In the vast, unforgiving expanse of snow-covered wilderness, where skeletal trees loomed like brittle sentinels and the wind howled with an icy ferocity, a lone figure emerged from the white abyss. Cloaked in shadow, their silhouette cut sharply against the endless stretch of frozen desolation. Each step sank into the knee-deep powder, muffling their approach and leaving behind a solitary trail—silent proof of their relentless advance toward the distant town of Tolk.
The figure's tattered cloak flared and snapped in the bitter gusts, its edges frayed and stiff with frozen patches where melted snow had seeped in and hardened like brittle glass. Beneath the deep hood, their face remained hidden, swallowed by shadow, shielding their identity from the world. Only the faintest glint of reflection hinted at unseen eyes, locked forward, unblinking. The snow hissed softly beneath their boots, the quiet punctuated only by the occasional groan of wind threading through the gaunt forest.
As the figure crested a small ridge, the faint glow of civilization flickered on the horizon—Tolk. Dim, scattered lights fought valiantly against the creeping dusk, their warmth diluted by the cold expanse. Drawing closer, a solitary lamppost stood like a fragile beacon, its flickering bulb casting long, trembling shadows across the snow. Beneath it hung a weathered wooden sign, its paint chipped and faded: WELCOME TO TOLK. The letters, battered by time and harsh winters, clung stubbornly to the surface, much like the town itself—small, enduring, insignificant.
Tolk's narrow streets wound like frozen veins through the town, lined with squat buildings huddled against the cold. People moved through the snow-packed paths, bundled in thick coats, scarves pulled high, faces buried against the biting wind. Their footsteps crunched rhythmically, breaths misting in short bursts. The figure walked among them unnoticed at first, an unremarkable shadow in a world of hurried strangers. But as they passed, heads turned—first with casual curiosity, then with something closer to unease. There was an absence about them, a hollow space that followed wherever they moved, like the cold itself recoiled from touching them.
Whispers stirred in the frigid air, fragments of uncertain words lost beneath the wind's steady moan. But the figure paid no heed. Their stride never wavered, their gaze fixed ahead, driven by a singular, unspoken purpose etched into every measured step.
They stopped at a building near the center of town—a squat, weathered bar called Murphy's. The faded sign creaked above the door, its edges rimmed with frost. For a brief moment, the figure stood still, staring at the entrance, as if gathering the breath of something dark and final. Then they pushed inside.
Warmth hit them like a physical force, thick with the mingling scents of stale beer, cooked meat, and bodies thawing from the cold. The low hum of conversation, punctuated by laughter and the occasional clink of glass, filled the dim space. Yellowed bulbs cast a dull glow over the crowded room, where locals nursed drinks and fleeting moments of comfort.
Heads turned briefly as the door shut behind the figure, the cold air curling inward like a dying breath. Some patrons gave a glance, more out of habit than interest, then returned to their conversations. The figure was just another shadow in a room full of them.
Crossing the floor with unhurried steps, they approached the bar—a battered wooden counter scarred by years of careless mugs and forgotten stories. Behind it stood an elderly man, wiry with deep lines carved into his weathered face, polishing a glass with the absent-minded rhythm of routine. His eyes flicked up as the figure settled onto a stool, the wood creaking softly beneath the weight.
"What can I get ya?" the bartender asked, his voice rough with age but tinged with casual warmth, the kind reserved for strangers passing through.
The figure lifted their gaze. For the first time, their face emerged from the shadow of the hood—sharp, angular features carved by more than just the cold, eyes like fragments of ice, devoid of warmth or hesitation.
"Revenge," they said, their voice low, flat, carrying no more emotion than the wind outside.
Before the word had even settled in the air, the figure's hand darted from beneath the cloak, steel glinting—a knife, swift and precise. The blade plunged into the bartender's neck with brutal efficiency, sliding between tendons and veins with practiced ease. A wet, gurgling gasp erupted from the old man as blood surged from the wound, dark and thick, spilling down his chest and pooling across the polished bar. He clawed weakly at the figure's arm, fingers slick with his own blood, before collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut.
A moment of stunned silence gripped the room.
Then chaos erupted.
Chairs scraped against the floor, drinks shattered, voices rose in panicked cries. Two men near the back sprang from their seats, instincts overriding fear as they rushed toward the figure. But the stranger was already moving—fluid, mechanical. A pistol flashed from beneath the cloak, dark metal catching the dim light. Without hesitation, they fired.
The first man crumpled mid-stride, the bullet ripping through his chest with a wet snap. He hit the ground hard, blood blooming beneath him like a dark flower. The second man skidded to a halt, hands raised, his face pale with terror. "W-wait! What do you want?!" he stammered, voice shaking, eyes wide and pleading.
The figure's gun didn't waver. Their reply was the same, hollow and relentless: "Revenge."
The shot rang out, sharp and final. The man jerked as the bullet tore through him, then collapsed beside the first, eyes glassy, mouth frozen mid-breath.
Screams filled the bar as people scrambled, overturning tables, shoving past each other in blind panic. Some fled for the door, while others dove for cover, trembling behind overturned chairs and splintered wood. Amid the chaos, the figure's voice rose—a jagged, furious snarl that cut through the noise.
"You know what I want! You know what you did!"
But their words met only confusion and terror. The faces staring back at them—wide-eyed, pale, streaked with sweat and fear—reflected nothing but bewilderment. No recognition. No guilt.
The figure didn't care.
They raised the pistol again, firing into the fleeing crowd without hesitation. Bullets tore through bodies, shattering glass, splintering wood. Blood splashed across the walls, mingling with spilled drinks, the copper tang thick in the warm air.
When the gun's echo finally faded, the bar was a ruin. Bodies lay crumpled in pools of crimson, the survivors sobbing or frozen in shock. The figure stood amidst it all, untouched, breathing steady, face impassive beneath the dim light.
A woman, her hands slick with her own blood, crawled toward them, her eyes wide with confusion and fading life. She clutched weakly at the figure's boot, her voice a fragile rasp.
"Wh-why…?"
The figure looked down, eyes like shards of glass—empty, unfeeling.
"This is only the beginning," they whispered, raising the pistol one last time. "None of you will see the end."
The shot was deafening.