Stings of cold air, shrilling, heavy sounds of clashing waves, sullen sky with pillowy clouds—shielding the beauty of the pearly moon. Sear beach grass faltering, the seashore covered in ivory snow, an agape of moist sand between the fringes of water and frost.
The haunting scenery of pure white snow soaked in scarlet blood, flowing a river for the darkened sea, over layered lay unmoving, marred men poising horror of a battle ground.
A choking man suffers on the sandy floor, legs thrashing aggresively, debile hands fighting to breath, battling to wrest the foot in a black leather boot—smothering his throat.
Harder, more wrathful, the man above him harrows the boot at his bone. The prey, he's gagging, light dulling from bursting red eyes.
A gun in the hold of his hand, and the other—where a burning cigarette is in between the pinch of his long fingers. He loosens the force of cruelty, and savours a puff of smoke, his cheek hollow as he draws in deep the nirvana.
Exhaling out slow—the hazy murk, the vapour floats one with the freezing breeze.
He stares down at the shattered man.
A smirk lines up the corner of his lips: the middle-aged man under his mercy, adorns the fear of hell in his marble eyes, sparking amusement on the brims of his gloomy orbs.
This end of a long mission would be imprinted by his dead. The slaughter of the master culprit; who cored the gruelling depravities shoved down on woman and children in the country; for now.
It is the fact; no matter how long a man lives, he'll never live to see the cease of nauseating barbarity, triggered by their own kind.
Human trafficking in Erriador inevitably embodied a crucial issue. People were trafficked through the country and overseas for commercial sexual exploitation, forced labour and further omnifarous reasons.
All these months he had masqueraded as one of the dealers. He had his soul corroded, seeing through the monstrous act they put through the victims.
To inflict pain before he eventually killed the involved, an atrocity where they prayed for dead, he thought tormenting them slow could lighten the eerie darkness inside. But eliminating the evil sooner saved time for a quest to round out more.
So, the jaded man aims the gun at him, his head held high, his stare sullen—and shoots him, the body jerking with each blast, twice... thrice... more fires... nailed bullets.
The struggling motions of the man has gone long limp, the head exploded, grime splitted brain matters, warm blood oozing out his body—melting creeping with the cold snow.
A frown cramps his features. He removes his foot from off the corpse, and kicks him—planting him face down.
He throws the cigarette on the wet, crushing through the sand under his shoe. He then watches the far sea waves swirl in, flowing away, the wasted cig.
His senses draws to the sound of crunching footsteps. The tall shadow of a man emerging out the winter reed, his visage clearing as he walks near.
Scanning the swarm of rotting—cold dead men, his nose scrunches up in disgust, the pungent smell repulsing him.
"You've made some bloody mess here, Agent Czar." Remarks the man, his keen gaze rivetted to his shadowed form.
Rhett ignores him, the back-up team following Agent Knight's trail, Knight instructs them to attend to the dead bodies.
He glances at the familiar figure of the man by Rhett's feet, his frown deepening.
Knight glances up at him walking away, so he jogs after him. "How dare you kill him without my permission?"
"I am the head of this operation. You are under my command Czar! Keep in mind I'm the leader, not you." Knight rambles on.
His nose flaring at a nonchalant Rhett.
He scoffs when Rhett gets on a bike, sparing him not a word.
"Fucking ridiculous!"
"Answer me damn it,"
He pauses wearing the helmet. Looking at a livid Knight, his expression remains unchanged.
"I'm never led."
Before Knight could retort anymore, he's already speeding away the motorbike. Dissapearing fast within the thick fog.
Agent Knight clenches his fist, grating his teeth in anger.
The mission was over. He was the leader of the elite team, but he never got the ordinance or respect deserved of the title.
But he did, Czar had cleaned up the circle of predators on his own rule.
And Knight was left with only a mere part to play in the hunt.
His chest flames at the irreverence against him. His hard glare piercing at the space he faded from.
"Fucking asshole!"
---
Christmas was only days away again.
The streets were already adorned in dazzling golden lights and green vines and wreaths of decors.
He's walking within the crowd of people, the night city bustling in spirit. The fast, faceless, silhouettes are in the shades of black smoke. If he looks up, they reveal an eerie grin, chortling, mocking him.
That is why, his gaze is on the ground, unaware where his feet would lead him; for he lacks a home.
The weary body bears a restless mind. The reflecting rapture did nothing to unburden the stern and dusky eyes.
It would have been his third Christmas with her.
He was back to the grim phase of life. She intertwined their fingers, she so easily caressed him away from the muddled past. She was his... his—everything.
Now she's gone. She's taken away his life. She left nothing; but a breathing corpse.
His steps freeze, a foreign heat flickers in his eyes. There stands a woman; her very long hair waving along her waist, her white dress floating down her ankle, her curl strands and garment, dancing slow in the faint breeze.
She's still, and her warm cocoa eyes are on him. She's wearing the most beautiful smile; a heavenly glow—and just like everytime, the world blurs and fades; when she's here.
"Angel..." Rhett breathes.
She smiles brighter, the radiance of her frame, her ethereal face so clear and close.
She tilts her head, her arms reaching out for him. His eyes moistens, heart thrumming so loud and rapid, wanting to abandon his body and thrash out to be in her arms.
He pushes away the crowd to get to her.
He sees her there in the midst, and she's so close.
He stumbles in the middle of the street, his gaze thrown on the cobblestone—where ashes of frost are feathery sprayed over, strangers cursing at him.
Afraid, he jerks his head up to look if she's paled. His sigh wavering, she blinks reassuringly at him. She'll wait for him, for he will eventually hold her. They can never be seperated; for they are forever one.
The distance never seems to end, his features ruined to a frown. He walks faster, he's almost running in the tightly clamped crowd. It's alarming, he cannot reach her.
Suddenly someone walks through her—and she fades. The golden smoke, swirling in the mist. His eyes widens, his legs loosing strength, they tremble.
He almost falls to his knees, then sees her, walking towards a flower shop, she's heading accross the route.
He forces his betraying legs to run to her. He swallows down the bile rising his mouth. His breathing's ragged, his gaze tying a firm knot to her form.
How would the fate unfold to steal her away again?
But he doesn't worry about it, because now that he holds her wrist, he won't ever let nothing cut his half away from him again.
"Angel,"
The woman turns her head to face him, a frown drowning her previous ecstasy. She harshly snatches away her hand, grossed out by the stranger's touch.
Rhett's euphoric face collapses, now ashened. The soul burns and dies for once more. She looks nothing like her. She feels nothing like his Neva.
Slitting apart his wiring grave, a man knocks his chest. But he couldn't even sway his rigid form.
"The hell man!" He exclaims, shielding behind the petite woman.
Rhett's bottomless eyes glances at the man. He simply turns around, his gaze roving here and there, to nowhere.
The man looks at his retreating back, as if he's a psycho. Glimpsing down at the woman with worry and love swirling in his eyes, he shrugs his shoulders and asks her if she's alright.
Neva was never here. She's a hallucination, an illusion. She's never found...
Two silhouettes trailing Rhett for a while now, they watches him in compassion, as he walks through the door of a bar.
"Boss has finally lost it," Leaning in, Ace whispers in Sky's ear. She glares at him and starts ambling towards the bar, while Ace left behind rushes after her.
Jazz music plays in the background, an aura of cooling distress, and golden luminescences. Rhett sat alone by the counter, he's drinking his second glass of whiskey. The bartender attending few customers far on the distant table.
Rhett's sweer gaze draws to the two figures getting seated next to him on the empty rows.
He arches a brow at their worried gazes.
"Go somewhere else." He raves out.
Sky heaves out a knackered sigh. "Czar, stop using alcohol as an escapism. It's not like you," She attempts to cease away the glass from his hand, but a sharp glare from Rhett has her slyly retreat her hand.
"Boss, did we finally get you? Did you know we were following you?" Ace urges, wishing to lighten up the mood by querying the obvious.
Sky rolls her eyes at his foolish tactics. She pinches his waist. "Oww!" Ace pouts at her, rubbing his skin over his jacket, her hard assault probably bruised him.
With her gaze she indicates to not pull it messy. Their heart overwhelms in sorrow as they observe Rhett. Somewhere in the heart, blaming themselves for his misery.
He was devoid of emotions. He keeps swelling in the burning liquor with no tiny difference in his expressions.
"You should go back Czar." Sky suggests.
Though she earns not a reaction from him.
She chews her inner cheek and sighs deeply. "You have to get a grip on yourself."
"Your son's waiting for you." She softly says.
Rhett halts his glass mid-air, his sullen eyes landing on the amber liquid in light waves.
He hadn't seen Rhean in months. Elk offered to care for him until he's done with the mission.
The boy probably had forgotten his face. He's gone through a lot for his little age. Rhean was an abandoned child; he was ill-fated to have him as his father.
Had he been more...
He places the glass on the counter, he's deafeated. A failed husband, a worthless father.
It doesn't arise in his chest; the desire to be back to his son.