Pain is sensors, an illusion formed by mind. The smokes and mirrors of survival burnt to genes.
Yet is not to be revered, or abandoned. It must be surpassed and transcended, growth is living amidst pain and pushing through.
Life is pain.
…
Beneath cold air, a room of white and black, Alistair was sitting opposite Selene.
He also analyzed the contents of the map, and documents depicting recent cannibalistic crimes.
"These bitemarks… they're larger. Larger than normal. Not even tigers can be this gruesome." Alistair absentmindedly commented, hands scratching his chin.
Selene nodded. "Its recent kill was a child and grandma. No news came after that."
"No news." Alistair snorted. "Or someone is hiding the news." He eyed the post-mortem photographs closer; it changed each time—more gruesome and weird.
