He staggers under that dim streetlight's glow
a pale halo cast by the rusting lampposts of that empty street.
Rain falls relentlessly, soaking his black clothes,each droplet clinging like memories that won't wash away.
His fingers rake through his raven-black hair,
while the other hand cradles a half-empty bottle of liquor
his only companion tonight.
He halts in front of that loud, blaring place
that place which turned him, in their eyes, into a disgrace
a traitor...
Though he was never that.
His eyes drift to the bottle.
He shoves a few alcohol-drenched tissues inside,then slides his rough fingers into his pants pocket, feeling for something cold...
Just his favorite zinc lighter.
He walks toward the nightclub's door, watching them...
The ones too lost in their own pleasures some drowning in drinks,
others tangled in the hollow arms of the club girls.
Then he sees her
the one who once caressed his face that cursed night.
His stomach churns with disgust.
He hurls the bottle toward them
a final act.
Slamming the doors shut behind him. Tight.
He walks away. Just a few steps.
Enough to vanish behind a nearby car,
eyes fixated on the scene unraveling before him
a burst of flames erupts,
devouring the club, and everything... everyone... inside.
"You don't deserve life, you filthy bastards,"
he whispers,
hands tucked into his coat,
disappearing into the shadows...
Back to his secret hideout
an abandoned building, long forgotten by the world.
He unlocks the door to his apartment.
Two figures sit quietly inside, bound and silent.
He looks at them.
"I already told you...
I'm the one who does the pickpocketing
not you."
He steps closer.
Unshackles one of them.
Crouches before him.
"So...
do you want a stab like the one you gave me?
Or maybe you'd prefer to burn, like that whore did?"
"Please, sir! I wasn't in my right mind! I'm sorry!"
the other pleads, dropping to his knees.
"No need for that...
I hate forgiveness."
He draws his dagger,
running the edge across the man's cheek slowly
not cutting yet, just... testing the blade.
The steel kisses skin,
and blood begins to trickle
a crimson stream meeting the cold of metal.
He plunges the blade into the man's side
a shallow wound,
like a first whisper of torture.
Then again
but this time, deep. Violent.
A predator's hunger in his thrust.
The scream rips through the silence.
Jon listens.
To their cries
broken, strangled sounds, as if death itself had taken hold.
His eyes are closed...
but he sees everything.
He pulls the dagger free
and drives it again.
This time, it dances inside the gut,
twisting like a blade in a blender,
tearing intestines, slicing veins,
scraping cartilage, digging under bone...
The scream fades.
A silence falls
not peace...
but the heavy, brutal quiet of death.
He knows it's over.
Jon drives the dagger near the corpse's eye.
Pushes.
A grotesque sound of bone and pressur
Until the eyeball comes free.
With a mix of pleasure and vengeance painted across his face,
he holds the eye and turns to the second man
now mute from terror.
He forces his mouth open with one hand,
and with the other,
feeds him the eyeball...
a token from hell.
Then he shuts his mouth. Hard.
The man's eyes scream for help
help that never comes.
The dagger returns.
This time it presses into his chest,
writing an ending into his skin.
Jon knocks him down, still bound to the chair, the body twitching like a broken puppet,
his guts a mess of exposed nerves and shredded life.
The first man's face remains frozen
a mask of pure shock.
Jon continues
carving the face, mutilating it beyond recognition,
killing him again… and again.
Then a large stone.
Cracks the skull.
A shattering sound like glass exploding in a tunnel.
He does the same to the other.
One hit.
He doesn't need a second.
Jon sits on the bloodstained floor,carefully cleaning his dagger, then his hand
dry, crusted with blood.
He gazes at the bodies, sighing.
"I hate this...
Now I have to hide them.
Such a damn hassle."
He mutters in annoyance…
"Don't be afraid…
I would never hurt you."