, the faint gleam of the blade glinting in the shadows, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough. The pain in his leg was becoming unbearable, his mind struggling to maintain clarity as panic tried to take over. He could feel the blood still seeping out, the hot liquid staining his clothes, and he knew the creatures were scenting it, sensing it with predatory precision.

With every step he took backward, he felt the weight of the creatures of the night approaching, their loud breathing and claws scraping the ground like a macabre symphony of death. They were playing with him, they knew he was weakened, and they wanted to savor his fear, to prolong the hunt. He could hear their hearts beating, a low, rhythmic throb that made his own heartbeat echo in response, quickening with fear.

The corridors, once oppressive, were now narrow, cold tombs, and Killer found himself surrounded by walls of flesh and bone, lifeless faces watching him with relentless desire. The darkness that enveloped the place seemed alive, an entity that fed on fear, that delighted in the growing dread in his heart.

He knew there was no way to fight them all, at least not directly. He had to be smarter, he had to use the environment to his advantage. While his brain worked feverishly, trying to find a solution, the creatures of the night slowly advanced, each step a warning of his impending doom.

One of the creatures, the one that looked like a two-headed humanoid wolf, advanced first, its blank eyes fixed on Killer as saliva dripped from its open jaws. He braced himself for the attack, flexing his body as much as the pain would allow, trying to ignore the tremors that coursed through his exhausted muscles.

And then, suddenly, they struck, one after another, like a swarm of death descending upon him. Killer spun, his blade slicing through air and finding flesh, but the numbers were overwhelming. A blow struck his rib, tearing it open and eliciting a cry of pain he could not suppress. Another creature leapt upon him, knocking him to the cold, hard ground.

He scrambled to his feet, even as pain radiated throughout his body, and ran for the first opening he found, dodging bites and claws. His body was on edge, every breath an effort, every movement a battle against the paralyzing pain that threatened to overwhelm him. The creatures followed close behind, the sound of their claws and growls filling the air, a constant reminder that his life hung in the balance.

Finally, he saw a door at the end of a narrow hallway, a possible exit. He gathered his last strength and ran, ignoring the cuts and scrapes he was accumulating. When he reached the door, he slammed into it with all his weight, feeling the aged wood give way under the pressure. He staggered inside, barely managing to close the door before the creatures arrived.

But they wouldn't give up so easily. The door shook violently under the impact of the monstrous bodies on the other side, while Killer struggled to push a heavy bookcase to block it. Each movement sent a fresh wave of pain through his injured leg, but he knew he had no choice. If the door gave way, it would be the end.

Finally, the bookshelf was firmly against the door, but he knew that wouldn't stop them for long. The creatures roared on the other side, the sound of their claws scraping against wood and metal echoing through the room like a death knell. He knew he was cornered, that his chances of survival were slim, but he also knew he had to fight until his last breath.

His eyes, now half-lidded with exhaustion, scanned the room desperately for a way out, an escape, anything that might save him from the inevitable. But the cruel reality was that time was running out, and the predator would become prey unless he found a solution, and fast.

The room Killer found himself in was a claustrophobic, oppressive chamber of steel and concrete, with dim lights that flickered intermittently, casting long, ominous shadows on the walls covered in dirt and dried blood. The air was thick with the metallic stench of blood and death, mixed with the rancid odor of decaying bodies and the lingering presence of rot emanating from the laboratory.

Each breath was a painful effort, his lungs burning as the air, heavy and stifling, seemed to refuse to fill his chest completely. The pain in his leg, now throbbing with an infernal rhythm, became more unbearable, radiating a burning agony throughout his body. Blood seeped through the tears in his clothes, forming small puddles on the dirty floor, while his hands, trembling and dirty, gripped his knife tightly, his knuckles white with tension.

The roars and growls from the other side of the door continued unabated. The creatures pounded against the wood, clawing desperately, determined to penetrate the barrier that separated them from their prey. The bookcase shook with each impact, a constant reminder that time was running out. He knew it was only a matter of time before the wood gave way, and the fragile shelter would be overrun by these insatiable beasts.

Killer looked around, his eyes burning with pain and adrenaline, searching for any way out. The room was small, almost empty, except for an old desk and a rusty metal cabinet in the corner. He limped to the cabinet, each step sending a sharp pain through his leg. He threw open the door, finding inside only broken too ls and yellowed papers, useless for his desperate situation.

His mind raced, dread growing with each passing second. He felt the pounding on the door grow louder, the sound of cracking wood echoing through the room, each sound like a hammer blow to his already frayed nerves. He knew he needed to think fast, but fear and exhaustion were clouding his reasoning ability.

Groping around the table, Killer found an old map, half-torn and bloodstained. He opened it with shaking hands, the paper nearly disintegrating beneath his fingers, revealing a rudimentary sketch of the compound. His eyes scanned the map, trying to identify any escape route that might still be open to him.

Suddenly, a distinct sound, sharper and closer, interrupted his thoughts. It was the sound of metal bending, creaking ominously, coming from one of the side walls. He turned quickly, the soul fired in his chest shining brighter than ever, and saw a small opening in the corner of the room, a rusty hatch, hidden almost completely by dirt and debris.

With a new surge of determination, Killer limped toward the hatch. The pain in his leg seemed to worsen with each step, making it difficult to keep his balance, but he forced himself to keep going. He crouched in front of the opening, his vision blurry with pain and exhaustion, and began working to pry the hatch open. His fingers slid along the sharp, rusted edges as he used all his remaining strength to pull. The metal resisted, creaking under the strain, but after a desperate effort, he managed to open a small opening, just large enough for him to squeeze through.

But before he could crawl inside, the sound of breaking wood rang out behind him. The creatures were finally breaking through the door, their huge, grotesque bodies trying to force their way in. The bookcase was about to give way, leaning dangerously under the relentless pressure.

Sheer terror gripped Killer, and he threw himself into the hatch, feeling the sharp metal scrape his skin as he squeezed through the narrow opening. He climbed down a short ladder and dropped to the floor of what appeared to be a service tunnel, dark and dank, with only a sliver of light filtering through the open hatch above. Wasting no time, he dragged himself away from the opening, fighting the excruciating pain in his leg and the despair that threatened to overwhelm him.

The hatch remained open above, and he could hear the creatures’ growls echoing down the tunnel. They were after him, smelling his blood. He knew he couldn’t stop, that any hesitation would be his death.

Despite the pain throbbing through his body, Killer forced himself to keep moving through the tunnel, dragging himself along the rough floor. The room was claustrophobic, the walls closing in on him, and the air was thick with damp and the smell of rust and decay. But he couldn’t stop. He knew the things were after him, that they were hungry, and that his only chance of survival was to keep going, to find a way out—or die trying.

Each meter he advanced seemed harder than the last. The pain in his leg became unbearable, the deep cut inflamed and burning as if it had been hit by fire. His vision began to blur, the sounds around him became distant, and he knew he was on the verge of complete exhaustion. But he couldn't stop, couldn't give up. His survival instincts, sharp and relentless, were the only thing keeping him going.

As he crawled through the tunnel, he heard the creatures’ roars again, closer than ever. They were descending the hatch, following his trail. He forced himself to move faster, ignoring the pain, ignoring the exhaustion. He knew there was no room for error, that every second counted.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he saw a faint light at the end of the tunnel, a possible exit. With one last desperate effort, Killer dragged himself towards the light, every inch gained by sheer force of will. He didn't know if this exit would lead him to safety or further danger, but it was his only chance. And he was determined to fight until the last second.

As he approached the light, he heard the creatures closing in fast, their growls echoing off the tunnel walls, hungry for his flesh. But Killer didn't look back. He focused on the light, on the exit, and with one last burst of energy, he launched himself toward freedom, leaving behind the sound of the beasts chasing him.

Killer felt dread pulse through his soul like acid, a sense of urgency and desperation gripping every cell in his body. He crawled through the narrow tunnel, his breathing ragged and labored, as the roars of the creatures behind him grew louder and more menacing. The sound of their deformed paws and claws scraping against metal and concrete echoed throughout the tunnel, a chilling warning that his pursuit was about to culminate in a fatal encounter.

Suddenly, something cold and rough brushed against his feet, making him feel cold inside. He knew the creatures were too close, and panic filled his mind, blotting out any rational thought. He tried to hurry, dragging himself faster across the ground, but it was too late. He felt a fierce tug on his shin, followed by a sharp, piercing pain as sharp claws dug into his flesh, tearing through his bone like paper.

The scream that escaped his throat was more a roar of survival than a sound of pain. Uncontrollable terror drove him to fight against the thing that held him, kicking desperately to free himself. He felt the impact of his heel hitting something solid and heard the grotesque crack of bones breaking, but the creature would not let go. The sickening sound of flesh crunching and bones breaking resounded again as he kicked with all his strength, hitting the beast's skull, feeling the disturbing sensation that something had burst beneath his foot.

But even with the creature's skull crushed, the beast did not retreat. It continued to grip his shin with inhuman strength, its jaws tightening even more, forcing its rotten teeth deeper into Killer's flesh. The pain was excruciating, a blaze of agony that radiated from his leg and spread throughout his body, nearly paralyzing him with despair.

With one last burst of adrenaline, Killer gave a final kick, using all his remaining strength. The creature was thrown back, its jaws opening just enough for him to free himself. Seizing the split second of advantage, he quickly scrambled forward, blood gushing freely from the wound in his leg as he desperately tried to escape.

The tunnel narrowed further ahead of him, and the dim light of the exit was almost within his reach. But with the excruciating pain in his leg, every movement became a titanic battle against his own body. The creatures’ claws were still scratching behind him, and he knew he had no more time. It was now or never.

With one last desperate effort, Killer threw himself toward the light, throwing all his weight forward. He felt the cold, biting air hit his face as he finally reached the exit. The ground disappeared beneath him, and he fell, his body rolling downhill, each impact making him cry out in pain as he rolled across the rocky, frozen terrain.

When he finally came to a stop, lying on the snow-covered ground, his body was numb from the pain and cold. The snow around him was stained red, but he could no longer feel anything. His senses were in an oppressive haze, his vision beginning to fade as he struggled to maintain consciousness. Everything around him became a blur, the sound of the creatures’ roars distant and muffled, as if coming from a distant dream.

Killer's body was heavy, each breath a monumental effort, and he felt as if he were being slowly swallowed by darkness. The piercing cold of the snow was the only thing keeping his eyes open, even for a short time. He knew he couldn't pass out here, that if he did, it would be the end of him.

But despite his will to survive, his senses began to fail him. The sound of the wind whistling around his ears grew increasingly distant, and his vision grew blurry, the shapes around him becoming indistinct shadows as he sank into a silent, icy void.

Killer stood on the edge of the abyss, his consciousness slipping through his fingers like snow melting in the barely-there sunlight. The cold had taken over his body, partially numbing the throbbing pain emanating from his injured leg. The world around him was a blur, a jumble of whites and grays, shadows dancing at the edges of his blurred vision. Yet even in his near-catatonic state, he could still hear.

And what he heard made his heart freeze with fear.

The sounds of the creatures were getting closer and closer. The scrape of their claws on rocks and snow, the sound of their deformed paws sinking into the frozen ground, the low, constant growls that carried an undertone of insatiable hunger. But the sound that disturbed him the most, the sound that truly sent icy chills down his spine, was the menacing gnashing of their jaws clashing together, the rotting teeth snapping shut again and again like a promise of the horrible fate that awaited him.

Dread gripped him, the knowledge that his time was running out was inescapable. He could picture the twisted creatures, those aberrant beasts that pursued him with relentless determination, coming ever closer. He could see them in his mind, emerging from the darkness and shadows, their fangs bared, their empty eyes fixed on their prey lying in the snow.

But then, amidst the chaos, something cut through the air, distinct and unexpected.

A metallic sound, cold and clear, as if the wind itself carried a sharp blade, cut through the deathly silence of the blizzard. It was the unmistakable sound of a heavy blade gliding through the air, fast and precise. That sound echoed through the place where he lay, piercing the snow and the grotesque sounds of the creatures, like a predatory presence.

Killer, even as he fought against the darkness that threatened to swallow him, heard this sound distinctly, and it resonated in his body like a spark of hope or a warning of something far more dangerous than the creatures that surrounded him. The creatures noticed it too, he could notice a subtle change in their movements, a momentary hesitation, as if something beyond them was about to attack.

Whatever it was, that blade was fast and relentless. He heard it again, the sound cutting through the air, but this time it was accompanied by a dull impact and a shrill scream that dissolved into a horrible gurgle. Something or someone was hunting the creatures, and it was close, very close.

Killer tried to move, but his body felt heavy, his bones wouldn't respond as he wanted. The pain in his leg was unbearable, radiating throughout his body, but he knew he had to fight, he had to escape in any way possible, even if his only chance was to crawl a few more meters. The sound of the blades continued, followed by the agonized screams of the creatures, which made him realize that something or someone was clearing his path.

For a brief moment, he considered the possibility that it might be unexpected help. Someone who, for some reason, had come to save him. But that hope was soon overshadowed by a darker doubt: what if it was something worse than the creatures? Something that was taking advantage of the situation to claim its prey, someone who made no distinction between creatures, monsters, or men.

Killer, with the few senses he had left, tried to turn his body, stretching his arm in an attempt to find a weapon, anything to defend himself. The world around him spun and blended, but he fought to stay focused, determined not to succumb so easily.

The sound of footsteps on snow grew closer and closer, along with the sound of blades cutting through the air and clashing with flesh, the screams of creatures echoing around him. And then, as he tried in vain to get up, the shadow of something or someone passed by him, swift and silent, like a ghost in the middle of a storm.

Killer was on the threshold between consciousness and darkness, but he felt that the danger had not yet passed. He needed to find out what was happening, if this was his salvation or his sentence. He needed to survive, even if his senses betrayed him, and even if the pain was overwhelming. The fight was not over yet.

Killer was on the brink of unconsciousness, his body weak and broken, unable to move, but his senses, though distant and hazy, picked up the sounds around him with painful clarity. The sound of the blade cutting through flesh echoed across the blood-stained snow, each strike followed by a sharp cry of pain, the kind of sound that cut through the silence like a knife, sinking into the soul like steel into flesh.

He heard the creatures cry, an almost human wail mixed with an animal roar, a grotesque melody of death and despair. It was the sound of beasts in their dying breath, unable to escape the inevitable fate that awaited them. The blade that reached for them was relentless, piercing flesh and bone with disturbing ease, as if it were reaping ripe grain in the field.

Killer tried desperately to move, to turn his face to see what was happening, to understand what was causing this massacre around him. But his body did not respond, the weight of exhaustion and pain tied him to the ground like invisible chains. His eyes, fixed on the cloudy sky, saw only the heavy clouds beginning to open, allowing rare rays of sunlight to pierce the gray veil and illuminate the snow-covered land.

As the rays of light appeared, an acrid smell filled the air, the unmistakable odor of burning flesh. The sound that accompanied this smell was even more disturbing—the crackling of something being consumed by flames, although there was no visible fire, only sunlight. The creatures, in a desperate attempt to reach Killer, leaped over his body, but were immediately intercepted by something that struck them down without mercy, an invisible and lethal force.

Each desperate leap was cut short by a sharp slash, a blade coming down like an execution hammer, followed by the sound of flesh being torn and bones shattered. Mangled limbs and heads rolled across the ground, stirring the snow into small, bloody mounds as the creatures tried in vain to escape their fate.

And then the sunlight seemed to intensify for a brief moment, bathing the scene in a pale, morbid glow. The smell of burning flesh grew stronger, piercing his nostrils and making his stomach churn. He realized with growing horror that the screams of the creatures were fading, replaced by a terrifying silence, broken only by the sound of the crackling of the burning, as if the sun itself were cleansing the land of the aberrations that tainted it.

Killer, his vision still fixed on the clouds, realized that the last scream had dissipated, replaced by total and absolute silence. The smell of burning flesh still permeated the air, a macabre reminder of what had happened. He didn't know what or who had saved his life at that moment, but he felt that something, or someone, extremely powerful was behind it. And that thought, more than anything else, made his mind waver between relief and fear.

As the last shadow of the cloud passed, and the sun finally illuminated the clearing where he stood, Killer felt the world around him begin to darken, his mind giving in to fatigue, but not before one last thought crossed his mind: he was alive, for now. But the real threat could still be lurking, waiting for the right moment to reveal its true nature.

The silence that followed the slaughter of the creatures was oppressive, almost tangible, as if the air itself had become heavy, thick with tension and death. Killer, still rooted to the spot, felt his consciousness waver between darkness and reality, his hazy senses struggling to stay alert. He was on the verge of total exhaustion, unable to move a finger, his thoughts jumbled in a haze of pain and confusion.

It was then that he felt something different—a presence, strong and resolute. Firm, determined hands grabbed him, lifting his limp body from the snow-covered ground. The strength behind this gesture was not aggressive, but rather determined, as if he were handling something precious, fragile, despite the deplorable state Killer was in.

With a final effort, he forced his eyes open, just enough to catch one last glimpse before surrendering to the darkness. Before him, framed by the last rays of sunlight that had broken through the clouds, stood the figure of a tall skeleton. Its appearance was striking, almost supernatural: its right eye shone brightly with a red light, a living flame in contrast to the cold whiteness around it. Below that eye, a deep scar cut across its face, a mark that characterized its unique appearance.

The sight of this being was the last thing Killer’s mind registered before he finally succumbed to the weight of unconsciousness. There was something in the skeleton’s gaze, a silent empathy, a sense of purpose that made him realize, if only for a brief moment, that he had been saved from imminent death. Who or what this skeleton was, he could not say, but the promise of power and danger emanating from it was clear.

With that last image engraved in his mind, Killer finally gave in to absolute exhaustion, his vision darkening as his body collapsed in the stranger's arms. The world around him faded away, leaving only the feeling of cold and the firm touch that supported him, taking him away from the nightmare that had almost consumed him, and for now, the sound of the storm was no longer heard, and at least he was certain that for now, at that moment, the storm had passed.