The rain fell relentless. Q stood at the window, watching the drops slide down the glass like tears in slow motion. A heavy weight pressed upon him, a darkness that suffused every thought. Suicide loomed in his mind, a quiet companion in the solitude of his thoughts. Tonight, he thought, as he stared out into the wet abyss beyond the pane, tonight might be the night.

He gripped the knife, its edge cold against his skin. "Been a long ride," he murmured to himself, the words barely audible over the drumming rain outside. As the blade hovered above his wrist, poised to carve an end to his suffering, a figure materialized at his window.

The figure, pallid and towering, seemed almost spectral against the storm-lit night. Its eyes, pools of unearthly white, pierced through the gloom, fixating on Q with a penetrating intensity. Clad in a robe that draped like mourning shroud, the figure's voice, though soft, carried a weight that echoed through the room.

"Don't depart," it intoned, each syllable laden with a solemnity that seemed to draw from ages past, "without first knowing the pain you leave in your wake."

Q's hand trembled as the figure's words reverberated in the small room, chilling him to the bone. Startled, he jerked the knife, its sharp edge grazing his skin. Pain shot through him as blood welled from the wound, mixing with the rain's incessant drumbeat.A cry escaped his lips, raw and unguarded, as he staggered backward, collapsing onto the sofa. The figure loomed beside him, its presence a silent sentinel in the dimness.

Q's gaze met the intense stare of the apparition. "Do you want to live?" It asked, its voice echoing with a haunting clarity in the quiet room. "If yes," it continued, its words hanging heavy in the air, "then spill blood. The first you see beyond these walls."

Q grasped the knife, its handle slick with his own blood, and stumbled toward the door. The rain pelted his face as he burst into the night, driven by a frantic compulsion. A homeless man huddled against the wall, a fleeting glance of surprise his last expression as Q plunged the blade into his chest.The man's eyes widened, filling with tears, blood bubbling from his mouth in a crimson froth. The spray of his lifeblood splattered Q's face, mingling with the rain. Q withdrew the knife with a savage yank, and the man's heart followed, slipping free from the torn flesh, releasing a torrent of blood that pooled and spread, dark and glistening in the streetlight.

"Why did you..." The homeless man's voice trailed off as life ebbed from his body. He collapsed, leaving the words unfinished, swallowed by the night's unfeeling silence.Q stared at the lifeless form, then glanced at his wrist. The cut he had made, the wound that had bled so freely, was now miraculously healed. He laughed, a wild, manic sound that echoed through the empty streets. His face, smeared with blood, shone under the pale streetlights, a grotesque mask of newfound purpose.

Q stumbled back to his house, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. The apparition was gone, leaving no trace of its ethereal presence. But where it had stood, a revolver lay gleaming in the dim light. A note was attached to it, the paper worn and yellowed."For those who deserve," it read, the words scrawled in a hand both ancient and resolute.Q picked up the revolver, its weight solid and cold in his hand. An engraving on the barrel caught his eye. "Model 666," it read, the numbers etched with an eerie precision.

Q opened the bullet cylinder, the metallic click echoing in the silence of the room. He examined the bullets, noting immediately their abnormality. They were black as night, an unnatural sheen to their surfaces. He squinted closer and saw that each one bore a name, inscribed with a meticulous, almost reverent hand.

"Who's David..." Q muttered, confusion clouding his thoughts. He turned the bullet over in his hand, the name etched deeply into its surface. A moment of clarity struck him, and he realized with a cold certainty that the bullet was destined for someone named David.

There was no last name.He checked the other bullets quickly, each one bearing a single name, stark and unadorned. No surnames, just first names, like whispers from the dark. Each one a promise, a prophecy etched in cold black metal.

Q lay down, the events of the night churning in his mind until sleep finally claimed him. In his dreams, he was transported back to his childhood. He relived the torment, the cruel laughter of bullies echoing in his ears, the sting of fists and kicks from those he once called friends. Memories of pain and betrayal resurfaced, as vivid and haunting as if they were happening anew.

"For those who deserve," a whisper echoed in his mind, pulling Q from the depths of his troubled sleep. He sat up abruptly, the words reverberating in the darkness around him, as if spoken by the night itself.

The next day, Q rose with the dawn, the whisper still lingering in his thoughts. He prepared for work, his routine a fragile semblance of normalcy. Q was a hunter, tasked with protecting the farmer's fields. He hunted the birds that descended in flocks, devouring crops and seeds, their presence a scourge upon the land.

Just as he shot the last bird, Q whispered to himself, "David..." He quickly loaded his rifle, aiming carefully. Waiting for the perfect moment, he fired, striking David's right leg. Flesh tore, revealing bone, as David's leg hung gruesomely.

David cried out loudly, his voice filled with desperation. "Dad!" he screamed, tears streaming down his face, but Q continued to advance steadily. With deliberate slowness, he retrieved the Model 666 revolver from the back of his belt.

Q hesitated, his grip tightening around the revolver. "Why did you..." David's words faltered, choked by pain and confusion. "You've worked on our farm for years," he managed to say, his voice trembling with betrayal and disbelief.

Q's hand trembled as he lowered the gun, the weight of his actions crashing down upon him.

He looked into David's eyes, a cold detachment settling over his features. "Your life meant nothing. There is nothing here for you," he said flatly. David closed his eyes, resignation mingling with his pain.Just then, David's father appeared, calling out for his son. Q's heart pounded as he swiftly switched to his rifle, aiming and firing at the man. The shot struck him in the abdomen, and blood sprayed from the wound, dark and copious. David's father crumpled to the ground, his hands clutching at the gushing wound, his breaths ragged and labored.

David watched in horror as Q walked towards his father. Without hesitation, Q aimed the rifle and fired, the shot echoing through the fields as it struck his father's head, ending everything in an instant. The grass painted red, with the fragments of brain and skull, mixing with dirt.

David cried out in horror, his screams piercing the air as Q approached, a chilling smile on his face. Q switched to the Model 666, its dark metal gleaming ominously. "What are your last wishes?" he asked, his voice cold and mocking.As David began to speak, Q cut him off with a cruel laugh. "It doesn't matter. You won't get what you wish for." With that, he pulled the trigger, the bullet finding David's heart and ending his cries forever.

It was a rural area. Q stood amidst the stillness, staring at the lifeless bodies of David and his father. Feeling a surge of anger and despair, he looked around the deserted surroundings. Spotting a hammer in the farmhouse attic, he grabbed it with trembling hands. In a fit of overwhelming emotions, he brought the hammer down with force, crushing David's cold, dead, head. His brain, along with the shell that once had it, seemed mixed up.

Q carried David's lifeless body to the farmhouse door. It swung open with a soft creak, revealing the farmer's daughter standing there, her eyes wide with shock. Q met her gaze with a solemn stare and whispered quietly, "No need to tell anyone. I really don't wanna kill a kid today."

Q deemed it pointless to bargain with a child. A few minutes later, he departed the house alone, his clothes stained with blood. Behind him, the farmhouse blazed fiercely, its destruction casting a grim glow against the darkening sky.

Night had fallen, and the bloodstains on Q's clothes had dried to a dark, crusty hue. His face was pallid, drained of color, and his eyes were dry—tears shed in the afternoon had long since dried. It wasn't the act of taking a life that had brought him to this desolate state; rather, it was the absence of any reward for his deeds.

Just then, Q heard the distant wail of police sirens. He knew the law was closing in, ready to arrest him. In a desperate bid, he tossed the rifle into the roadside brush, its metal clattering against the stones. He took his knife, its blade still stained with dried blood, and plunged it into his own shoulder. Pain seared through him, but he staggered towards the approaching lights, shouting hoarsely into the night, "Help me... they killed them all."

A cop approached, his flashlight cutting through the darkness. "Who killed them?" he demanded. "We're tracking the killer right now. How did he look?"

The cop's eyes fixed on the knife embedded in Q's shoulder, blood dripping steadily onto his jacket. He turned to his partner, voice urgent. "Call the ambulance."

"Did you see where he went?" asked the cop."Yeah... He went south."The cop turned to relay the information. In a swift, brutal motion, Q yanked the knife from his shoulder, blood spraying out in a dark arc. He drove the blade into the cop's skull with a sickening crunch. The second cop, caught off guard, fumbled for his revolver. But Q was faster, retrieving the rifle he'd discarded earlier. He cocked it with a practiced hand and fired, the bullet tearing through the second cop's skull, his brains painting the night.

Q stared at his blood-streaked hands, a tremor running through him. "Am I... am I human?" he murmured."For now. Yes, you are," came the reply. The figure emerged from behind a large rock, its presence as unsettling as a specter in the night.

"How... how did you know where I am? And who are you? Are you a ghost?" Q's voice trembled with a mix of fear and confusion.The figure stepped closer, its eyes glowing with a cold, unearthly light. "I know more than you think," it said, voice low and resonant. "And no, I'm no ghost."

"I killed David... his sister, and his father." Q's voice rose in a desperate crescendo. "What do I get in return for all that shitmess?" he yelled at the figure.The figure regarded him with an eerie calm. "Well... what do you want?" it replied."Wait... you mean I can ask for anything? Well then... I ask for..." Q's voice trailed off, the weight of his words hanging in the air.

"I want to know why you asked me to kill them," Q demanded, his voice raw with desperation.The figure's eyes glinted with a dark amusement. "I never asked you to kill anyone. That was your own choice. There are those in this world who pray to Satan, for their prayers to God go unanswered. With enough hatred, they can beseech the dark lord to strike down their foes. You are his instrument, Q. You carry out their vengeance. You are the law."

"Still doesn't answer my question," said Q, his voice edged with frustration.The figure's expression remained inscrutable. "I am not an angel, Q. But I am not the devil either."

"You asked me what I want, huh. I want money." Q walked towards the figure, his steps deliberate. "And I also want to know... if there are more like me. People who do Satan's dirty work."The figure's lips curled into a smile. Without a word, it vanished into the night, leaving Q alone with his unanswered questions.

The radio on the cops' vests crackled to life. "Are you there? I repeat, are you there? If you don't reply, I gotta send backup," came the urgent voice.Q continued walking down the road that led to his home, glancing back. The cops were nowhere to be seen. Their bodies had already withered away in flames, disappearing into nothingness.

Q returned home, his footsteps heavy with weariness. Opening the fridge, he was met with a surprising sight: it was filled not with food, but with gleaming bars of gold and diamonds. Their polished surfaces reflected his own weary face and the glint of yellow gold contrasted sharply against the blood stains on his jacket.A smile crept across Q's face as he closed the fridge. Exhausted and burdened with the weight of his deeds, he finally allowed himself to rest.

"What else could I want. I have everything. Billions of bucks. I could buy anything I want," Q muttered to himself."There's everything in the world," whispered a voice.

Q retrieved the model 666 from his drawer, scrutinizing the bullet where "Sarah" was etched. With an unsettling calm, he murmured, "Well, there ain't no one named Sarah. Looks like I'll have to find 'em myself." Q slipped into a new jacket, each gesture deliberate and void of remorse.

Q made his way to the nearest bus station, a grim certainty settling over him. His targets were always close, either in location or in some twisted mental proximity. He waited, the air thick with a sense of impending dread. When the bus finally pulled in, a slow, cold smile crept across his face. As the doors hissed open, he began to ponder what he might desire after this kill, his thoughts as dark and impenetrable as the night.

He hummed the tones of Tame Impala's "One More Hour" as he scrutinized each passenger's belongings, eyes flickering over names and faces with a dispassionate ease. The melody twined with the sinister rhythm of his thoughts, a quiet symphony of foreboding.

He took the last seat on the left, eyes scanning the bus with an unsettling calm. Then he saw her. The T.C. Her nametag read "Sarah." Q waited, the minutes dragging on with a grim patience. At the last stop, as the bus emptied, Sarah approached him."Where are you headed?" she asked."The beach," Q replied.Sarah looked puzzled."Can you step outside with me for a moment?" Q asked, his tone firm and determined, yet void of emotion.

"Sure," replied Sarah. Once outside the bus, Q led her behind it, out of the driver's sight."What are you planning to do?" she asked in a flirtatious tone.Q drew the model 666 from his back belt, striking her with the handle. She crumpled to the ground."Dumb bitch," Q mocked, a grin spreading across his face.

Q went back inside. The driver looked confused, beginning to ask where she was. Q grabbed the back of his head and slammed it against the steering wheel with brutal force. The horn blared in a continuous, haunting beep as blood and fragments of bone splattered across the dashboard. The driver's skull cracked under the relentless assault, his lifeless body slumping forward, painting the interior with crimson.

Q sighed as he went behind the bus to find Sarah, but she wasn't there. Confusion and fear gnawed at him as he watched Sarah's silhouette shrink on the horizon. Gripping the model 666, he aimed and fired. The silhouette collapsed, and Sarah's presence faded away.

Q approached Sarah's still figure, her breaths slow and deliberate. His voice held a chilling edge as he asked, "Ever considered what your life's worth?" Sitting beside her, his presence cast a heavy shadow. Leaning closer, he murmured, "It's all just a stylish robe."Tears welled in Sarah's eyes as she begged, "Please... What have I done?"

"I'll wait right here until you fade away," Q declared calmly. "Then I'll head to the bus. Don't fret, it's stashed behind an old house. Speaking of which... I took care of the driver." Q reclined a few yards away, smoking a cigarette. Sarah stared at him in disbelief. "You're not human," she whispered.

"Well, sometimes I reckon that myself," Q mused quietly, standing over Sarah as she teetered on the brink of death. "I ain't one to grant last wishes, but reckon I'll make an exception this time." Q let out a scoff and added, "Though I reckon you ain't got much to say now."Sarah passed away under the pale light of the full moon.

"Well, reckon your time's up," Q muttered darkly. "Someone's wished death upon you. Ain't as innocent as you'd like to believe." Q rose swiftly, his gaze unflinching as he strode towards the abandoned house several kilometers distant.

In the remote wilderness where the house loomed, the driver's lifeless body appeared eerie amidst the quiet. Q, unaffected and resolute, removed the driver from the bus with clinical precision, depositing him in the attic of the old house. Despite his methodical actions, an unsettling void hung in the air.

"Well... Any minute now," Q muttered to himself, his eyes half-lidded with dark circles. He cracked open a pack of cigarettes, took a drag, and exhaled slowly.

He waited all night, but the figure never appeared. Anger simmered within him; there was no reward for his deeds. "Well," he muttered, setting off north along the road.

Q walked the empty road, a shadow keeping pace behind him, a specter in the moonlight. He halted, feeling the weight of the figure's presence before he even turned. There it stood, pale and spectral."What is your desire, Q?" the figure's voice echoed, unsettling in its calm.Q's gaze hardened, contemplating his deepest craving. "I seek immortality," he muttered, the words hanging heavy in the stillness.A sardonic smile creased the figure's face. "Immortality," it scoffed, almost amused. "Here's your cloak," it said, with a gesture as if bestowing a gift, though its tone hinted at something darker.