Mortis Eldridge's life was a mosaic of pill bottles and prescriptions. As a pharmacist in the city's gritty underbelly, he was the gatekeeper between the desperate and their relief. His days were long, his nights longer, and his heart heavy with the burdens of those he sought to aid.
He had chosen this path out of a genuine desire to help, to heal. Mortis had seen too much suffering in the concrete sprawl of his existence, too many lives claimed by illness and addiction. His pharmacy was his sanctuary, a place where he could offer a sliver of hope, a kind word, and sometimes, a stern warning.
But the world was not kind to men with soft hearts. Mortis learned this the hard way, through the whispered threats and the cold steel of knives flashed in the dim light of back alleys. The addicts and dealers saw him not as a healer but as a means to an end—a barrier to their next fix.
It was on a night stained with the scent of rain on asphalt that Mortis's fate was sealed. A young woman, one he had helped many times before, stumbled into his shop just before closing. Her eyes were wild with fear, her words slurred with desperation. She begged Mortis for medicine, for something to take the edge off, to make the world bearable for just a little longer.
Mortis's heart ached for her, for the life she could have led. He reached out, not with pills, but with an offer of help, of a way out. He didn't see the figures lurking in the shadows, didn't realize she was not alone until it was too late.
The betrayal was swift. The young woman's eyes filled with tears of regret as the men she had brought with her sprang from the darkness. They demanded everything—money, drugs, anything Mortis had. He tried to reason with them, to appeal to their humanity, but their hearts were as stone.
In the struggle that ensued, a bottle shattered, its contents spilling like a promise broken. And then, the sharp pain of a knife, the warmth of his own lifeblood painting the sterile tiles of his pharmacy.
As Mortis Eldridge lay dying, the woman he tried to save fled into the night with her demons, leaving him alone with his. His vision blurred, the sounds of the city fading to a distant echo, Mortis felt the cruel grip of irony. He had spent his life fighting against the very thing that claimed him—a victim of the vices he sought to cure.
And then, darkness.