In the dim recesses of a forsaken alley, a man stumbled in, his once-dapper suit now soaked in blood and riddled with bullet holes. His every step was heavy, his breath rasping, fighting against the crushing weight of pain. Shadows hung thick around him as he staggered forward, eyes dazed.
A sudden, deafening gunshot shattered the stillness, drawing a guttural scream from him. Behind him, two shadowy figures emerged, chuckling cruelly, savoring his agony like a rare vintage. Their laughter died abruptly as a figure in a pristine white suit appeared, gliding forward with eerie calm, eyes gleaming with cold menace.
"Not so pleasant, is it?" The man in white spoke softly, his voice a silken whisper of betrayal. He took a step closer, his gaze locked on the bleeding figure before him. "You did this to yourself. You betrayed me first."
Without hesitation, he raised his revolver, pulling the trigger once, twice, and then eight more times. Each bullet tore into the other man's skull, the sickening sound echoing off the grimy walls. Blood painted the alley in gruesome strokes, and the suited figure fell silent, crumpled at last.
But then a subtle, chilling movement broke the scene's stillness—a slithering sound as a blade buried itself deep into the head of the man in white. He stumbled, eyes widening in shock and fear, before collapsing lifelessly onto the ground. His two goons stared, their minds reeling, hearts hammering. This was impossible; they had killed him. *He should be dead.*
And yet, standing there, a horrific grin stretching across his blood-streaked face, was the man who had been shot ten times in the head. His voice came low and resonant, dripping with something darker than death itself. "I will never die."
Frozen in terror, the goons tried to run, but Jason Blood—the man who should have been no more than a corpse—was upon them. In swift, ghastly strikes, he sliced their legs cleanly, leaving them helpless on the cold ground. His grin grew wider, inhuman, as he gripped their throats, crushing the life from their trembling bodies until the sounds of snapping necks silenced the alley once more.
And then, as dawn's first light crept over the rooftops, Jason Blood, too, sank to his knees. In eerie silence, he fell, his life finally draining away—but the lingering, haunting smile remained.
A blinding, ethereal glow invaded his vision, searing through the haze of his fading consciousness. He squinted, trying to shield himself from the piercing light, but it overwhelmed him, filling the dark void with a chilling radiance that seemed almost heavenly.
In that otherworldly brightness, six indistinct figures materialized, their forms shifting like phantoms emerging from mist. Three men and three women stood before him, their expressions hidden yet radiating a silent authority that made his blood freeze. A sense of profound power and purpose emanated from them, as if they were watchers from beyond the veil, judges of the condemned.
Desperation surged within him. With every ounce of strength left, he tried to rise, to ready himself, but his battered body failed him. His legs buckled, and he collapsed, the last traces of will draining away. He felt himself slipping, consciousness fading, as he crumpled into the darkness, surrendering at last.
Jason's eyes flickered open, met with a bleak, dimly lit room that looked like something out of a distant, ancient past. The stone walls were coarse and damp, dim light filtering through a narrow slit of a window. There was nothing comforting in the room—just a stiff, makeshift bed of straw and splintered wood. But his body… his body felt completely healed. The bullet wounds that had riddled him just moments ago were gone without a trace.
Groggily, he swung his legs over the bed, the cold stone floor biting into his feet as he staggered to stand. With every step toward the door, confusion bubbled up in his mind. Where was he? Who had brought him here? And why? He grasped the door handle, only to find it locked tight.
Frustration and instinct took over. Without hesitation, he drew back his fist and slammed it against the door with all his strength. To his shock, the wood splintered, cracking and bending outwards, until the door was hanging on its hinges. Jason stumbled back, eyes wide, staring down at his hand. He felt no pain. *What the hell…?* he thought, his heartbeat thudding in his ears.
A whisper of movement caught his attention. He glanced to his left and saw a figure standing in the shadows—a petite girl, barely reaching his chest in height, dressed in a strange maid's uniform. Her hair was an unnatural, striking pink, and her eyes a vivid blue that seemed to pierce through him with an unsettling calm. Her gaze held an unspoken, chilling authority.
"Where the actual hell am I?" Jason muttered to himself, bewildered, his gaze still locked on the girl. He, Jason Blood—the notorious 17-year-old mafia boss feared and respected by hundreds—was now stranded in some strange, medieval cell with a childlike maid staring him down.
The girl's lips barely moved as she spoke, her voice soft yet unnervingly firm. "Down."
The single word rippled through him, paralyzing every muscle in his body. His limbs went limp as if heavy chains had been wrapped around his bones, and he crumpled to the floor, utterly helpless. Panic surged in his mind, but he was trapped in his own body, powerless to move even a finger.
Without any sign of struggle, the maid effortlessly lifted him. Her small hands carried him as if he weighed nothing at all. As they moved, Jason's eyes darted, taking in the twisted, gloomy corridors they passed—walls lined with faded portraits, their faces shrouded in shadow, and cold statues, their eyes hollow and staring.
Eventually, they reached a vast room lined floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves, each shelf brimming with ancient, dusty tomes that seemed untouched by time. It was a library, and yet, something about the room felt oppressive, like it held secrets that would shatter those who dared to learn them.
The girl dropped him unceremoniously onto the cold stone floor, and he landed with a painful thud. Helpless, he could only watch as she moved to a nearby table, opened a thick leather-bound book, and began to read, utterly ignoring his presence.
Jason lay there, silent and still, his mind racing.
Jason tried to speak, his mind filling with questions and demands, but no sound escaped his lips. His mouth wouldn't even open. The more he struggled, the more he felt the eerie weight of silence press down on him, as if something intangible had latched onto his throat, stifling his voice.
He lay there, straining every muscle, but his body refused to obey him. It was like he was trapped within his own flesh, caged by invisible chains. His eyes darted around in desperation, trying to catch the attention of the girl. But she was absorbed in her book, her delicate fingers turning pages in a steady rhythm, as if Jason's presence was nothing more than a faint breeze.
*Think, think!* he urged himself. He focused harder, trying to will his mouth open, to force even a whisper past his lips. But his voice remained trapped, locked away as firmly as he had been in that bleak room.
Through his growing panic, he stared at the girl, his mind desperate for answers. Who was she? How did she paralyze him with a single word? And, most pressingly, *where was he?*
A cold dread crept over him as he lay there, helpless on the cold floor. His instincts, honed by years of survival and danger, told him he was far from the world he knew.