He raised the blade, hand stalled mid-air.
Breath caught, a fish on a hook.
Couldn't fucking do it.
Not like this. Not with a goddamn knife.
Chest squeezed. Tiny half-alive thing in the box, eyes barely cracked, too weak to fight, too quiet to scream. Cutting it open? Broke something inside him.
Scalpel dropped. Clinked metal.
But the message echoed, a broken record:
* Photo.
* Blood.
* No outs.
He crouched, shaking fingers fished out a syringe instead. Didn't want to touch it, didn't want to get close, but had to. No fucking choice.
Teeth gritted, he slid the needle into the kid-skin. Soft, thin.
Didn't even twitch.
Didn't move.
Didn't make a sound.
Not even pain.
Maybe it forgot what pain was.
Syringe filled. One vial. Enough. Hand shook as he pulled it out, placed it in the kit like it was a goddamn bomb. Turned to leave. Couldn't look back. Wouldn't.
But the faces stayed.
Still. Silent.
Half-rotted.
Half-twitching.
Every tunnel-step felt heavier.
Every asylum corner darker.
Task done.
Photo. Blood.
But he left a chunk of himself in that room.
And something from that room… hitched a ride out.
Arman's footsteps echoed hollow in the tunnel, fleeing Ravenswood. Each step through molasses, lungs burning, legs screaming, baby-faces swimming behind his eyes. Regret clawed, a fucking cat in his guts. He'd agreed to this shit. Crossed a line sane folks don't even see.
* Quit.
* Even if it kills me, better than this.
Yeah, right. Easy to say, hard to do. Addict-whisper still throbbing in his veins, louder than guilt, stronger than fear.
11:45 PM, back in his apartment, Arman bolted the door, slid down the wall, and landed on the floor like a sack of shit. Kit lay open beside him: syringe, photo, blood-vial. He swallowed battery acid, forced himself upright.
Fingers shaking, he opened Telegram, back to the skull-chat. Tapped "Send" on the baby-pic, floating in yellow slime—then the syringe-shot.
Heart: jackhammer.
Moments later, the reply flickered in:
"Drug's working. They're still twitching."
Arman stared, gut-punched.
They juiced newborns?
Cold sweat slicked his skin. This was off the goddamn rails.
Before he could process the fuckery, another message flashed:
"See the dude? First task? Said, 'In—don't touch shit that ain't yours'?"
Arman's brain went full static. He'd seen fuck-all—just rot and suffering.
He typed:
“No dude. Nobody.”
Reply instant:
"Oh. He'll meet you soon for the finale."
Arman's blood turned to ice-shards.
Apartment shrunk, walls closing in. City-hum outside: a sick joke.
Meet me soon?
Who the fuck is he?
What next?
Fear and regret wrestled inside. He shut his eyes, palms pressed to his temples. Syringe, blood, mirror-shard—a noose tightening.
And now… someone—or someTHING—was coming for him.
Clock ticked towards midnight.
Game's not even close to over.
Arman stared at the screen long after the last message faded.
"Oh, he'll meet you soon for the finale."
Room heavier, air thick as blood.
Laptop clicked shut, old hinges groaning in the silence.
Sat there. Frozen.
Weight of everything—pics, blood, baby-faces—crushed him from the inside.
Thought about packing.
Thought about running.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.
Before he could decide, a knock—sharp, loud—echoed through the apartment.
He froze harder.
Another knock.
Short. Mean.
Arman's chest turned to concrete. Nobody knew his address. Nobody should've found his hole.
For a heartbeat, he prayed for a glitch.
Wrong number. Wrong door.
Knock again.
Soft. Measured.
Like the fucker on the other side knew Arman was glued to the floor, shaking.
Arman slapped a sweaty, ice-cold palm on the knob.
Ear to the wood, trying to catch… breath, footsteps… anything.
Nothing.
Just the hallway light buzzing its death-rattle above.
Slowly, he unlocked the door.
Creaked open, just a crack at first.
Enough to peek.
At first, nothing.
Hallway flickering. Empty.
Then—from the side—a figure oozed into view.
Tall. Skinny. Black coat too heavy for this shit.
A shadow-man, face swallowed by a ratty hat.
No skin showing—just glove-outlines.
In one hand, he held a little box.
Arman's breath choked up.
The dude stood silent, still as a corpse, except for a head-twitch, like he was zeroing in on Arman.
A slow, sick tilt—not human, more like a fucking lizard.
Didn't say a goddamn word.
Just held out the box, arms stiff, like a priest hocking a cursed artifact.
Arman's hand, moving on its own, reached out.
The instant their hands almost touched, a cold—deeper than winter—brushed his skin.
He took the box.
Heavier than it should be.
The dude leaned in, face still swallowed by shadow, and rasped—voice low, gravelly:
"Mix the blood with the juice inside.
With the cash, buy bread.
Soak it.
Feed those strays outside.
Tomorrow."
Voice familiar. The house-dude.
Arman stood there, frozen, box glued to his chest.
The dude gave a head-nod.
Then, without another word, turned—footsteps silent as a fucking ghost—and vanished into the hallway black.
No stair-creak.
No door-slam.
No elevator-whine.
Just… gone.
Arman slammed the door shut, heart doing a fucking drum solo against his ribs.
Locked it, double-locked, jammed the chain—paranoid much?
He placed the box on the cracked kitchen counter, careful-like.
Room went dead quiet, even the air holding its breath.
Stared at the box.
Small, plain… but it hummed wrongness.
Wiped sweaty palms on his jeans, popped the lid.
Inside—two things.
A little glass vial, half-filled with glow-sludge.
And a wad of dirty cash choked by a rubber band.
No notes.
No fucking clues.
But Arman knew the drill.
Hands did the shakes as he opened his bag, fished out the blood-tube—still warm, still wet with baby-juice.
Placed it next to the glow-vial.
Hesitated.
Is this real?
Am I really gonna do this?
Puke threatened.
But something—a fear-worm crawling in his gut—made him keep going.
Slowly, twisted the blood-tube cap.
Metallic blood-tang hit his nose like a punch.
Then popped the glow-vial's stopper.
Liquid smelled wrong—sweet-chemical rot, like dead flowers and bleach.
Colors clashed hard—blood-red and glow-sick—but they sucked together too easy, like they were fucking soulmates.
The instant blood met glow, the mix shuddered, rippled weird.
Almost… alive.
Arman's throat turned to dust.
He sealed the vial fast, stepped back.
Cash still there, untouched.
Grabbed it, shoved it in his pocket, hands shaking. Tossed the empty blood-tube in the trash—clattered way too loud in the dead air.
Glanced at the door, half-expecting another knock.
Nothing.
Just his heart pounding like a death knell.
Vial ready.
Tomorrow… finish the fucking job.
Morning crawled into his room through cracked blinds—another day's punishment.
Arman sat on the bed, glued to the box on the table.
Vial still there.
Sealed tight.
Silent as a fucking tomb.
Instructions looped in his head:
"Mix the blood with the glow-shit. Soak the bread, dipshit."
He frowned, rubbed his face raw.
What the fuck am I doing?
Hurting them?
Worse than baby-juice?
For a long minute, he almost trashed the whole damn thing.
But something deeper, colder, hissed:
"No fucking choice, puppet."
Swallowing the rising bile-fear, he grabbed the crumpled cash and bailed.
City: ghost-town silent.
Quarantine-shroud hung heavy.
No crowds.
No kids.
Just wind-whispers and stray-shadows scavenging trash.
Arman found a store still breathing, bought stale bread with the blood-money, and slipped out like a fucking phantom.
Bench-sitting, cracked concrete, he unsealed the vial.
Glow-shit shimmered—almost… alive.
He hesitated.
Poisoning them?
Hands shook.
Eyes shut, slow breath, forcing the panic down.
"Just fucking do it… please… just end it…"
Fingers trembling, he dripped the mix onto the bread, rubbing it in, soaking it deep.
Couldn't even smell bread anymore—just chemical-rot that made his stomach heave.
Finished, he closed the packets again and stood.
Across the street, the strays gathered.
Dogs: fur falling off in clumps.
Cats: skin stretched tight over bone.
A three-legged puppy limped into view.
Eyes wide, hungry, burning holes in him.
Something cracked in Arman's chest.
"Just… fucking hungry…"
He knelt on the cracked street.
Tore off a bread-chunk.
Tossed it gentle-like to a pack of dogs.
They sniffed it, wary at first—then inhaled it in seconds.
One bitch—teats swinging low—grabbed a piece careful in her jaws, padded off into a black alley.
Taking it to pups, Arman thought, a ghost of a smile.
He shuffled down the street, handing out pieces to every dog and cat in sight.
For a few minutes, liquid forgotten.
Blood forgotten.
Skull-chat forgotten.
Death forgotten.
Just grateful eyes, tail-whips, tiny paws carrying food back to the shadows.
Something warm flickered in him—something dead a long time.
Doing good.
Helping.
Feeding.
Caring.
Last crumbs gone.
Last tail-wag disappeared around a corner.
Arman stood still, street-staring.
A weird warmth filled him—a long-lost buzz.
Happiness.
Dogs ate hungry, ate happy.
Some carried bread to alley-holes, to pups shaking in the dark.
"Maybe I did a good thing today,"
Arman thought, lips twitching up.
Streetlights flickered, halos on wet pavement.
For the first time in forever, Arman didn't feel like a fucking monster.
He turned from the dead street, walking back to his box.
A flicker of dizzy brushed him.
So light, so quick, almost nothing.
He stopped, a twitch of a frown.
Shook his head, kept walking.
"Tired,"
he told the empty air.
Heavy day. Weird day.
The thought faded. Feet felt steadier.
Warmth stayed in his chest.
Good deed done.
Apartment: same.
Dust-skin clung to the walls.
Worn chair waited under the cracked window.
Heavy silence.
He kicked off his shoes, half-ass by the door.
Stood there, keys dangling, staring at the dim.
Hollowness settled in. Not sad. Not scared.
Just… gone.
Shook it off. Table-bound.
Crumpled diagram still there, stained, faded. The path.
He pulled out his phone, fingers clumsy in the cold.
Opened the app.
Typed each line slow, word by word:
"Dogs fed."
"No more."
"My part over."
Thumb hovered over "Send" a beat too long.
A twitch of doubt.
"Is this it?"
Then he pressed send.
Screen flickered once—
Ping.
Notification slid down:
"Good. No more task. Final message soon."
Heart stuttered.
Stared at the message—cold, dead—before it vanished.
Phone dropped on the table. Soft thud.
Outside, a dog barked once—lonely sound swallowed by city-hollow.
Arman leaned back, head against the wall.
Crack ran across the ceiling, jagged, sharp.
Didn't care.
Shut his eyes.
Waiting for guilt.
Waiting for nightmares.
Nothing.
Just a strange, deep quiet.
A tiny ember of calm, barely flickering.
Slow breath out.
"Maybe rest now."
But the words on the screen—no more task—echoed in his head.
Maybe, he didn't know, it was never fucking over.
Morning leaked sickly through busted blinds, a thin poison.
Arman woke up, chest tight, heavier than usual.
Headache throbbed, dull, nagging. Unfinished business.
He sat up slow, joints screaming, muscles sore wrong.
Apartment silent but for pipe-hum.
Cold.
Bone-deep cold.
Half-asleep, he shuffled to the kitchen, feet scraping cracked linoleum.
Coffee machine coughed its usual death-rattle.
Loaded it blind. Old hands, robot moves.
Coffee-smell rose, a brief lie of comfort.
Counter-lean, steam on face.
Felt almost… not-dead.
Phone buzzed on the table—tired heartbeat.
Arman wiped his face, grabbed it.
Screen glowed white, blinding.
Notification—news.
Tapped it open, thumb trembling.
Headline:
"Stray Animal Deaths Plague District."
Arman blinked. Words swam.
He scrolled slow.
Paragraphs hit like muffled drums.
"Unusual animal deaths. Strays mostly. No wounds. Tox screen pending. Public fear of poisonings."
Photos—dead dog in alley, pawprints to nowhere, kid's sandwich by dead cat.
At first, Arman stared.
Nothing.
Peace-ember still glowing—necessary, over, price.
He sipped coffee, bitterness scraping his throat.
Then—something shifted.
Images clawed back.
Tail-wags yesterday.
Mother-dog nudging bread to pups, then dropping dead beside them.
Tiny, silent memories.
Coffee tasted colder.
Bitterer.
Ash-mouth.
Chest heavy.
Rust-gnaw.
No nightmare-punishment.
No blood-visions.
Just… this.
This cold guilt.
This wrongness.
Hands shaking, he set down the cup.
Palms on table. Grounding himself.
Phone buzzed again.
Sharper.
Deliberate.
Arman glanced down.
Notification:
"Test drug failed but your task completed. End of cycle."
No hello.
No goodbye.
Just fi
ve fucking words.
He let the phone fall back. Table-thud.
Crack stretched across the ceiling, a raw sky-scar.
Arman sat there.
Long time.
Silent.
Still.
Task done.
Supplies gone.
No more orders.
No more blood-drip.
But the quiet inside… not peace now.
Something broken.
Un-glueable.
Outside, far off, a dog barked once.
Hollow sound swallowed by city-nothing.
Arman closed his eyes.
Task over.
But something in him… started to rot.
