Krist had never seen a building like this before. The air inside was thick, the remnants of an explosion still hanging in the corners. He walked through the destroyed hallway, shards of glass crunching beneath his feet, his eyes darting from one damaged structure to another. Some areas were frozen, as though time had turned to ice in a single instant, while others were scorched, the walls blackened by flames long since extinguished.
Despite the chaos surrounding him, Krist pressed forward, instinct guiding him toward the only section of the building that remained intact. His breath caught in his throat when he entered the room. The sight before him froze him in his tracks—dead bodies were sprawled across the floor, their lifeless forms testament to the violence that had unfolded. Yet Krist didn't look at them. His gaze was fixed on one person, lying motionless near the far end of the room.
Maya.
His heart skipped a beat, panic seizing him as he rushed toward her, but what froze him even more was the figure standing over her. A man clad in black, his sword gleaming in the dim light, held the blade dangerously close to Maya's throat. Her body was battered and bruised, too weak to even attempt to move.
Krist's pulse raced as his eyes searched the room for any weapon, any chance to save her. His eyes fell on a sword lying a few feet away, discarded and forgotten. Without hesitation, he lunged for it, his hand wrapping around the hilt, his fingers burning with adrenaline.
He charged at the man, his red eyes glowing with an intensity that matched the fury in his chest. The man turned at the sound of Krist's approach, a smirk curling on his lips. But he didn't see Krist's attack coming. With a burst of speed, Krist swung the sword at his neck, the blade slicing through the air. But the man was faster. He ducked, his body twisting with an unnatural flexibility, and swung his sword upward, catching Krist's side with a devastating slash.
Krist staggered back, a sharp pain shooting through him as the edge of the blade grazed his skin. But it wasn't the pain that made his blood run cold—it was the way the wound began to corrode, the skin around it deteriorating as though something was eating away at him from the inside.
The man's red eyes flashed with amusement as he took a step forward, his sword poised for another strike. But Krist wasn't finished. His rage surged, propelling him forward again. The man easily sidestepped Krist's attack, moving with a speed that seemed almost supernatural. In the blink of an eye, the man was behind him, his blade slicing through Krist's back, piercing deep into his heart.
Krist's world spun. His body went limp as the pain consumed him, but before the sword could pass through completely, a blur of movement flashed in front of him. A powerful force slammed into the man, sending him flying across the room. Krist's vision blurred as he collapsed to the floor, the last thing he saw before everything turned dark was the familiar figure of his uncle, Blake.
Krist awoke with a start, drenched in cold sweat. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he gasped for breath. His hand instinctively went to his left side, where the wound had been in his dream, but to his relief, there was no injury. No corrosion. He touched his tin, then his back—no sign of the sword's strike. He let out a breath of relief, realizing it had all been a nightmare.
"Another nightmare," he muttered to himself, his voice hoarse. "I guess I won't be sleeping tonight."
He glanced at the wall clock. It was 3:25 AM. Sighing, he pushed himself out of bed and made his way downstairs. The coolness of the marble floor against his feet felt grounding, and he walked to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water and drinking it all in one go.
"I wonder why I keep seeing Uncle Blake in my dreams," Krist muttered, the unease still gnawing at him. He stood for a moment in the quiet of the kitchen, his eyes unfocused as his thoughts swirled. I haven't seen uncle Blake for a long time now — I wonder why I'm see this now? What did his presence in his dreams mean?
As the silence of the house weighed on him, Krist's thoughts shifted. The mansion felt so empty without anyone else to share it with. He longed for a brother or sister, someone to break up the isolation. His life had been a series of battles—personal and external—and the solitude only magnified the weight of it all. Krist sighed. "Maybe if I had a brother or sister, this place wouldn't feel so… empty."
"Well, I should get busy," he said aloud, shaking off the melancholy that had settled over him. He grabbed his laptop from the table and settled into the couch, his mind already focused on the task at hand. He had a mission, and the only way to find peace was to finish it. He turned on his laptop, diving back into his investigation on Mr. Adams.
*****†*""""""
Meanwhile, in the dark, grimy confines of the prison, Mr. Adams was beginning to realize the magnitude of his fall. He had once been untouchable, a man who ruled through manipulation and fear, but now, he was just another prisoner, his past power stripped away. After his registration and settling into his cell, he had been greeted by his new roommate—a man with a scarred face, who had been silently reading a magazine when Adams arrived.
The man, unimpressed by Adams' initial silence, finally spoke.
"You shouldn't be that rude. At least say hi. We'll be stuck here for a while, don't you think?" He didn't look up from his magazine, his voice almost casual.
Adams' face twisted in disgust. "Sharing a cell with you doesn't mean you can talk to me so casually. Show some respect, you disgusting fly."
The man lowered his magazine, revealing a face marred by scars but still striking in its handsomeness. His long blonde hair cascaded down his back, his dark eyes gleaming with something dangerous. He smiled, a cold and unsettling expression that sent a chill down Adams' spine.
"I hope you enjoy my welcome gift, Mr. Adams," he said, his voice dripping with malice, before he jumped off his bunk and walked out of the cell.
The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Adams alone with his thoughts, and his growing sense of dread.
Hours later, the heavy sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor. Four massive men entered Adams' cell, each one covered in tattoos and exuding a menacing aura. Their grins were cold and predatory as they surrounded him. One of them, the largest, held an iron rod in his hand, the glint of metal making Adams' throat tighten.
"Welcome to the real world, Mr. Adams," the man sneered, swinging the rod threateningly. "Your money and power won't save you here."
Adams took a step back, but the wall pressed against his back, leaving him no escape. "I-I can pay you. I can get you whatever you want," he stammered, desperation creeping into his voice.
But his words were cut short as the first blow landed. Pain exploded through his body, and he crumpled to the floor. The men took turns beating him, each strike more brutal than the last. Their laughter echoed in the cell, mocking his once-mighty arrogance.
By the time they were finished, Adams lay on the floor, battered and bloodied, unable to move. His pristine suit was a distant memory, now a shredded mess. As the leader of the group, Anderson, crouched down beside him, he grabbed Adams by the hair, lifting his head to meet his eyes.
"You put me in here, Adams," Anderson said, his voice dripping with venom. "Now you're in here with me. I'll give you hell for everything you've done. I'll break you before you leave this place."
With that, Anderson climbed to his bunk, leaving Adams alone on the cold floor, his body broken, his spirit shattered. The sound of Anderson's breathing above him was the only thing left to remind him of his new reality.