In a particularly run-down street which was usually lively by day, with vendors yelling at the top of their voices to get customers to at least buy one thing or another.

This area however was a ghost town by night. If you were seen walking at night, people would assume you were up to no good, therefore the first instinct would be to run away from you.

At a distance, a man could be seen running. He couldn't have been older than 35. The way he breathed, and the sweat drenched vest he was wearing could tell you everything about how long he had been running. Four silhouettes were on his tail like hellhounds.

'Why can't they just give up? It's not as if they need the money,' he thought as he manoeuvred through the buildings.

Though he didn't dare to stop and ask, because he knew. The only answer he'd receive would be broken bones and maybe his very thin neck.

The weather was chilly, if it weren't for the clouds the sky would've been riddled with countless stars. The area wasn't a pleasant one, even the street lights didn't work properly.

You could hear the rain starting a beautiful hymn through the roofs of the surrounding buildings, one look at the sky you could tell it was ready to violently beat down the asphalt road.

It was apparent on his face that the thin tall man was running for his life, he was yelling for people to help him but it was futile.

"Help me! Somebody, they're gonna kill me!"

None of those desperate cries prompted anybody to help, instead, they avoided him like the plague. Some pretended to not hear him, some surmised that it was a trap!

'If they were going to kill me quickly I'd have let them, but I know, I know they're gonna torture me first,' he thought.

He turned his head, hoping he could see that they'd stopped chasing or he ran so fast that he lost them. Alas, he could see the pursuers gaining on him, closing the distance at frightening speeds. He cursed himself because, if only, if only he had taken care of his body, maybe he'd stood a chance against these men.

But he wasn't fooling anyone. He was but a slum rat that had to work 15 hours a day for the bare minimum. He wouldn't have the time to care for himself even if he wanted to.

He took a turn at a corner and without thinking, took a left. He immediately felt regret, because he found himself in a dead-end back alley and it was too late to turn back.

This was a very dangerous neighbourhood but he loved it because it was also his home.

Anybody who saw anything strange would never stop and ask, because the danger might be directed at them.

The four men were elated at having caught a rat like him, it was always easy trapping and chasing them to their deaths. He owed them a lot, but they were also pissed off that he made them run.

The year was 4015, the earth had changed dramatically since the days of the past, the technology was advanced but human nature remained the same. Plagued with greed and the need to suppress and murder those they deemed inferior. Humans had evolved physically but mentally and psychologically, they were still infants.

They still held on to their violent, primitive ways. They bowed and cowered to the strong, while they treated the weak like anyone would treat an old and outdated toy.

'Hypocrites! They're all hypocrites!' The man screamed internally.

The man who was the leader ran his hand through his hair and heaved a sigh. His stature looked calm but his eyes made him liken a wild animal that had been caged and deprived of its very nature.

His eyes didn't just look cold, they looked savage, he was a monster wearing human skin. A psychopath.

'Why are his eyes like this?' The man cowered, and he lost the will to fight completely.

"You don't want to pay back my money. Now, now you make me sweat? Are you a b*tch?"

The man was grief-stricken, his eyes were already dead, and he was taken aback by this man's line of questioning.

'What does he mean by this?' But he remembered his eyes, the eyes of a cold-blooded psychopath, he shuddered and didn't dare to make him wait.

"No, no I'm not a–"

He couldn't even finish his sentence and the man's fist was already planted in his abdomen. The thin tall man had never felt such pain before, well, physical pain.

He stood there, clenching his stomach, he felt like he was losing the ability to breathe. It was painful. As he was gasping for air, another one hit him square in the face. Which caused him to fall and bite his tongue in the process.

"If you're not a b*tch, why are you making me sweat?"

The man didn't bother answering this time because he knew he'd be beaten anyway. The leader snapped his fingers, and the other three jumped him. Without so much of a warning, they started aggressively stomping his whole body. They'd especially aim for his hands.

Their stomping from afar, seemed as if a group of four people were just dancing in a dark alley. At least that's what those who had a clear view of the alley chose to believe. As they didn't want to be implicated, they quickly drew their curtains and switched off their lights, pretending they were not home.

The man being stomped to death couldn't take it anymore. His hands were broken, and he was sure he had no teeth left either. His mind was starting to play tricks on him too, one minute he'd feel like he was in his room.

The one he had when he lived with his family. Just when he was getting used to such a warm feeling, the pain would sear through his every muscle, jolting him awake from the hallucination.

"Organs, take my organs," he said in-between tired ragged breaths. As though he'd been running for the last 5 hours. He was so tired. Tired from getting his ass beaten.

The boss sneered. "Organs? We live in such a world where organs can be printed, what the hell are we going to do with your musty organs? They're useless!"

For the next 30 minutes, they were having a field day torturing him. He could not even open his mouth now, because they had broken his jaw. Seeing and smelling that much blood would make many convulse but he was used to worse smells than this.

The leader ordered them to pick him up, and with some effort, they made him stand up straight. The leader then came closer. The man involuntarily flinched. The leader was pleased with the reaction.

"Where's my money? Where's my money you little sh*t? It's been over two years since I let you off. You think I'm your father? No such thing as a free meal in this world," he said with disdain in his voice.

"A man should be able to take care of his business. You're a man aren't you?"

The leader continued to taunt him, knowing very well that, they were the kind of people to borrow people money who couldn't pay it back. They enjoyed hunting and killing idiots, it thrilled them to see their eyes dead with no will to live.

The man was heaving now, in pain, he tried saying something but his jaw had been broken so he couldn't utter a single coherent word. This somehow angered the leader even more, as if he was not the one who caused it.

He tossed him to the ground like a ragdoll and started bashing his head with his foot.

A crazed look could be seen on his face, the man's face contorted weirdly, making his smile insanely creepy.

So creepy, even his comrades flinched.

'It hurts! It hurts! It hurts! Dammit, I can't even scream but I want to. Please let me die already, I had a sh*t life anyway. I have nothing to live for.' The man thought as he couldn't speak.

Suddenly a wave of warmth washed over him, the kind of sensation you get when you've been working all day, and when your head finally hits your pillow everything goes blank and you absolutely and utterly surrender yourself to your bed.

He was losing consciousness. He was dying. At last. He cursed his life, he cursed his creator, he cursed anyone that came to mind.

The pain was fading, though, slowly.

As the man pleaded for his death to the gods he never quite believed in, blood trickled from his head to the asphalt road but the rain, which was now pouring, would quickly wash it away.

The man watched pitifully as even his blood was being erased. He snorted as the last act of defiance. Nobody would care if he died.

He was a peasant in this society, and only the rich were prioritised. He had lived a painful life, the man was glad he was dying, he'd been a coward before about taking his own life. But at least now — at least now someone else was doing the job for him. He just wished it wasn't so painful.

'At least, at least the heavens are crying for me.'

'Mum, Dad, I'm sorry. I was a failure until the end.'

Those were his last thoughts when the god of death finally gave in to his plea.