Emilia's desperate swerve to the right proved futile as the intruding vehicle forced them both into an inexorable collision course with the unyielding embrace of the roadside barrier, a heart-wrenching ballet that ensnared several other vehicles in its tragic choreography.
Both automobiles bore the harrowing scars of this tumultuous encounter, their metal shells twisted and mangled.
Yet, what transpired beyond these deformities was an even more gruesome tableau. The driver of the car that had collided with Jansen's met an instantaneous demise, their fate sealed in the blink of an eye.
But before the full weight of this calamity could register, the road bore witness to a nightmarish spectacle — the screws that had once held the sinister metal pieces, remnants of the truck's cargo, cascaded onto the asphalt in a macabre shower. Each one was a harbinger of despair, a symphony of chaos.
Emilia, once the proud possessor of a beautiful countenance, now bore the cruel marks of disfigurement.
Deep and elongated gashes marred her face, the vestiges of a tragic ballet with sharp metal. Jansen, on the other hand, faced an even crueler fate.
His head had been brutally rent asunder by the malevolent force of shattered glass from his own car. In the wake of this unforgiving impact, his body lay in a state of shock, unresponsive to the frantic ministrations of the paramedics.
Burn marks, akin to the scars of their souls, adorned both of their forms, as Emilia's lacerations continued to tell a story of agony etched across her visage.
As for Viktor, caught in a turbulent whirlpool of emotions that oscillated between twisted satisfaction and an awkward, remorseful smile, he wordlessly departed, leaving Malphas to linger in the shadows.
He cast aside the festering tendrils of worry and fear that gnawed incessantly at the corners of his conscience, relinquishing his unsettling doubts to the abyss.
"Isn't deriving pleasure from the suffering of others a characteristic of psychopaths?" Viktor's voice wavered as he questioned the very essence of his being.
Each step he took felt like a journey into the heart of darkness. "Is what I did right? Isn't this indirectly a criminal act? Will I face retribution in court for this heinous act?"
These relentless questions, each one a relentless specter, swirled incessantly in Viktor's tormented mind as he roamed aimlessly, ensnared in the tangled web of his own doubt.
Malphas, a silent puppeteer in Viktor's psyche, had become acutely attuned to this internal strife — a testament to their shared memories and emotions, borne from the moment Viktor received his unholy gift from the demon goddess.
With methodical precision, he began to manipulate Viktor's fractured psyche in the most insidious manner, tugging at the fraying threads of his sanity.
"Aren't you afraid they might die?" Malphas posed the question with an unsettling air of anticipation that seemed to permeate the very essence of the night.
Viktor hesitated, his thoughts swirling like a tempestuous storm. "No, it's just..." he began, struggling to find the right words.
The gruesome tableau of Emilia and Jansen, their bodies bearing horrifying wounds, played like a nightmarish slideshow in his mind.
"Rest assured, they're not dead yet," Malphas reassured him, his voice an eerie echo in Viktor's consciousness.
Viktor couldn't help but release a shaky breath, a surge of relief washing over him like a fleeting moment of respite.
"There's no way they could have died that quickly," he added, his words tinged with incredulity at the cryptic certainty of Malphas's statement.
Unfortunately, the exchange remained a one-sided affair; Viktor's innermost thoughts and memories lay exposed before the demon, while his own understanding remained veiled.
"Why should they die so soon when you still have so much pent-up anguish within you?" Malphas inquired, his voice oozing with a sly malevolence that made Viktor's skin crawl.
Viktor descended into a silence that stretched on, an oppressive weight bearing down on him as he grappled with the enormity of his actions and their gruesome consequences.
In stark contrast, Malphas revealed a wicked grin, his obsidian teeth gleaming ominously in the dimness.
"Watch and wait," Malphas said, his words carrying a chilling certainty that sent shivers racing down Viktor's spine.
"I'll make sure you experience the satisfaction you've yearned for," he added, the promise hanging in the air like a malevolent curse, casting an eerie pall over the night.
In the midst of the shadowy night, Viktor's aimless stroll carried him deeper into the labyrinth of his own conscience.
Uncertainty and guilt clung to him like oppressive specters, whispering doubts into his ears with every step he took. The dimly lit streets seemed to mirror the darkness that had crept into his soul.
"Is it right? What I've done?" Viktor's voice wavered as he muttered to himself, the words hanging in the air like a haunting refrain.
His introspection delved into the core of his morality, questioning the very foundations of his deeds.
"Is this a crime, albeit an indirect one? Will I face consequences in court for this vile act?" These questions swirled incessantly in Viktor's mind, like a tempest threatening to consume his sanity.
Malphas, the cunning puppeteer of human emotions and thoughts, continued his insidious work, planting seeds of doubt within Viktor's psyche.
The demon knew that for Viktor to fully embrace the alluring darkness that beckoned, he had to confront this inner turmoil and ultimately surrender to the abyss of his desires.
Viktor, now consumed by his internal struggle, felt as though he stood at a moral crossroads, with the intoxicating allure of revenge on one path and the chilling fear of retribution on the other.
The sinister influence of Malphas loomed over him like a malevolent storm, pushing him further down a treacherous path of darkness that he had never before contemplated.
"Is it madness to find joy in the suffering of others?" Viktor's voice trembled as he wrestled with his own conscience.
"Have I gone too far? Will I be judged for this?" The profound weight of his actions bore down on him, and he couldn't escape the relentless self-interrogation of his own morality.