《Gasoline Lullaby》 Silence Broken Steel walls crack open, allowing long-lost light to penetrate the bunker''s darkness. People rush out in all directions, filled with urgency. Among them, a solitary man stands at the entrance, holding a small grey cat in his hands. He gazes out at the desolate world, his clothes whipping in the wind. A worn PMK-2 gas mask covers his face, a stark reminder of his long journey and what lies ahead. For a moment, the cat purrs, encapsulating the moment and creating a sense of tranquility where none should exist. He murmurs the meaningless word "fuck" as he stood there surveying his surroundings, seemingly ignoring the dead body that rotted not even a few meters away from the entrance. Building off in the distance have collapsed or are at the brink of collapsing, trees burned, a wasteland, a place people used to call home now a desolate play place for radiation to play at. He returns to the bunker to retrieve his possessions, which include a plate carrier, a backpack, and an AK-47. He takes one last glance around the bunker, The rations were running low, and most of the food had already been consumed. He sees that others have taken the first aid kits. Fortunately, he has one in his backpack. The bunker was cramped and dark. It is astounding that 14 individuals, including two children, managed to survive there for five months, not to forget little guy, his small gey cat and his mom, though she didn''t make it to see the surface, probably for the better. The cat meows, looking up at the man as if telling him something. The man looks at little guy, petting him gently, his hands covered by black army gloves¡ªanother troubling reminder of a harsh past. The cold, sluggish wind gently brushes through the little guy''s fur as he and the man walk toward the city. With each step, the journey feels heavier. As they get closer to his hometown, he realizes nothing will be the same. Is that necessarily a bad thing? He thinks to himself as they continue their somber walk. The town is steeped in silence¡ªno vehicles are rumbling down the streets, no footsteps echoing on the pavement, and no voices filled with laughter or conversation. The stillness is haunting, a stark contrast to the vibrant chaos that once filled the city, almost as if the silence itself is a loud proclamation of loss. As they move cautiously through the abandoned streets, the man keeps his weapon held in a low-ready position, eyes sharp for any movement in the shadows. His posture is unwavering, radiating the calm authority of a battle-hardened soldier. His grip on the rifle is firm, unshaken, like a man who has long since become one with his weapon. Every step is measured, reverberating through the stillness, the weight of the silence pressing in as he sweeps the darkened corners, waiting for the slightest hint of danger. They approach a towering building, one of the few that still stands relatively stable amidst the chaos. With cautious intention, they push through the doors, only to be met with a scene of utter devastation. The interior is a haunting reflection of abandonment: debris strewn across the floor, papers scattered as if caught in a whirlwind, and remnants of lives left behind in haste. It''s evident that the people who once called this place home fled in a panic, leaving their world behind and taking only the memories of what once was. As they ascend the seemingly endless staircase of the building, each step resonates with a rhythmic echo, a reminder of the urgency surrounding them. Suddenly, a loud bang pierces the air, quickly followed by the sharp crackle of gunfire in the distance. Instinctively, the man flinches, his body tensing for a moment before he resumes his steady climb. Upon reaching the top, they enter a room that feels oddly desolate, yet it is alive with the vibrant embrace of nature. Sunlight filters through dusty windows, casting dappled shadows across the floor, while vines snake their way through cracks in the walls, intertwining with the remnants of a forgotten space. The atmosphere is surreal¡ªa tranquil sanctuary amid the chaos outside, where the green leaves seem to breathe life into the emptiness. Man rests his stuff on the wall, home, or what will be, for an undetermined amount of time. With a sigh, he carefully unzips his backpack and retrieves a small mobile cooker, its metal surface gleaming in the fading light. He sets it down on the ground, the soft rustle of leaves around him providing a backdrop to his efforts. As he begins to prepare a meal, he glances at the meager rations spread before him¡ªhardly enough to last even two days. A knot of worry tightens in his stomach as the realization hits him: if he wants to keep himself and the little guy safe and well-fed, he will need to venture into the woods and hunt for food. The weight of the task ahead settles on his shoulders, but determination flickers in his heart. He places a piece of meat in front of little guy, the cat pouncing at it as if it was alive, he bites down and eats happily. His fingers, steady and deliberate, move with practiced precision as he disassembles the firearm. He starts by removing the magazine, placing it aside with barely a glance as if the weapon no longer holds any significance to him. The metallic click of each part detaching echoes in the silence, a mechanical rhythm that matches the cold, unfeeling stare in his eyes. The rifle''s components are laid out in front of him¡ªdust cover, receiver, bolt carrier group...¡ªall familiar, all worn. He runs a cloth over each piece, methodically wiping away any dirt or residue. His hands move with familiarity, a man who''s seen the insides of conflict too many times. But today, there''s no rush, no urgency¡ªjust a hollow routine. After reassembling the firearm, he chambers a round and puts the weapon on safety. As he descended the seemingly infinite staircase, each step echoing softly in the dim light, he carefully placed a few empty glass bottles and crumpled cans along the way. This simple yet effective trick had been etched into his memory from a time when life felt devoid of purpose. In those days, he and countless others were mere pieces on a vast chessboard, manipulated by unseen forces in a game where their very lives were expendable, leaving a scar on the earth''s beautiful soil. The voices of the past echo in the man''s head: "GO! GO! ONWARDS! BREAK THEIR LINES!" The scattered cans and bottles served a purpose; they were not just trash but vigilant sentinels, meant to alert him if danger lurked too close. Their fragile bodies were ready to shatter at the slightest disturbance. After a refreshing sip of water, he concluded the day''s activities. He lay in bed, covering his cold body while his little companion cuddled close by, purring gently. Strangely, the man didn''t remove his mask, only the filter, which he placed down next to his bed¡ªworn like its owner. As the days pass, time blurs into a monotonous cycle. The man follows a rigid routine: he wakes at dawn to hunt in the shadowy woods, finely tuned to every rustle of leaves. After securing his food, he enjoys a simple meal with his little furry friend.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. Sleep comes easily, yet he remains alert, listening for dangers beyond the firelight. In moments of respite, he finds joy in playing with little guy, their fun breaking the solitude. Each day blends into the next, marked by the rhythm of survival and the warmth of companionship. When the man returns home one day, he notices that little guy isn''t waiting for him, sitting on the front desk in the building''s waiting area. He looks around the ravaged place trying to get the slightest glimpse of his little furry friend but in vain, he isn''t there, he thinks he might have fallen asleep upstairs in their room. The man climbs upstairs with a severed deer leg on his back, their food for today. He called his name "Little guy? Buddy? Where are you?", was no response. He creeps up the stairs, placing down the deer leg. Hands steady as he presses his gun against the door, cautiously peering through the crack. What he sees hits him like a freight train¡ªan abomination, a grotesque figure, burned beyond recognition, its body mutilated and twisted in ways that shouldn''t be possible. Its teeth sink deep into once was his furry little friend the room filled with the sickening sounds of gnashing. The man''s breath catches in his throat, a wave of terror crashing over him. "WHAT THE FUCK!" he screams, the words ragged, raw. His hands start to tremble as he pulls the trigger, but the gun clicks uselessly¡ªjammed. His eyes widen in horror as the monster, its face somehow familiar amid the horror locks eyes with him. The thing lurches forward, and- The man wakes up... "fuck it," he murmurs, feeling a cold sweat wash over him. Another nightmare. They''ve been coming more frequently¡ªtoo frequently. As he scans the dimly lit room, a knot tightens in his stomach¡ªwhere is little guy? A sense of fear creeps in, a reminder of nightmarish images that linger in his mind. The atmosphere feels heavier as if the walls are closing in. Silence envelops him, amplifying the everlasting dread. Dust motes float in the thin light from the cracked window, but his instincts scream that something is wrong. A sense of dread whispers that whatever peace once existed will soon vanish, leaving him in an increasingly alien place. Something isn''t right¡ªit''s a thought that intensifies his unease. *CRACK*, one of the bottles he placed breaks. The man swiftly grabs a firm, yet relaxed hold of his weapon, taking it off safely and aiming it at the door as he stands up, "Fuck, go, go! Move faster!" can be heard echoing from the staircase. Someone is here, and they''ve got a friend. As the heavy, echoing footsteps grew louder, the man adjusted his stance, moving with eerie calm to a shadowed corner of the room. His breathing was steady. The cold steel of his weapon gripped tightly in his hands. The light from the window casting shadows of the gun barrel on the wall. The door burst open with a deafening crash, two bandits storming in like rabid animals, their eyes wild with adrenaline and desperation. One clutched a rusted pistol, shaking slightly in his unsteady grip, while the other wielded a crude, homemade weapon¡ªmore a jagged metal club than a gun. Their heavy boots pounded against the floor as they moved without caution, their attention darting frantically across the room. The man didn''t flinch. With the precision of a predator, he shot, a deafening crack shattered the air as the first shot tore through the silence. The bullet slammed into the chest of the first bandit, ripping through flesh and shattering bone. The man staggered back, a guttural cry of pain escaping his lips as crimson bloomed across his shirt like a grotesque flower. A second shot followed immediately, ripping his already broken body even more. Blood erupted from the wound in a crimson spray, rhythmic to the beat of the heart, wouldn''t last long. The third shot was merciless. It tore through his head with a sickening crunch, the impact flinging him to the ground like a lifeless marionette. He collapsed in a heap, blood pooling beneath him in dark, viscous rivers. His yelps turned to guttural gurgles as his heartbeat stopped. DECEASED. The man didn''t waste even a millisecond homing in on the other bandit''s head. *click click* Jammed. The bandit didn''t hesitate. His pistol roared, and a bullet tore through the man''s upper shoulder, ripping through flesh and muscle, leaving a ragged, gaping wound. Blood spurted from the injury, painting his side. The man staggered back, gritting his teeth against the searing pain, but he refused to falter. Before the bandit could line up another shot, the man hurled his weapon with all his strength. The gun struck the bandit square in the face, eliciting a sharp crack as it broke his nose. Blood gushed from the wound, and the bandit stumbled back, momentarily dazed. The man seized the opportunity, charging forward with unrelenting fury. Fists flew, each strike landing with bone-crushing force. The man''s punches pounded into the bandit''s face and torso, each blow accompanied by a sickening thud. Blood splattered from split lips and broken skin, but the bandit wasn''t easy prey. With a snarl, he fought back, swinging wildly, his blows landing against the man''s ribs and already wounded shoulder. The man winced but pressed on, gritting his teeth as adrenaline overpowered the pain. The struggle was savage and unrelenting, each combatant desperate to gain the upper hand. As the man lunged for another blow, his foot caught on the lifeless body of the other bandit sprawled on the floor. He tripped, stumbling forward, and the bandit seized his chance. With spite, the bandit slammed his fist into the man''s side, sending him sprawling to the ground. The bandit towered over him, kicking viciously at his ribs, each strike drawing a grunt of pain. But the man''s strength was not so easily broken. As the bandit went to pick up his gun to finish off this pathetic show. The man managed to place his hand down through all the pain, he stood up. With a surge of strength, the man shoved the bandit backward, driving him toward the window. The bandit stumbled. Seizing the moment, the man grabbed him by the head and, with brutal force, smashed his skull through the windowpane. The glass shattered, embedding itself in the bandit''s scalp and face. Blood started to flow, a grisly shower of crimson streaks running down the walls and pooling on the floor. The bandit screamed, thrashing wildly, but the man wasn''t finished. He wrenched the bandit''s head back and, with one final, merciless motion, slammed his neck down onto the jagged glass at the edge of the frame. The shard plunged deep into his throat, tearing through flesh, arteries, and windpipe with a sickening squelch. The bandit''s body convulsed violently as blood erupted in thick, pulsating streams, spraying across the man''s face and chest. A guttural gurgle escaped the bandit''s lips, his eyes bulging in terror as his life drained away. Within moments, his thrashing stopped, his body going limp. The man stepped back, his breathing ragged, blood dripping from his shoulder and staining his hands. He stood over the lifeless body, the bandit''s wide, glassy eyes staring into oblivion. Another enemy reduced to nothing more than a grotesque heap of flesh and gore. The man was furious, he started to punch and brutalize, even more, the already dead bandit. In a moment his humanity kicked in, he stepped back from the body, sitting, leaning against the wall, he stared into the bandit''s lifeless eyes, now red from all the vessels popping. The air became increasingly thick and oppressive, laden with an unsettling stillness that hung over everything. It felt as though a weight pressing down on his chest made it hard to breathe as if the very atmosphere surrounding him was infused with melancholy. He longed to release the emotions swirling within him, to let tears flow freely, but he found himself trapped in a silence that rendered him unable to express the sorrow he felt. These bandits just wanted to survive, and now what? DECEASED. Little guy, appeared again, seemingly out of nowhere. Clutched firmly in its jaws was a freshly caught mouse, its fur still seeming to shimmer with life. With effortless grace, the little fellow leaped over the lifeless bodies, landing lightly on the ground. It then gently walked under one of the man''s legs. As he sat, waving his tail, a soft, contented purr rumbled, a delightful sound that spoke of satisfaction and triumph in capturing its meal. "Hey, there little guy... it is not safe place here anymore. We need to move..." The man said worried, as the cat looked up at him, careless bliss in little guy''s eyes. Smolder of the past A vast forest stretched before them, the greenery not as vibrant as it once was. Sunbeams filtered through the dense canopy above, casting intricate patterns of light and shadow on the forest floor, where fallen leaves crunched softly underfoot. The air was strangely fresh and slightly cool, carrying with it the earthy scent of moss and damp soil. Walking alongside the man was his small, furry companion, whose tail wagged with a mix of curiosity and concern. It had been four long days since the incident. The man carefully extracted his Geiger counter from his backpack, observing the display flickering to life and stabilizing at a reassuring 0.8 mSv/h. A wave of relief washed over him; this reading brought a sense of peace and safety as he stood in the heart of their new home nestled within the forest. He set his gear down with intention, his fingers brushing against the smooth handle of his backpack, and lowered himself onto a cool patch of earth. "This is a good place for us, little guy" The man talks softly, almost like he''s chatting with a small child, while the curious cat gazes around at the tall, majestic trees surrounding them. Half of the forest was burned down from the fallout, but the other side retained a small piece of its former beauty. He took a moment to absorb his surroundings. The forest was unusually quiet, a stark contrast to the vibrant symphony of sounds he remembered from his childhood. Where once the branches would be alive with birdsong and the rustling of small animals, only stillness remained now, broken occasionally by the whisper of a gentle breeze. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows that danced on the forest floor, but the silence felt heavy, almost as if the woods were holding their breath. He scanned the landscape, taking in the towering trees that stood like sentinels, their trunks thick and gnarled, yet they seemed to embody a stillness that was both beautiful and unsettling. It was a serene but eerie tableau that stirred a mixture of nostalgia and uncertainty within him. Gently, he disinfected his wound, replacing the blood-soaked bandage. He took his time making a small hut for them to sleep in, preparing food. They caught a small glimpse of peace and quiet in a world that was slowly dying due to its own actions. Sleep was harder to come by. The man would lie down, kicking and twitching his feet¡ªa habit he developed over the years. Meanwhile, little guy was sleeping soundly, while the man sat nearby on a bench he made, seemingly troubled by something, staring into the distant trees. In the distance, he spotted a figure moving from tree to tree. The weariness faded as he grabbed his gun, ready for another clash. Whatever was troubling him was drowned out in the moment. "Honey... come here, baby I miss you..." A familiar voice spoke to him with a gentle, caring tone. "§®-§Þ§Ñ§Þ§Ñ?" (mom?) The man, confused, put down his rifle and quickly stood up. "Sweetie, Mommy missed you so much" Said the voice as the figure approached the man. Through the darkness, the man recognized his mother''s face. He held his head in disbelief and anger. "No, NO FUCK NO!... get away from me" He spoke with an assertive yet sorrowful tone. "You''re fucking dead, no..." Still holding his head, the man felt a hand petting him. Her fingers went through his hair as she spoke.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. "§º§ä§Ñ ?§Ö §Ò§Ú§Ý§à §Õ§å§ê§à §Þ§à?§Ñ? §Ù§Ñ§â §ß§Ú§ã§Ú §ã§â§Ö§ä§Ñ§ß §Õ§Ñ §Ó§Ú§Õ§Ú§Ø §ã§Ó§à?§å §Þ§Ñ?§Ü§å?" (What''s wrong honey? Aren''t you happy to see your mother?) Her voice was heavy with sorrow, a gentle lilt that conveyed a profound sense of longing, as though she had spent countless years yearning for the moment she could finally embrace her son again. The man looked up to see his mother''s face again, his eyes strangely stoic, yet sadness engulfed him, his voice slightly trembling. "Fuck you, fuck you and everything you''ve done to me" His mother''s face, already marked by worry, deepened with a profound sadness that seemed to overshadow her features. The corners of her mouth turned downward, and her eyes, usually bright, now glistened with unshed tears, reflecting a heavy heart burdened by unspoken fears and concerns. She turned around, covering her face and crying. The man was hurt, after all, she was his mother. A wave of regret washed over him, slowly approaching his mother. He kneeled beside her as she cried. "§®§Ñ§Þ§Ñ... §Ú§Ù§Ó§Ú§ß§Ú... §Ó§à§Ý§Ú§Þ §ä§Ö §Þ§Ñ§Þ§Ñ, §Þ§à§Ý§Ú§Þ §ä§Ö §ß§Ö§Þ§à? §á§Ý§Ñ§Ü§Ñ§ä§Ú..." (Mom... sorry... I love you mom, please don''t cry) He spoke with a heavy heart, each word laced with a deep sense of sorrow. Every anguished yelp from his mother pierced through him like a sharp knife, twisting in the wound of his chest, leaving him breathless and aching with helplessness. He tried to hug her. She collapsed onto the forest floor with a heavy thud, the sound echoing eerily through the trees. Her skin was ghostly pale, contrasting sharply with the deep greens and browns of the underbrush. In her trembling hand, she clutched a bottle of pills, its label peeling and faded. Her eyes, once vibrant, were now hollow and sunken deep into her gaunt face as if life had abandoned them. She appeared utterly withered, resembling a forgotten body, left to decay in the wilderness for days, an unsettling reminder of mortality amidst the vibrant. "You... did... this... to... me... honey" She said, air escaping while she faded away into nothingness, the last sign of life in her eyes fading away with her. He stood up quickly, stepping back as he stared down at his mother''s dead body while that fateful day played in his head. A voice whispered to him, a man from the news channel; "A woman was found beneath the Brka bridge, presumed to be the wife and mother of two children, holding a bottle of pills that was half empty. This tragic incident is likely to be classified as a case of suicide." He stood in stillness, his gaze fixed on the lifeless body before him. Memories surged through his mind¡ªechoes of his tumultuous childhood filled with fierce battles and unrelenting chaos. The vivid images of those struggles intertwined with the warmth of laughter and the innocent joy he experienced while playing with his mother. Those fleeting moments of happiness danced around him, a stark contrast to the heavy silence that cloaked the scene, capturing the complexity of a life marked by both pain... and every so often love. *Bush rustles* He sharply turned to his right, the noise knocking him out of his trance, there was nothing there... He looks back and sees that his mother''s body is gone. As he turned around, a familiar scene unfolded before him, one that struck a deep chord within his heart. He stood beneath the old bridge, its weathered beams and rusted supports eerily reminiscent of the day his mother had taken her life all those years ago. The air felt heavy with memories, a haunting reminder of loss. There, in the shadows, sat his mother. Her figure was frail and trembling, consumed by grief, just like from that fateful day. Tears streamed down her cheeks, glistening like dew on the grass, as she clutched a small, bottle of pills in her trembling hand. The sight was a painful echo of the past, each drop of her anguish pulling him closer to the memories he had tried so hard to bury. The moment felt suspended in time, a confrontation with both his childhood and the unresolved sorrow that lingered in his soul. He lunged at his mother, desperately trying to stop her, screaming and begging her not to go through with it. But she couldn''t hear him. As she opened the bottle, he turned away, unable to bear the sight any longer. The cries stop. He woke up again, gasping for air. The forest was quiet as if mourning with him. He pushed himself up to sit in bed, holding his head, his gaze darting towards the loaded gun. Little guy was cleaning himself and curiously looking at the man. The man picked him up and gently petted his soft fur. Another night of terror. He inspected his surroundings while gently petting the cat, avoiding the spot where his mother had fallen in his nightmare. With a surge of courage, he locked his eyes on that place. Nothing was there. He let out a deep sigh. He opened his backpack and slowly pulled out a watch, one of those old ones that train conductors would use. Holding it tightly in his hands, he placed it on his chest. With a heavy heart, he signed again. Another day passed. Whispers of the Forgotten As the days drifted by in an unending haze of monotonous routine, a deep-seated, instinctual urge to explore began to awaken within the man. With each passing day, he felt the weight of confinement pressing down on him, little by little. Over the course of two months, his wound healed, leaving behind only a dull ache to remind him of his failure. The forest never improved; its atmosphere became closed and repulsive, as if it did not want the man''s presence there anymore. The once-familiar wildlife that used to roam freely began to vanish from sight, their presence becoming increasingly scarce until they disappeared entirely. The scarcity of food sources heightened the struggle for survival, creating a palpable sense of desperation. As the days passed, a growing need for change became evident, an urgency that hinted at the necessity for transformation and adaptation in the face of diminishing resources. At last, he knew he could not stay. With one final glance at the decaying woods, he turned his back on the twisted trees and the shadows they cast. His small companion, ever-loyal, darted ahead of him, its tiny paws scurrying over fallen leaves, the man could hardly hide his joy in observing his little friend march forward. Together, they left the forest behind, the silence of its rejection a heavy weight on their departure. For days, they traveled through the ruins of a world long gone. Nature had reclaimed the skeletons of cities, vines creeping over crumbling skyscrapers and shattered pavements. Yet the serenity of the overgrowth was deceptive. The quiet was punctuated by distant cries, followed by sharp bursts of gunfire. The land reeked of chaos, an unforgiving place where survival was a merciless game. Whilst they were walking through one of these cities, little guy started to act unusual. The usually playful little guy would now stay tense, his tail puffed up. "What is wrong, buddy?", The man asked, looking down at little guy, slightly concerned for his little friend. As he went to pick him up he heard a noise coming from one of the buildings, "damn it", he thought, as he whipped his gun around. The next second he heard footsteps behind him. "STAND STILL MOTHERFUCKER!" A rugged voice erupted, dripping with venom and seething malice. Little guy bolted, scurrying under a pile of debris. "I SEE THAT GUN ON YOU! HAHA! PUT YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!" As the man turned slowly, he caught sight of a small group of bandits crouched behind the remnants of a collapsed building. Their rugged faces were partially obscured by dirt and shadows, and their eyes glinted with a predatory intensity as they focused their weapons on him¡ªa chilling sight. The silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the distant echoes of gunfire and the muffled sounds of war unfolding in the background, a grim reminder of the chaos surrounding them. "Good day to you too," the man said calmly, his voice tinged with a hint of dry humor. One of the bandits, seemingly their group leader, a wiry man with a crooked grin, barked a laugh. "You hear him, boys? Good day! On your knees, now. Chop chop!" He looked around for any means of escape, in vain, he was lured out into the open. "A rookie mistake, and now I''ll pay for it," he muttered under his breath. As the man slowly lowered himself to his knees his hands high in the air still holding his gun, the bandits cautiously yet with confidence approached him from the shadows, their weapons still locked onto him. "C''mon, c''mon, drop that weapon comedian!", one of the bandits said holding back a smirk, as he hit the gun out of his hands. "Don''t break it, you hooligans", the man said, some more dry humor spilling out to calm down this tense situation. The man raised his gaze to one of the looming bandits who stalked behind him, his weapon, an M70 Zastava rifle, glinting menacingly in the sunlight. "Rock him Andrei", The bandit leader said. "Try m-", The man tried to say before the bandit swung his weapon knocking him out almost instantly. "Who is going to carry this bulky bulky thing, back to Big Boss?" One of the bandits spoke, his words blurred but still understandable. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- A long, charred hallway stretched endlessly, its scorched walls pulsing faintly as if alive. The air was thick with the acrid stench of smoke and burned flesh. The man bolted down the corridor, his breath ragged, each step resonating like thunder. From within the walls, a muffled, ghostly sobbing seeped out, as a faint lullaby played. At the far end of the hallway, a blinding white light spilled out, casting an eerie glow on the silhouette of a small child, motionless and frail. "NO! STOP! DON''T GO IN THERE!" the man roared, his voice cracking with desperation as he lunged forward, his outstretched hands clawing at the air. But the child moved with a somber inevitability, their small frame swallowed by the doorway''s blinding radiance. Sirens wailed, their deafening screech mingling with the man''s frantic cries. The light grew unbearable, devouring all shadows. And then, a deafening thud tore through the noise, silencing everything. The hallway fell still. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- A few hours later, the man started to regain consciousness again, his mind groggy and disoriented. As his senses sharpened, he took in his surroundings: a makeshift prison that exuded a foreboding atmosphere. The dim light revealed a single chair, walls stained with dark, dried blood. Rusty rebars lined up to restrict him from escaping, a claustrophobic and oppressive space. Despite the harsh conditions, he noticed they hadn''t bothered to strip him of his; worn grey hoodie, jeans, and gas mask. Good, he thought to himself. As he sluggishly stood up. Outside the cell, a group of bandits loitered, their attention divided between crude jokes and wary glances at their prisoner. Among them was their leader, a formidable figure known only as the Big Boss. He was a rotund man, his girth accentuated by the tailored clothes that set him apart from his scruffier coworkers. Strapped to his waist was a Zastava M57 pistol, a Yugoslav copy of the famous TT-33, its sleek design reminiscent of the weapon once carried by the man''s father, evoking a blend of nostalgia and apprehension. The contrast between the leader''s polished appearance and the roughness of his bandit crew painted a vivid picture of power and intimidation. "Step inside and restrain him," Big Boss commanded, his voice cold and unwavering. Four rough-looking bandits stormed into the dimly lit cell. They swiftly pinned him against the chair, forcing him into submission. The man made no effort to resist, which slightly unnerved the bandits. What now...? I just need a moment of peace, the man thought to himself as he was slammed down. As he looked up, he saw Big Boss slowly entering the cell, his figure emerging from the shadows. The dim light revealed more of his face, including a large scar running across his right cheek and up to his forehead. "Boy," Big Boss spoke, his voice carrying an air of command. "What brings someone like you to these parts?" The man stared back at him, his expression blank. His eyes betrayed nothing, as if an invisible wall separated them. "Don''t you know this place is controlled by bandits?" Big Boss continued, a smirk spreading across his face. "Who are you?" he asked with a sudden edge in his tone. "What''s your name?" "Where am I?" The man ignored the question, brushing it off with calm detachment. Big Boss''s glare hardened. "Where is my ca¡ª" The man began, but was abruptly interrupted by a slap that snapped his head to the side. His jaw clenched, a flicker of anger sparking in his eyes. Oh, these fuckers are gonna regret this, he thought, seething with rage. "I think we got off on the wrong foot, son," Big Boss said, his voice steady but intense, his gaze unwavering. "Who are you?" The question was no longer casual¡ªit was a demand. The man looked up at him, emotionless. "I don''t know my name," he replied flatly, a touch of mockery in his voice. Big Boss leaned back, his eyes narrowing. "That mask you wear," he said, his voice heavy with suspicion. "It feels... familiar. Like I''ve seen it before, all this chaos." For a brief moment, the man''s calm faltered. Unease flickered in his eyes. Who is he? the man thought, confusion creeping into his mind. Big Boss saw the shift and pounced. "Take off his gloves!" he ordered, his voice commanding. The bandits wasted no time removing the man''s gloves, revealing battle-worn hands, each scar telling a story of survival and resilience. What caught Big Boss''s eye was the tattoo on the man''s left hand. A sleek scorpion, poised and dangerous, its tail arched as if ready to strike. The tattoo conveyed not only strength and resilience but hinted at something deeper, something that could hold significance. The man glanced up at Big Boss, anxiety and dread creeping into his expression. He felt the weight of his fate bearing down on him. "Boy," Big Boss began again, his voice quiet but filled with intent. "Where did you get that tattoo?" A bandit, clearly clueless about the gravity of the moment, opened his mouth, but was immediately silenced with a punch from Big Boss that sent him crashing to the floor. "ONE MORE FUCKING WORD!" Big Boss thundered, his voice echoing off the walls like thunder. The room fell into an oppressive silence. The bandits stood motionless, sensing the danger in the air. Even the man remained still, his gaze fixed on Big Boss, despite the threat in the room. For a moment, he felt an eerie calm, as if he was accepting the inevitable. "It was a random tattoo," the man said, his tone smug as he met Big Boss''s eyes. "You''re lying to my face, boy," Big Boss spat, his voice dripping with disdain. "Eyes don''t lie, boy." "Tell me the truth," Big Boss demanded, his voice firm and unwavering. The man remained silent, his stare unyielding. "Soldier who always wore a gas mask," Big Boss finally broke the silence. A ripple of confusion ran through the bandits. They exchanged glances, struggling to comprehend the unfamiliar words. The man stiffened, his eyes darting down to the floor as he noticed Big Boss''s own tattoo¡ªone that mirrored his. "Was he someone from our team?" the man wondered, unease creeping in. Big Boss saw the flicker of recognition and seized on it. "GasMaskDude, you did it! You''ve reached the top!" he declared.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. The man''s head twitched at the words, eyes snapped up, a mixture of dread and disbelief in his gaze. "What did you call me?" he asked, his voice shaky but tinged with an unsettling calm. "Gas, my boy, is that you?" Big Boss asked, his voice a mix of sorrow, joy, anger, and disbelief. "§¡§Þ§Ú§â§Ö? (Amir?)" Gas''s voice trembled, the name barely escaping his lips. The bandits stood shocked, piecing together the connection. "Unhand him, you fools!" Big Boss commanded, his tone sharp. Without hesitation, the bandits stepped back. Gas slowly slid his gloves back on, avoiding Big Boss''s gaze. "Where did you go?" Big Boss asked, his voice softer but tinged with frustration. "You reached the top, commanding I.D.C 6... then you just disappeared?" Gas, now standing before Big Boss, struggled to find the right words. "What''s I.D.C 6, boss?" one of the bandits asked, still confused. Big Boss''s eyes locked onto him with a dangerous intensity. He paused, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably before speaking. "LISTEN CLOSELY!" Big Boss shouted, his voice crackling with indignation and pride. "I.D.C 6 was one of the most formidable groups during World War Three! I was their commander, leading them through chaos. And standing before you now is my most formidable lieutenant, the embodiment of our strength and terror." The bandits stood, absorbing the gravity of Big Boss''s words. "On the east front, we charged tanks with nothing but rifles!" Big Boss continued, his voice swelling with pride. "We cleared kilometers of trenches in days. We were unstoppable!" He paused, his voice shifting to one of deep sorrow. "Two days prior to the nuclear strikes, I deployed my men to engage in what we believed would be our final battle, one that we thought would alter the course of everything,", He paused again, "They all vanished, heroes." Big Boss looked distant for a moment, then focused back on Gas, his voice thick with urgency. "But you... vanished without a trace. What happened to you?" Gas, overwhelmed with guilt, struggled to hold back his emotions. His heart raced as he tried to collect his thoughts. "When I reached commander," Gas began, trying his best to keep calm, "I got an offer." Big Boss''s face darkened, already sensing what was coming. "We were family, Gas," he said softly. Gas lowered his head, the weight of his past pressing down on him. "I joined a mercenary group," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Big Boss stayed silent. "What did you want me to do?!" Gas suddenly snapped, rage flooding his words. "We were dying! Our resources were cut, and it was the last straw when Ajdin died! He was my friend!" "You remember that?", Gas continues, "Remember leading us into that suicide mission?!", He paused for a second, "It turned us all into animals, more than half of our team was whipped and the other half relied on war crimes to survive", he said, now calmly, with an undertone of pure rage. The silence that followed was thick with tension. The bandits stood frozen, unsure of how to react. Big Boss looked at Gas, his expression heavy with the weight of their shared past. After a long pause, he spoke, his voice steady. "How about we forget the past and move forward, boy?" he said, a confident smile creeping onto his face. "How about you work for us?" Gas, after a moment''s hesitation, nodded. "Alright," he said, his voice back to being steady. Little guy appeared gracefully as he does, he followed the bandits back to camp. Purring gently. Gas was overjoyed to see his friend was safe. The following day, Gas woke up to a sharp knocking at his door. Despite the noise, Little guy remained curled up on the pillow, his paws neatly tucked under him, fast asleep with his face buried in fluff. "Gas, wake up," came a voice from outside. It was Andrei. "Big Boss has a job for you." Gas shuffled to the door, his eyes as uninterested as his tone. "What is it?" Andrei stood there formally, avoiding eye contact. "Hit list." "So¡­ bloodshed for pay again," Gas thought bitterly, his gaze hardening. The weight of the realization settled over him as a cold chill traveled down his spine. Andrei cleared his throat. "He said to call him Big Bo¡ª" "Do I look like I care?" Gas cut him off sharply, his gaze piercing. Behind him, Little guy stirred, letting out a high-pitched meow before stretching lazily. He blinked at the room, judged it, not worth leaving the comfort of the pillow, and promptly settled back down. Gas glanced over his shoulder at the cat, muttering to himself, "Now I''ve got to worry about him following me." Andrei handed over a piece of paper. Gas looked it over¡ªan old, weathered scrap covered in hastily scribbled names, locations and images of the targets: §³§Ö§â§Ô§Ö§Ú §±§à§á§à§Ó§Ú? §®§Ú§â§ã§Ñ§Õ blah blah Jake something David Mouse. Gas chuckled faintly. "David Mouse? What kind of name is that?" But the humor didn''t linger. His expression grew serious as his eyes scanned the room. The walls, stained and cracked with age, spoke of years of neglect. Cobwebs hung in the corners, while the wooden beams groaned softly under invisible weight. The makeshift sleeping area, crafted from old planks, and long collapsed houses, carried a rustic charm¡ªbut its warmth was overshadowed by the chaotic noise outside. Bandits shouted and laughed, their voices carrying tales of debauchery. Gas stepped back inside and shut the door behind him. Sitting beside Little Guy, he stroked the cat''s fur gently. The barely audible purring was a small comfort amidst the bedlam. His eyes returned to the list''s images. A sudden intrusion broke his focus. The door creaked open without warning, and Andrei stepped back inside. "You can''t just do that," Gas said calmly, though his eyes sharpened. "I know, I know," Andrei said, holding up his hands. "I just¡­ wanted to set things straight between us." He hesitated before adding, "We''ll be working together. Boss''s orders." Gas sighed, setting the list aside. "Don''t weigh me down," he replied coldly, his focus drifting back to the paper. Silence hung between them for a moment before Andrei asked, "What was the name of the mercenary group?" Gas didn''t look up as he answered, his tone flat. "If I told you, I''d have to burn this place down¡ªwith you still inside." The words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. Gas finally looked at Andrei. Andrei''s face a mask of calm conviction. After a beat, Gas rose and opened the creaky cupboard by his bed. Inside was a pistol¡ªa Frankenstein''s monster of a weapon, its upper half scavenged from a Beretta, its lower cobbled together from a starter pistol. He began disassembling with methodical precision. "I was part of alpha assault group," he said, his voice even. "The Phantom, they called us. Most secretive soldiers." Gas paused, carefully removing the barrel of the pistol. His hands moved with practiced ease, but his tone carried a weight that seemed to chill the air. "We didn''t leave witnesses. No loose ends." He looked up, meeting Andrei''s gaze, as he slapped the pistol back together. "You would never get to see us, we worked at night. And if you did¡­" His words trailed off ominously. Gas precisely raised his pistol with an eerie calm, aiming it at Andrei''s head and mockingly closing one eye¡ªas he moved the air seemed to grow chokingly tight, Andrei started to sweat slightly, but his stance appeared unimpressed. *Click* "Boom...", Gas said his voice a whisper, "But it doesn''t matter anymore", He continued, "Most of us were whipped out in the nuclear strike and Sova bled out right at the bunker entrance", He said now with a hint of sorrow, "I think, I''m the only survivor". They both paused for a moment to let it sink in. "I could have saved him, I had time", Gas thought, looking down at the ground. Then Gas stood up, left some food and water for little guy, picked up his AK, and left the room, Andrei followed. "It''s time for work," Gas said coldly, the metallic click of his lock echoing as he secured his room. Andrei, leaning against the wall nearby, gave a small nod. "Right behind you." The bandits'' camp outside the sleeping quarters was a chaotic patchwork of decay and ingenuity. Old, abandoned buildings stood alongside makeshift structures cobbled together with wood and scrap metal. Each corner served a purpose: a grimy prison, a barebones gym, and an arsenal spilling over with rusted weaponry and ammunition crates. Gas took it all in with a sweeping gaze. "Amir never lost his knack for organizing chaos," he thought, watching a group of bandits go through half-hearted training drills. Their form were sloppy, their punches lacked power, and their motivation seemed nonexistent. As Gas passed, he gave them a curt nod. The bandits nodded back, some mumbling greetings. One stood out, noticeably heavier, his movements sluggish. Gas smirked under his mask, remembering Big Boss. "Big Boss, Amir... didn''t exactly stay battle-ready, did he?" Andrei interrupted his thoughts. "Who''s the first target?" he asked, loading shells into his shotgun with practiced ease. "Should we come up with a plan?" "Plan?" Gas echoed, his tone steady, his eyes scanning the camp. "Plans are for people who leave witnesses alive." Andrei paused, digesting the words. He knew better than to argue when Gas spoke with that deadly certainty. After a beat of silence, Gas spoke again. "Mirsad. He''s the closest. We take him out first." "We go in, shoot him, get out," Gas said nonchalantly, as if he were discussing the weather. Andrei tightened his grip on the shotgun. "Understood." Gas took one last look at the bandits'' camp before turning toward the shadows. The mission had begun, and in his mind, there was no room for error¡ªonly blood and silence. They arrived at nightfall close to where their first target stayed. His house was close to the forest. "Perfect", Gas thought to himself, "This will be an easy job", He whispered to Andrei as they were getting closer to the house. Gas moved silently through the shadowy parts of the woods, barely making any noise, Andrei followed suit, not so silently. "Stay down", Gas whispered as a figure appeared in the window. They abruptly stopped, waiting for the figure to move, It turned its head sharply towards the window, placing some sort of curtain over it. Seizing the moment, they moved quickly. As Andrei dashed forward, he tripped on a gnarled root and fell to the ground. The thud echoed through the stillness just as a window creaked open, and Gas darted beneath it to stay hidden. Suddenly, gunfire erupted, shattering the night with deafening cracks. As a primal scream pierced the chaos, Gas desperately crawled away to the side of the house. "Dumbass," he hissed under his breath. From his crouched position, he raised his gun toward the door. The faint shuffle of hurried steps reached his ears, his target burst out, silhouetted in the doorway. Gas didn''t hesitate. BANG! BANG! BANG! The shots rang out in quick succession, every round finding its mark. Blood sprayed like a macabre mist as the man staggered backward, crumpling to the ground with a hollow thud. A pool of crimson spread beneath him, staining the earth in a grotesque halo. Gas rose to his feet with a slow, deliberate motion, he brushed the dirt from his clothes. His gaze fell to the lifeless body sprawled before him. The man looked to be in his fifties, his face twisted in a final grimace of terror. Gas stared for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, without a flicker of hesitation, he raised the gun once more. BANG! The bullet tore through the man''s skull, ensuring there would be no return from death''s grasp. Blood and brain matter spattered the ground, a grotesque punctuation to the deed. DECEASED. Gas exhaled sharply, his eyes scanning the area with predatory precision. The surroundings were empty, the world holding its breath. Gas came back around to see what happened to Andrei. Andrei was slumped, his head lolling unnaturally, with a trail of blood leading from where he got shot to under the window where he sat. "I don''t want to be responsible for this", He thought while kneeling next to him, "What an amazing time to not bring my medical kit", he added. "Fatality?" Gas said calmly to himself. A bullet hole marred Andrei''s thigh, dark blood pooling and seeping into the dirt; the flow was sluggish but ominously thick. It wasn''t an artery¡ªsmall mercy¡ªbut something vital had been hit. "Not fatal... not yet," Gas thought, working quickly. He yanked Andrei''s belt free and twisted it around his leg, tying it off with practiced ease. A makeshift tourniquet, buying precious seconds. Andrei''s eyes fluttered open, his breath shallow. A low groan slipped from his lips, tinged with confusion and pain. "FUCK, MAN!" he bellowed, twisting weakly. "What... what happened?!" "You got shot," Gas said flatly, his tone edged with a mocking chill. "Hold pressure here. I''ll grab bandages." He stood, his movements swift and mechanical. As he ran back into the old man''s house, the interior was dim and suffocating, the air heavy with scent of dead flesh and gunpowder. Gas rifled through cupboards and drawers, pulling out old clothes and cracked jars of God-knows-what. His hands froze when he spotted a photo on one of the dressers. The old man beamed alongside a small boy and a woman, the image whispering of a life once cherished. Scrawled in the corner: "§£§à§Ý§Ú§Þ§à §ä§Ö, §®§Ú§â§ã§Ñ§Õ§Ö!" (We love you, Mirsad.) Gas''s chest constricted, a leaden weight settling in his gut. "No...", Regret clawed at his throat. "He''s just a boy" Voices of the past spoke to him. "Why do you always have to be so aggressive with him?" Gas wasn''t fazed by them. "He just wants to be happy" ... A faint whisper¡ªfragile, ghostly¡ªrippled through the silence: "Why?" Gas''s breath hitched. Every muscle locked, as he spun sharply, his boots scuffing the wooden floor, eyes darting for the source of the sound. Nothing. The room stood undisturbed, a tableau of frozen time: neatly arranged furniture, and faded pictures of landscapes hanging on the walls. Shadows pooled in corners, shifting subtly as if alive. Gas froze, the oppressive quiet pressing down on him. His gaze snagged on a bottle of alcohol jutting from under the bed. Snatching it and the picture up, before he bolted back outside, his boots echoing through the dead man''s house. He stepped over Mirsad''s crumpled, lifeless form without a glance. Coming back, Andrei was unconscious again, his head slumped to the side. Gas knelt beside him, uncapping the bottle and pouring the stinging liquid over the wound. Andrei flinched, a low groan slipping from his lips. "Good. Stay awake," Gas muttered, tearing a strip from an old T-shirt. He soaked it in alcohol and stuffed it into the wound wrapping tightly around it as well. Andrei stirred, his breath hitching, and leaned forward as the pain pulled him back toward consciousness. "Don''t move," Gas ordered, his voice sharp but steady. "You''ll live. But if you pass out again, I''m not carrying your ass." Andrei leaned back again, taking the liquor bottle, and he took a large gulp. "You''ll need that", Gas spoke mockingly with a chuckle in his voice, Andrei looked at him aimlessly. They sat there in silence for a few minutes, regaining the energy to go back to the camp. Gas was staring off into the distance fidgeting with his hands, "Is he dead?", Andrei asked, curiously, "Very dead", Gas said coldly. "Our job is done", Said Andrei, scratching Mirsad''s name off the list. "C''mon", Gas began, "I''ll help you back to camp". As they sluggishly started to walk off Andrei caught a glimpse of the old man''s open skull, "You rocked his shit, ", "Yes I did", Gas replied boldly as they slowly returned to camp. Back at camp, Big Boss greeted them with open arms. Gas handed over the picture. Big Boss studied it for a long moment, then nodded, a proud smile spreading across his face. "Good job, boys," he said, his voice booming with approval. He patted Gas on the back. "I could always count on you." Big Boss''s gaze shifted to Andrei''s wound. His face hardened. "MEDICAL!" he shouted, and two bandits rushed forward, lifting Andrei away. Gas stood there, his mind drifting. "Poor bastard should''ve stayed out of bandits'' way," he thought. He looked down at the photo once more, the weight of it heavy in his palm. Big Boss handed Gas a small bundle of ammunition. "Here," he said. "Your reward for your trouble." Gas glanced down at the 7.62x39mm rounds, his fingers curling around them before shoving them into his pocket. "Glad to be able to kill more", Gas thought sarcastically. "That''s not all," Big Boss continued, a smile creeping into his voice. "You''ll also get fifteen hundred marks and a hot meal tomorrow." Gas didn''t respond, his mind already elsewhere, replaying the day''s events. The haunting whisper still lingered in the back of his mind, but he knew better than to let it surface. Gas nodded and sluggishly went to his room. Little guy was there waiting for him, meowing with enthusiasm that his friend was back. "Hello, little man", Gas spoke to Little guy, petting him gently. He sat down on his bed, staring at the gun before taking it to his hands. He disassembled it and began cleaning. "This kid is just a fucking monster" Voices of the past spoke to him. "What the fuck is wrong with him?" Gas wasn''t fazed by them. "He just wears that stupid fucking mask and scared other kids!" ... "WHY?!", a raspy, male voice asked, Gas was shaken by it. Taking a deep breath he calmly took off his boots and went to sleep. Cracks in the Mask DA-DA-DA-DA! DA-DA! DA-DA-DA! The rifle unleashed its fury, each burst tearing through the silence like jagged lightning. Muzzle flashes painted the dim hallway in fiery orange streaks, illuminating the cracked walls. The sharp, rhythmic cracks of gunfire reverberated through the six-story building, leaving no doubt about the chaos raging inside. Sergei raced through the corridor, his breaths shallow and frantic. Each step felt louder than the shots behind him, the pounding of his heart echoing in his ears. He stumbled over broken furniture and chunks of crumbling walls, his panic mounting with every fleeting moment. He threw open door after door, seeking refuge in the remains of what once must have been a bustling building. Finally, he burst into a room cluttered with overturned desks and battered chairs¡ªperfect for hiding. "Damn it," Sergei hissed, slapping the side of his handgun in frustration. "Rusty piece of shit!" Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. Slow, deliberate. It was closing in. Sergei ducked beneath a desk, his hands trembling as he clutched a small wooden cross. His breaths came in shallow gasps, muffled behind clenched teeth. The floorboards creaked as the figure entered the room, each step punctuated by an oppressive silence that seemed to drain the air. The shadowed figure paused, its presence a smothering weight. Sergei could feel his pulse hammering in his throat as the intruder''s gaze swept the room. Dust motes floated in the dim light streaming through a crack in the curtains, and for a moment, it seemed the thing might leave. Then the footsteps resumed, fading into the distance. Sergei exhaled shakily, his lips moving in a muffled prayer. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound jolted him. The taps were slow and deliberate, coming from directly above him. "Peek-a-boo.", said a steady voice. Sergei''s heart plummeted as icy terror swept over him. His body was drenched in cold sweat as he slowly lifted his head. Gas stood in the doorway, half-shrouded in shadow, the dim light catching the glint of his gas mask. He was motionless, his AK held low, like a predator savoring the moment. "P- P- Please," Sergei stammered, rising unsteadily. "PLEASE! Don''t hurt me! I paid my debt! I don''t know what you want!" Gas tilted his head slightly as if considering the plea. The AK''s barrel rose slowly, leveling at Sergei''s chest. Sergei''s eyes darted around the room, scanning for any means of escape. The cluttered furniture offered no salvation. He backed up against the wall, his voice trembling. "Please," he begged, "I- I do not want to die I don''t deserve this" "It''s not about what you deserve. It''s just your turn.", Gas said flat out. Sergei''s hands tightened even more around the cross realizing there was no clean escape. His gaze darted to his left¡ªa window. "God, forgive me." He muttered as he rushed and threw himself out of the window. The cold wind screamed with Sergei as he plummeted. Gas stepped calmly to the edge, his expression unreadable behind the gas mask. He watched as Sergei''s body met the ground with a final thud. Gas lingered for a moment, then turned away, his rifle resting against his shoulder. "Humans can''t fly," he muttered, his voice barely audible beneath his breath. Gas descended the stairs with deliberate steps, each creak of the warped wood echoing through the empty building. The air grew colder as he approached Sergei''s mangled body sprawled across the cracked pavement below. The sight was grotesque: Sergei''s skull lay split open, fragments of bone glinting in the dim light, while a crimson pool of fresh blood spread beneath him. Broken limbs jutted out at unnatural angles, his cross lay undamaged next to him, a macabre display of what desperation had brought. Gas paused a few steps away, his head tilting slightly as he studied the wreckage. DECEASED. "Poor guy," he thought coldly, his tone devoid of sympathy. Reaching into his hoodie, Gas retrieved a battered camera. He knelt down, the faint hum of the device breaking the silence as he lined up the shot. The cracked lens reflected Sergei''s lifeless, wide-eyed expression¡ªfrozen in terror. "Say, cheese", Gas said clicking the shutter. The flash illuminated the grisly scene for a fleeting moment, capturing it forever in stark, unforgiving detail. He paused for a moment looking at the wooden cross soaked in blood. Gently picking up the cross, he placed it on Sergei''s chest. Satisfied, Gas straightened up, slipping the camera back into his pocket. His boots splashed softly in the blood as he stepped away. His gaze was fixed on a forest on the horizon. Walking through the forest back to camp, Gas''s mind raged with regretful thoughts. "What could such a religious man have done to deserve this?" he asked himself, Sergei''s wide, terrified eyes seared into his memory. The image of Sergei''s shattered body mingled with countless others¡ªfaces of the desperate, the guilty, and the unlucky. They all stared back at him in silent accusation. Gas adjusted the strap of his rifle, its weight suddenly unbearable. Each step felt heavier, as if the forest floor itself was dragging him down. The muted crunch of fallen leaves beneath his boots only emphasized the oppressive silence of the woods. "He begged," Gas thought bitterly, gripping the straps of his pack. "They always beg. And I always pull the trigger." The cross Sergei had clutched flashed in Gas''s mind¡ªa pitiful defense against a man who played the part of a demon. Gas exhaled sharply, his breath fogging the lens on his gas mask. "And yet he jumped," he reminded himself, trying to shift the weight of blame. But it didn''t stick. Gas''s own words¡ªcold, dismissive¡ªechoed back to him. "It''s just your turn." The trees thinned as he approached the outskirts of the camp, the dim light of a dying fire casting shadows on the uneven ground. Gas stopped, staring at the flickering light as though they might hold an answer. "How much longer can I do this?" he thought, running a hand over his mask, his expression twisted¡ªa fleeting crack. He reached into his pocket and felt the smooth, battered edge of the camera. "Monster. Monster. Monster," the word thudded in his mind like a heartbeat, trailing him as he reached the camp. The sharp voices of the bandits cut through the night. A stocky bandit in a stained jacket cursed loudly with a stutter as a blur of fur dashed past him. "G- G- Goddamn cat stole it again! T- That''s the second c- chunk of meat today!" Gas glanced down. Little guy streaked towards him, a slab of meat almost bigger than his head clamped between his jaws. "Well, hello there," Gas said cheerfully, bending to scoop him up. Little guy dangled in his grasp, growling triumphantly as he gnawed on his prize. The stocky bandit stomped closer, pointing an accusing finger. "Y- You better keep that p- pest on a leash, Gas! It''s b- bad enough we gotta deal with you!" Gas chuckled, low and sharp. "W- W- W- What''s so funny, huh?" the bandit demanded, his face reddening. "Maybe you should lose some weight," Gas replied, holding Little Guy higher, the cat''s tail swishing like a victorious banner. From the other side of the fire, a wiry bandit snickered, flicking the ash from a roll-your-own cigarette. "He''s got you there, Viktor. You couldn''t catch a cold in the dead of winter." Viktor scowled but said nothing, his arms crossing defensively. Near the fire, the nutcase bandit¡ªknown only as Tima¡ªleaned back against a log, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the cat. His fingers twitched over a scarred hand, remnants of a self-inflicted wound. "§°§Õ§ß§Ñ§Ø§Õ§í §ñ §å§Ò§î§ð §ï§ä§à§Ô§à §Ü§à§ä§Ñ, (One day I''ll kill that cat)" Tima muttered with a lazy grin, his voice coated with the sticky edge of a drugged stupor. Gas''s gaze snapped to him, sharp as a blade. "§³§ä§Ñ§â§Ñ§Û§ã§ñ §Ú§Ù§à §Ó§ã§Ö§ç §ã§Ú§Ý,(Try your best)" he said coldly, his voice cutting through the campfire chatter like an executioner''s axe. Tima didn''t flinch but smirked wider, his yellowed teeth catching the firelight. "§¹§å§Ó§ã§ä§Ó§Ú§ä§Ö§Ý§î§ß§í§Û, §ß§Ö §ä§Ñ§Ü §Ý§Ú? (Sensitive, aren''t you?)" he drawled, dragging a finger across the fresh edge of his blade. "Keep talking, Tima," Gas replied, his voice even but the threat unmistakable. "Maybe the next time I''ll carve snakes out of your arms myself." The camp went quiet. Even Viktor''s blustering died down as the weight of Gas''s words settled in the smoky air. Little Guy let out a triumphant yowl, breaking the silence as he gnawed at his stolen feast. Tima shrugged lazily, his drugged grin never fading. "§´§í §ã§Ü§å§é§ß§í§Û, Gas (You''re no fun, Gas)." But he looked away first. Gas let out a low breath, "I can''t make a scene here", He thought. Setting Little Guy down. The cat, oblivious to the tension, stalked off with his prize like a king retreating to his throne. Gas straightened, brushing past the bandits toward the medical area. The shadows flickered across his mask as he passed by. Inside the makeshift medical area, Andrei lay sprawled on a creaky bed, his flashlight casting a pale glow over the glossy pages of a tattered nude magazine. He was so absorbed he didn''t hear the door flap rustle. "Damn, dude," Gas said, his voice cutting through the quiet. Andrei flinched, slamming the magazine shut and nearly dropping the flashlight. His eyes darted to Gas. "Don''t you know how to knock?" he snapped, fumbling to shove the magazine under the bed. "No," Gas replied mockingly, leaning casually against the doorway. "What do you want?" Andrei continued, trying to sound indignant but failing to hide his embarrassment. "How are you doing?" Gas asked, tilting his head slightly. Andrei huffed, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. "I think my leg''s healing okay," he muttered, his fingers fidgeting over the bandage. Gas glanced at the bandaged leg before meeting Andrei''s gaze again. "You think or you know?" "It''s fine!" Andrei snapped, though his tone betrayed a flicker of doubt. He hesitated, then added, "How did your hunt go?" The question hit harder than Andrei likely intended. Gas froze for a moment, his gaze shifting as the image of the cross Sergei had clutched flashed through his mind. "He''s dead," Gas said, his voice dropping from mocking to cold and flat. An uneasy silence stretched between them, thick and oppressive. Andrei opened his mouth as if to say something but stopped when the flap of the tent rustled again. "My boy!" a booming voice shattered the quiet. Big Boss strode in, his grin as wide as the horizon. "How did the hunt go?" Gas didn''t answer right away. Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulling out the camera. He held it up without a word, the small screen showing the grainy picture of Sergei. Big Boss''s grin widened further as he snatched the camera, peering at the image. "Amazing job!" he bellowed, patting Gas on the shoulder, turning to push Andrei a little. "Careful, Boss!" Andrei grumbled, glaring at the older man. "Ah, you''ll live," Big Boss waved him off, already digging into his pocket. "You know, Gas, I can always count on you. You weren''t my most valued soldier for no reason!" He pulled out a box of ammunition, the dull gleam of the cartridges catching the faint light as he handed it to Gas. "For the next one," he said emotionlessly. Gas took the box, his expression unreadable behind the mask. "Thanks," he muttered. "Always earning your keep," Big Boss continued, patting Gas on the back again before turning to Andrei. "And you, stop lying around. You''ll get soft!" Andrei scowled, muttering something under his breath as Big Boss made his way out. Gas glanced down at the box of ammunition, then pocketed it without another word. The image of the cross lingered in his mind as he turned back to Andrei.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. "You''re lucky you''re stuck here," Gas said quietly, before stepping out into the night. Hard metallic clicks echoed as Gas locked the door behind him. Little guy sat perched on the bed, still gnawing at the piece of meat he''d pilfered earlier. Gas lay down beside him, his hand absently stroking Little Guy''s fur. His gaze fixed on the ceiling, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn''t banish the image from his mind¡ªthe brutal, desperate death that had unfolded, one he had orchestrated with his own hands. "Am I even human anymore?" The thought clung to him, an unrelenting whisper in the cavern of his mind. "Why?" The voice came again, ghostly and familiar. It had haunted him since that first innocent life he''d taken. Gas had stopped trying to answer the voice long ago, the same night Jake laughed¡ªlaughed¡ªas Gas drove the blade into him. That twisted, hollow mirth still echoed in his mind, a cruel refrain that refused to fade. "Why?" the voice whispered again, insistent. "Why did you do this?" Gas turned onto his side, facing the wall, his body curling inward like a shield against the accusing tone. "Why?" it echoed once more, relentless. "I don''t know¡­" Gas murmured, his voice cracking under the weight of sorrow. For a moment, there was quiet¡ªa respite that almost felt like mercy. But then the voice came again, louder this time. "I didn''t raise you like this, son." Gas''s breath caught in his throat, his chest tightening. "Leave me alone, Dad," he began, his words trembling with frustration and despair. "You think I planned for it to happen like that?" He turned, heart pounding, to find his father standing in the room. The sight was grotesque¡ªa figure of charred flesh, his clothing fused with his melted skin, the seams of his humanity undone. "Why?" his father asked, his voice a slow, rasping drawl. What seemed like a grin stretched across his deformed face, unnerving in its ambiguity. Gas stared, paralyzed by the apparition, before the fury rose like a tidal wave. "FUCK YOU!" he roared, his voice raw and primal. The grin twisted, contorting into something darker. "STOP FUCKING TORMENTING ME!" Gas clutched his head, his hands digging into his scalp as if to claw the voice out of his mind. Silence. He opened his eyes, his chest heaving. The room was empty. His father was gone. The little guy stood there, paralyzed with a mixture of fear and confusion. His wide eyes darted around the room, uncertain whether he was reacting to the apparition or simply recoiling from Gas''s thunderous yell. "I''m sorry," Gas spoke after a moment, picking up Little Guy. He petted him, holding him close to his body. "I''m sorry, little buddy," he continued. "I love you." Gas sighed a deep, trembling sign and placed the camera on the cupboard, its sleek, damaged body slightly reflecting light. Gas looked at his gun and then at the list. One more name, David Mouse. "One more...", He thought, saying it as if he wasn''t talking about a human. This night he was too tired to even go through his nightly routine, he lay down again trying to sleep. Minutes turned into hours as he slowly drifted to sleep. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- "NO! PLEASE, DON''T HURT ME!" Gas cried out, his voice cracking with terror as he clutched the cross in his trembling hands. His knuckles whitened, the symbol of faith offering no solace against the darkness pressing in on him. "Calm down," a voice cooed gently, almost soothing¡ªuntil the words turned sharp. "It''s just your turn now." The voice began to laugh, soft at first, but it grew and twisted, morphing into a blood-chilling scream that tore through Gas''s mind. His breathing quickened, his chest heaving as he frantically scanned the room. His head snapped toward the window. "Father, forgive me," he whispered, his voice hollow and barely audible. Without hesitation, Gas lunged forward, throwing himself out the window. The world vanished into an endless abyss, and he fell¡ªinfinitely, weightlessly¡ªhis torment following him into the void. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Gas jolted awake, drenched in a cold sweat. His chest heaved, lungs burning as he gasped for air. His wild eyes darted around the dim room, searching for threats in every shadow. Little Guy stirred, his fur standing on end. With an annoyed meow, the cat glared at him, clearly irritated by the sudden commotion. Gas ignored him, springing to his feet. His hand found the AK leaning against the wall, fingers tightening around the cold metal. He locked the door behind him with a sharp, decisive click and stormed into the corridor. The bandits sneered as he passed, their mocking laughter biting at his ears like a pack of wolves. "Look at him¡ªchasing ghosts again!" "Gonna find another corpse to haunt you, Gas?" Their taunts blurred into white noise, his focus fixed on the list clenched in his fist. His grip tightened until his knuckles turned white. "This ends now." Hours later, the world seemed far away as Gas reached his destination. The factory stood like a monolith of decay, its crumbling frame looming against the night sky, rust streaking its walls like blood. Inside, the air was oppressive, thick with the scent of mold and rot. The wind howled through shattered windows, its eerie whistle slicing through the stillness. Gas moved cautiously, his boots crunching against debris as he stepped from one empty room to the next. Each was more barren, more foreboding than the last. The silence grew heavier with every step, suffocating in its intensity. "Another apparition?" he muttered, his voice low and strained. The sound of his own words barely reassured him. His fingers shifted uneasily on the AK, the weight of the weapon somehow unbearable. Shadows slithered in his periphery, flickering in the pale moonlight. The factory seemed alive, breathing, watching. "COME OUT, LITTLE MOUSE!" Gas bellowed, the mockery in his tone barely masking the unrest brewing in his chest. His voice echoed through the empty halls, swallowed by the void. The air seemed to thicken with every passing second, each breath harder to draw. His movements grew frantic, the tension clawing at his sanity. Room after room, door after door¡ªempty. Until one wasn''t. Gas slammed through the final door, his boot splintering the rotted wood. There, sitting in a broken chair leaning against a dilapidated bed, was David. David didn''t flinch. He gazed up at Gas with hollow eyes, despair etched into his every feature. His shoulders sagged under an invisible weight, his body motionless, resigned. Gas shouldered his rifle, the barrel steady, his finger grazing the trigger. But something stopped him. Staring into David''s eyes, Gas felt it¡ªa flicker of something long buried. Humanity? Regret? He couldn''t name it, but it was enough to still his hand. His grip faltered, the rifle trembling, then lowering as his breath caught in his throat. Slowly, deliberately, Gas slung the weapon over his shoulder. The silence between them was deafening, the weight of unspoken words filling the space like lead. David didn''t speak. He didn''t need to. His eyes, hollow yet piercing, told a story of resignation, of someone who had nothing left to give. Gas''s gaze fell to the floor, his once-unshakable resolve unraveling thread by thread. He stood there for a moment, as if the act of moving might shatter the fragile quiet between them. Finally, Gas broke the stillness. "Eyes don''t lie," he said softly, his voice low and uneven. David''s eyes flickered, a spark of something¡ªpain, anger, or maybe even fear¡ªcrossing his face. With deliberate movements, he reached up and tugged his bandana down, revealing the lines of exhaustion etched deep into his features. "Just do your job," David said, his voice firm but brittle. The command rang hollow. Gas hesitated, his fingers twitching at his side. He looked back at David, their eyes meeting, the silence between them growing heavier. Slowly, Gas walked over to the bed and sat down beside him, the springs creaking under his weight. He pulled his camera from his pocket, turning it over in his hands, his fingers brushing against the worn edges of the device. He fidgeted with it absently, his eyes fixed on a crack in the floorboards. "When was the last time you felt like a human being?" Gas asked, his tone calm but weighted with a sadness he couldn''t fully mask. David flinched at the question, his jaw tightening. He didn''t answer immediately, and when he did, his voice was sharp, almost a snarl. "Just fucking kill me already!" Gas didn''t flinch. He placed the camera down gently on the bed, its lens glinting faintly in the dim light. "You planned this, didn''t you?" he asked, his voice quieter now, but with an edge of certainty. David''s breath hitched, his chest rising and falling unevenly. His gaze dropped to the floor, his hands clenched into trembling fists on his knees. "It doesn''t matter," he muttered, his voice cracking under the weight of the words. "None of it matters anymore." Gas leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the cracked floorboards. "It matters to me," he said after a long pause. His words were soft, almost inaudible, but they carried a weight that made David glance up, his eyes wide with something close to disbelief. "Why?" David asked, his voice hoarse. "You''re a hitman. Just do it. You don''t get to care." Gas let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Maybe I don''t. Maybe I lost that right a long time ago. But here we are." David''s shoulders slumped. "You don''t know what I''ve done," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. "Neither do you," Gas replied, meeting his gaze again. "Not really. We tell ourselves it''s justice, or survival, or whatever makes it easier to sleep at night. But deep down, we''re all just..." He trailed off, searching for the word. "Lost." David''s breath hitched again, a single tear sliding down his cheek before he could stop it. He wiped it away angrily, as if ashamed of the display. "It''s ok to cry", Gas added caringly. He picked up the camera again, turning it over in his hands. The silence stretched on, but this time it wasn''t suffocating. It was heavy, yes, but shared¡ªlike the weight of their burdens had, for a moment, been split between them. David finally broke the quiet. "You gonna take my picture before you kill me?" he asked, his voice wavering between sarcasm and despair. Gas looked at him, then at the camera, before placing it gently back down. "Not today," he said softly. David blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion. "Then what the hell are you waiting for?" Gas didn''t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned against the cracked wall, his expression unreadable. Then, with a suddenness that startled David, he spoke. "Take off your jacket." "What?" David''s voice was sharp, incredulous. "No. Why?" "Just do it," Gas replied, his tone eerily calm, almost disarming. David hesitated, he reluctantly shrugged out of the worn jacket, letting it drop onto the bed beside him. Gas reached into his backpack, pulling out a small plastic bag filled with blood. The sight of it made David''s stomach churn, his expression twisting in disgust. "What the hell is that for?" David demanded, his voice rising with a mix of suspicion and revulsion. Gas ignored the question. He opened the bag, the metallic scent of blood hitting the stale air, and poured its contents over the discarded jacket. The dark crimson liquid soaked into the fabric, spreading like a grotesque stain of finality. "What now?" David asked, his voice low and uneven, as if afraid of the answer. Gas picked up his camera, cradling it for a moment, his gaze distant. Then, without warning, he slammed it to the floor. The sound was deafening, the crash echoing through the room like a gunshot. Pieces of shattered lens and fractured plastic scattered across the floor, the destruction absolute. David flinched but said nothing, his eyes darting between Gas and the wreckage of the camera. For a moment, the silence was overwhelming, the tension between them a tangible force. Then Gas spoke, his voice steady but cold. "Go straight east," he said, his words deliberate and measured. "There''s a village not far from here. They''ll take you in." David stared at him, disbelieving. "What are you talking about? You''re just¡­ letting me go?" Gas didn''t answer right away. His gaze drifted to the blood-soaked jacket on the bed, a grim symbol of the scene he was crafting. He let out a slow breath before continuing. "I''ll meet you there," Gas said, his tone softening, though his face betrayed no emotion. David''s jaw tightened, his mind racing with questions he didn''t know how to ask. Finally, he stood, his movements cautious, as if any sudden motion might shatter the fragile truce between them. "Why are you doing this?" David asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Gas met his eyes, the weight of years¡ªof choices, regrets, and ghosts¡ªbearing down on him. "Because sometimes," he said, almost to himself, "you have to break something to set it free." David opened his mouth to reply, but no words came. His lips moved soundlessly, grappling for a response that never formed. Before he could articulate a single thought, Gas snatched the blood-soaked jacket off the bed. Without a glance back, he turned toward the door, his shadow stretching long and dark against the crumbling walls. In a moment, Gas was gone, disappearing into the night as if he was never there, leaving only the faint scent of blood and the sound of his fading footsteps behind. David stood there, frozen, his mind racing. What had just happened? He tried to piece it together, but his thoughts felt disjointed, fragments of disbelief, and unspoken questions swirling in his head. For a long, tense moment, he didn''t move, staring at the door as if expecting Gas to return. But the silence remained unbroken. Finally, with a deep, shuddering breath, David gathered himself. He stepped into the night, the cool air biting at his skin. The vast expanse of darkness stretched before him, unfamiliar and foreboding. He hesitated, looking over his shoulder once before forcing himself to move east, as Gas had instructed. Each step felt like an act of faith¡ªor desperation. Meanwhile, Gas walked alone through the night, his thoughts heavier than the weapon slung on his shoulder. The jacket dripped faintly as he carried it, leaving dark streaks on the ground like a trail of regret. His mind churned with possibilities and problems. He thought of Bigg Boss, his demonish grin at the dead bodies. He thought of the village, the risk of being followed, and the weight of his own decisions. "How am I going to leave without them noticing?" he wondered, his jaw tightening. Every solution seemed troublesome, complicated, and tangled in a web of deceit and danger. But deeper than the logistics, Gas wrestled with the questions he couldn''t escape. Why had he spared David? Was it guilt, pity, or some desperate attempt to hold onto a shred of his own humanity? Others were scared and lost too, but he mercilessly killed them... His fingers tightened around the jacket as he quickened his pace, the image of David''s haunted eyes still fresh in his mind. As the distant lights of the camp came into view, Gas exhaled sharply, steeling himself for the next step. This wasn''t over¡ªnot yet. But for the first time in a long time, he felt the faintest flicker of something unfamiliar. Hope? No. That wasn''t it. Resolve. Arriving back at camp, Gas was greeted by the familiar booming voice of Big Boss, his deep laughter cutting through the cold night air. "My boy!" Big Boss bellowed, his oversized grin as unsettling as ever. "Another job well done, ha?" "Yes," Gas replied flatly, his voice devoid of emotion. He handed over the blood-soaked jacket. "The camera broke in the struggle." Big Boss waved off the explanation with a hearty chuckle. "No problem, boy! You did your part." He tossed a box of ammunition and a wad of cash at Gas, as if rewarding a loyal dog. Gas caught them without a word and turned on his heel, walking away without waiting for dismissal. He headed straight to the makeshift hospital. But as he scanned the dimly lit room, Andrei was nowhere to be found. "Where is he?" Gas demanded, his voice sharp as he cornered one of the bandits working inside. The man looked up lazily, chewing on the end of a cigarette. "Kicked himself in the ass," he said with a shrug. "Infection got him. You can find him at the dump now." Gas froze, disbelief and anger flaring in equal measure. He stared at the bandit, his jaw tightening, before forcing himself to leave. Back at his room, Gas stopped dead in his tracks. The door was ajar, the frame splintered as if it had been kicked open with force. His heart sank. Little Guy. Gas bolted inside, his breath shallow and quick. His chest tightened with a feeling he didn''t want to name. His eyes darted around the room, searching desperately, until they landed on the bed. There he was. Little Guy''s small, lifeless body lay sprawled across the blanket, his head twisted at a grotesque angle, as if something had taken cruel pleasure in the act. Gas froze. He didn''t move. He didn''t blink. For a long moment, he simply stood there, staring, as the world narrowed around him. His head twitched slightly, his expression fixed in cold, hollow silence. For the first time in his life, Gas felt something worse than hurt. He took a step forward, his boots heavy against the floor. Slowly, deliberately, he knelt beside the bed, his movements almost mechanical. His hand reached out, trembling despite his effort to steady it, and he stroked the soft fur of the lifeless form. "I''m sorry, little buddy," he whispered, his voice low, almost inaudible. Carefully, with an almost unnatural gentleness, Gas wrapped Little Guy''s body in an old blanket. He worked methodically, tucking the edges as if the small creature might still feel the chill. He placed him in a wooden box he''d found, the lid creaking faintly as it closed. Gas stood, gripping the box tightly in his hands. He didn''t have time to mourn. Not here. Not now. Before he could step toward the door, Big Boss''s hulking figure appeared in the doorway, filling the space with his shadow. "What''s this about, my boy?" Big Boss asked, his tone suspicious. Gas didn''t let him finish. "I''m quitting," he said coldly, his voice cutting through the air like a knife. Big Boss''s grin vanished, replaced by a scowl. "What?" he roared, his voice shaking the walls. "You can''t just leave!" "Yes, I can," Gas shot back, his tone unwavering. He threw the ammunition, money, and his weapon onto the ground at Big Boss''s feet. The older man''s face darkened with fury. "You ungrateful little¡ª" But Gas didn''t wait to hear the rest. He pushed past Big Boss and the bandits gathered outside, clutching the box tightly in his arms. "§¥§Ö§Ò§Ú§Ý, (Moron)" Tima sneered as Gas passed him. Gas didn''t even glance his way. Big Boss''s curses followed him for nearly fifty meters outside the camp, but Gas didn''t stop. His focus was on the road ahead, the bandits and their taunts fading behind him. When he reached a quiet patch of earth beneath a lone, leafless tree, Gas stopped. The moonlight illuminated the ground as he knelt, digging a small grave for Little Guy. When it was done, he placed the box gently in the hole, covering it with care. Gas sat there for a moment, his head bowed, his hands trembling slightly. "I''m so sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I''m sorry I couldn''t keep you safe, little buddy." The wind whispered through the trees as Gas stood, his shadow stretching long against the cold, barren earth. He turned eastward, toward the village, and began walking. Gas pushed forward, disappearing into the shadows of the night swallowing him whole. Beyond the mask His thoughts churned like a violent storm as he trudged through the forest, the events of the past days clawing at his mind. Sergei''s broken body, David''s haunted eyes, Little Guy''s lifeless form¡ªall of them bled together into a gory mosaic. Each face flickered in his mind, not fading, not healing. "Monsters aren''t born; they''re made," he thought bitterly, the words tasting like ash on his tongue before he got interrupted. "Why?" He didn''t stop walking. He didn''t even look up. But the voice was there, lingering, all too familiar, all too painful. His gaze flickered to the side¡ªno, don''t look¡ªbut it was too late. There, walking beside him was his father. His charred flesh clung to him, the remnants of clothes melted into the grotesque form beneath. Every step he took sent a ripple through the earth itself, as if the ground recoiled from the unnaturalness of his presence. His movements were unnervingly fluid, disturbingly human, but wrong in a way Gas couldn''t articulate. Gas''s jaw tightened. He refused to look directly at him. His breath fogged his gas mask as he muttered under his breath, "Not real. You''re not real." "Is this what you wanted?" His father''s voice was low, devoid of anger, but it carried the weight of something deeper¡ªdisappointment, regret, or something more suffocating. The lullaby began to play, soft and distant, as if it were rising from the ground itself, creeping beneath Gas''s skin. Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop, When the wind blows, the cradle will rock. When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, And down will come baby, cradle and all. Gas''s pace faltered, his fists clenched. His body screamed to move, to escape, to leave the voice behind, but the melody¡ªthat melody¡ªit held him there, like a hook through his ribs, dragging everything to the surface. His mind roared against it, against the music, the memories, the weight of everything! ... "I love you, son..." The whisper came again as the music faded, this time softer. It cut deeper than any blade, deeper than the burn of a wound that refused to heal. Gas spun around, breath catching in his throat, his heart pounding against his ribs. Nothing. The forest stood still, silent as death. The weight of the world seemed to press down, yet the space around him was empty. At his feet, a small teddy bear lay¡ªits head missing, its body half buried in the dirt, as if discarded in a moment of unspoken grief. Gas stared at it, his chest heaving with each breath, the rhythm of his pulse hammering in his ears. Slowly, he crouched down, fingers trembling as they brushed the worn fabric, the texture familiar yet unbearably distant. "But what am I, when the making never stops?" He whispered to no one, the words hollow, as if they were a mantra he no longer understood. He straightened slowly, his body stiff as he stood, leaving the toy where it lay. As he turned to walk away, the forest seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with something ancient and waiting. The stillness clung to him like a shroud, as if the trees themselves were watching, waiting to see what had become of the boy he once was. His footsteps echoed more than before as silhouettes of buildings started to form in the distance, contrasted by the moonlight. Gas stared at the buildings for a long moment, old and barely standing, like hurt animals waiting for something to save them. The moon shined above the village as stars flickered around it. The closer Gas got the louder the village became, there was something about children''s laughter at night that made Gas''s skin crawl. "THE APPARITION!", Boomed a voice, silencing the village as a dozen men ran out with weapons aimed at Gas. "Oh I like that name.", Gas muttered under his breath, then raised his tone, "I don''t have weapons!". One of the skinny villagers approached him carefully, his SKS gleaming in the moonlight as it aimed at Gas''s dome, "Why are you here?!", he asked commandingly. Gas tilted his head, his gas mask reflecting the faint light of the moon. His hands remained at his sides, loose, unthreatening. The ragged group of villagers encircled him, their faces pale but resolute. "I told you," Gas said, his voice muffled but steady. "No weapons. Just me." He spread his arms slightly. "As for why I''m here... well, let''s just say I needed a change of scenery. Didn''t realize you folks were so fond of midnight welcomes." "Don''t play games with us!" barked another villager, a grizzled man clutching a double-barreled shotgun. His eyes were sunken, bloodshot, but his hands were steady. "We''ve heard the stories.", he paused before continuing, "Monster!" Gas chuckled, low and humorless. "Killer, monster, apparition... you''ve been busy coming up with names. Maybe you''ll write me a ballad next." The skinny man with the SKS took a step closer, his finger hovering just above the trigger. "Why should we believe you''re not here to hurt us? You look like you crawled out of hell." Gas moved his head to the other side, the motion slow and deliberate. "Maybe I did. Or maybe hell crawled out of me." He let the words hang in the air, heavy, before continuing, "But if I wanted to kill you, I wouldn''t be standing here talking, now would I?" The villagers exchanged uneasy glances. The tension was thick enough to choke on, but the skinny man didn''t lower his weapon. Instead, he stepped closer, close enough that Gas could see the tremor in his hands. "If you''re not here for blood," the man said, his voice quieter now, "then why come at all?" Before Gas could answer, another voice rang out from behind the wall of armed villagers. "It''s you!" Gas shifted slightly, peering past the ring of weapons. His mask caught the faint glow of the moonlight. It was David. His wide haunting eyes locked onto him, brimming with a mixture of relief and familiarity. "He really trusted me to come here," Gas thought, almost amused. David pushed his way forward, his slight frame dwarfed by the tense and wary men surrounding him. "Lower your weapons," he said, his voice steady despite the unease in the air. "He''s no threat." Gas glanced back at the skinny man, a slow shrug rolling through his shoulders as if to say, See? Told you so. The man hesitated, his knuckles white around the stock of his rifle as he threw questioning glances toward the others. His grip loosened ever so slightly. "He''s the one who sent me here," David added, his tone taking on a cheerful insistence that felt almost jarring against the backdrop of tension. "DO NOT LOWER YOUR GUNS!" the grizzled villager barked, his voice slicing through the moment like a whip. The shotgun in his hands was steady, and unyielding, a testament to years of surviving whatever horrors had made him so resolute. "No," David said again, more firmly this time. He stepped closer to Gas, his movements slow and deliberate. Gas stayed perfectly still, letting the moment play out. His gaze flickered briefly to David, and something softened, just a fraction, in the line of his shoulders. He didn''t say a word, letting David carry the weight of the moment. David stopped just short of Gas, his hands open at his sides. "You don''t understand," he said, turning to face the gathered villagers. "He saved me. I wouldn''t be here if it weren''t for him. He could''ve left me out there. For bandits to kill me. He didn''t."This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it The grizzled man scoffed, spitting on the ground. "And you think that means he''s safe? Look at him! He''s wearing a damn gas mask! What kind of man does that unless he''s hiding something?" Gas finally spoke, his voice low and almost conversational. "Maybe I just don''t like the smell of paranoia. You''re giving off a lot of it right now." A few of the villagers shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether to laugh or take offense. David ignored the remark and pressed on. "He''s not here to hurt us. I''m asking you to trust me." The skinny man''s weapon wavered again, the conflict written all over his face. He looked back at the grizzled villager, who glared at him like a man on the verge of snapping. Finally, the skinny man exhaled shakily and lowered his SKS. "If the kid''s vouching for him, maybe we ought to hear him out." "You''re a fool, then," the grizzled man snapped, but his shotgun remained steady. Gas turned slightly to face him. His voice came again, even and calm. "Look, I''m not here to cause trouble. I needed shelter. If that''s too much for you, I can move along." His head tilted slightly, again, predatorily. "But if I wanted to cause trouble, you''d already know." The grizzled man''s face twisted, his lips pulling into a sneer. David stepped between them, arms outstretched. "Please. Just give him a chance." After what felt like an eternity, the older man finally lowered his shotgun. His glare didn''t waver, though, sharp enough to cut stone. "One wrong move," he growled. "One." Gas tilted his head forward, offering a mockery of a respectful nod. "Fair enough." Before he could take another step, David suddenly flung himself at Gas, wrapping his arms around him in a tight hug. Gas froze, his arms hovering awkwardly above David''s head, unsure of what to do. Then, slowly, hesitantly, Gas let his arms lower, patting David''s back in what could barely pass as a hug. His confusion lingered even as David pulled back, his face bright with a cheerfulness that felt almost out of place. "Welcome," David said, his voice carrying a rare warmth. Gas blinked, still processing the hug. The skinny villager shifted awkwardly, breaking the moment as he extended a hand toward Gas. They shook hands. "I''m Emir," he said, his tone casual but cautious. He nodded toward the grizzled man still glaring daggers from a few steps away. "That over there is Andrijan." Gas glanced at Andrijan, who hadn''t moved a millimeter, his shotgun still resting in his hands, ready to spring into action. "What''s his problem?" Gas asked. Emir winced slightly but managed a faint smile. "He''s... a bit on edge since..." He trailed off, his eyes darting briefly to Andrijan. Whatever memory had surfaced in his mind, it clearly wasn''t one he wanted to share. "Never mind." He turned back to Gas, placing a hand on his shoulder with a friendly but firm grip. "Follow me." Emir began leading Gas through the village, the armed villagers trailing behind like a pack of wolves. Their presence wasn''t subtle; boots crunched loudly on the gravel paths, and their weapons glinted ominously in the moonlight. Gas could feel their eyes on him, sharp and unrelenting, but he gave no indication he cared. The village was a patchwork of survival and defiance against the Zone''s merciless conditions. Two towering, crumbling socialist-era buildings dominated the village, their concrete facades weathered and cracked but still standing. Makeshift repairs¡ªplanks of wood, sheets of metal, and tattered tarps¡ªgave the structures an almost haphazard appearance. These buildings served as the heart of the village, housing its people like a fortress of shared desperation. Gas caught movement from the corner of his eye. Faces peeked out cautiously from shattered windows and crooked doorways. Women pulled their children closer, their hands firm on small shoulders, while the elderly stared with hard, unblinking eyes. Whispers filled the air like a low, uneasy breeze. "Is that really him?" "The Apparition..." "He doesn''t even look human." Gas tilted his head slightly, catching a fleeting reflection of his masked face in one of the windows. The distorted image seemed to ripple, momentarily blending with the rumors of the man who could vanish into thin air, leaving nothing but bodies in his wake. Emir gestured toward one of the structures. "That''s the bar," he said, his tone matter-of-fact. "Not much to it, but it''s where people gather. Drink, forget, make trouble." Gas''s gaze lingered on the building. The faint flicker of candlelight spilled from its narrow windows, accompanied by the distant hum of conversation. A world he didn''t belong to, even if he tried. "And over there," Emir continued, pointing toward a small shack with a hand-painted sign above the door, "is my shop. If you need gear, food, or anything to keep yourself alive, that''s where you''ll find it. Though," he added with a raised eyebrow, "you don''t seem like the type who needs much help staying alive." Gas didn''t respond, his eyes scanning the shop briefly before flicking back to Emir. The tour continued in silence for a while, the villagers'' weapons still trained on Gas like shadows that refused to break away. Finally, they stopped in front of one of the towering buildings. Emir led him inside, the dim light of an oil lamp illuminating the narrow, cluttered hallway. It smelled of damp concrete and old wood, the faint aroma of cooked cabbage wafting from somewhere deeper within. "You''ll be staying here," Emir said, leading Gas up a narrow staircase. The steps creaked under their weight, and the chipped paint on the walls flaked off at the slightest touch. "With David." They arrived at a door. Emir pushed it open, revealing a small, cramped room. A bunk bed occupied one side, its thin mattresses sagging under the weight of years. A single wooden work table sat against the opposite wall, accompanied by a rickety chair, and an old gasoline lantern. The room''s sole window looked out into the woods, the moonlight spilling through and casting pale streaks across the floor. "It''s not much," Emir admitted, leaning against the doorframe. "But it''s better than the dirt outside." Gas stepped into the room, his boots scuffing against the worn floorboards. He scanned his new surroundings, taking in the faint scratches on the walls. It was bleak but functional¡ªmuch like everything else in the Zone. David appeared in the doorway, a snug smirk on his face. "It''s cozy, ye?" Gas turned to him, his mask betraying no emotion. "Cozy," he repeated flatly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. David, unbothered. "I''ll take the top bunk." Gas nodded once, stepping to the window. He placed a hand on the sill, leaning forward slightly to gaze into the dark expanse of trees. The forest stared back, silent and still, as if it had been waiting for him. Behind him, Emir cleared his throat. "We''ll leave you to settle in. But remember, people here don''t trust easily. You''ve got a lot to prove if you want to stick around." Gas didn''t turn from the window. "I''m not here to make friends." Emir''s lips twitched into a faint smirk. "Didn''t think so." He patted David on the shoulder and stepped out of the room, leaving the two alone. As the door clicked shut behind them, David turned to face Gas. The cheerful facade he wore in front of the villagers faded, replaced by a quiet seriousness. He stood for a moment, studying the man before him. "Why?" David asked, his voice low but steady. Gas, mid-step toward the bunk beds, froze. He turned sharply, his eyes widened behind the glass of his gas mask. For a moment, he looked almost startled, as if the question had struck a nerve. "Huh? What?" Gas asked, his voice muffled, almost dismissive. But the tension in his posture betrayed him. David''s gaze didn''t falter. "Why didn''t you kill me?" Gas sighed, the sound harsh and mechanical through his mask. He turned away, his hands twitching slightly before he stuffed them into the pockets of his hoodie. "You¡­ you seemed different than the others I had to kill," Gas said after a pause, his voice quieter this time. He walked to the window, the faint light casting his shadow across the small room. David looked at the floor for a moment, the question still lingering in his eyes. He pulled the single chair toward him and sat down, crossing his legs as he leaned toward the work desk. "How so?" he asked quietly, his tone devoid of judgment but laced with curiosity. Gas turned to face him again, locking eyes with David''s haunted eyes. For a moment, he said nothing, his mask hiding whatever emotion might have been flickering across his face. Then he spoke, his voice uncertain. "I''m¡­ not sure," he admitted. His words hung in the air, tinged with confusion. "There''s something just different about you." David nodded slightly. He didn''t push further, sensing the conversation had reached its limit. Silence fell between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. From outside, the muted hum of village life filtered through the walls¡ªchildren laughing, adults chatting, the faint clatter of tools at work. The sounds felt distant, like they belonged to another world entirely. After a while, Gas broke the silence. His voice was flat, drained of emotion, carrying only the weight of exhaustion. "I just need some rest," he said, Shrugging off his backpack. Something metallic within clinked softly as it hit the ground. He straightened up, his movements stiff, as if the weight of the day was etched into his very bones. David watched him for a moment longer, his own shoulders slumping slightly. He turned back to the desk, his fingers tracing the worn edges of its surface absentmindedly. "Yeah," David murmured. "We all do." The night stretched out in silence. Only the occasional creak of the old bunk bed echoed through the room as Gas shifted restlessly in his sleep, the wood groaning under the weight of restless dreams. Meanwhile, the soft, rhythmic scratching of David''s fingertips against the desk broke the stillness, each delicate movement marking the passage of time in the lantern''s light. Shadows danced lazily across the walls, amplifying the solitude that enveloped them. Outside, the village settled into its usual quiet, the sounds of laughter and tools fading into an eerie stillness. A sharp crack cut through the air. David froze, his hand hovering over the desk. Gas woke up, tilted his head slightly, listening. Another crack followed¡ªcloser this time. Then a barrage of bullets erupted. David stood up, his voice a hushed whisper. "What the¡ª" Gas''s expression darkened as a river of fury washed over him, while he slowly crouched and unzipped his backpack. From within, he pulled out a Swiss knife and tucked it into his pocket. His hand lingered over the pistol at the bottom of the pack, hesitating for the briefest moment before withdrawing it. He checked the magazine, his motions precise, then slid the gun under the waistband of his hoodie, hiding it from view. Outside, a scream cut through the night, sharp and short. Heavy boots pounded against the ground, drawing closer. David''s voice wavered. "What do we do?" Gas turned to him, his tone sharp but quiet. "We don''t panic." The door rattled violently, the hinges groaning as something heavy slammed against it. "Stay behind me," he said, his voice chillingly composed as he moved to the corner closest to the door. Another slam. The wood splintered. Gas straightened, his silhouette framed in the dim light. "Big mistake," he said coldly as he pulled out the knife from his pocket. The door broke.