DA-DA-DA-DA!
DA-DA!
DA-DA-DA!
The rifle unleashed its fury, each burst tearing through the silence like jagged lightning. Muzzle flashes painted the dim hallway in fiery orange streaks, illuminating the cracked walls. The sharp, rhythmic cracks of gunfire reverberated through the six-story building, leaving no doubt about the chaos raging inside.
Sergei raced through the corridor, his breaths shallow and frantic. Each step felt louder than the shots behind him, the pounding of his heart echoing in his ears. He stumbled over broken furniture and chunks of crumbling walls, his panic mounting with every fleeting moment.
He threw open door after door, seeking refuge in the remains of what once must have been a bustling building. Finally, he burst into a room cluttered with overturned desks and battered chairs—perfect for hiding.
"Damn it," Sergei hissed, slapping the side of his handgun in frustration. "Rusty piece of shit!"
Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. Slow, deliberate. It was closing in.
Sergei ducked beneath a desk, his hands trembling as he clutched a small wooden cross. His breaths came in shallow gasps, muffled behind clenched teeth. The floorboards creaked as the figure entered the room, each step punctuated by an oppressive silence that seemed to drain the air.
The shadowed figure paused, its presence a smothering weight. Sergei could feel his pulse hammering in his throat as the intruder's gaze swept the room. Dust motes floated in the dim light streaming through a crack in the curtains, and for a moment, it seemed the thing might leave.
Then the footsteps resumed, fading into the distance.
Sergei exhaled shakily, his lips moving in a muffled prayer.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound jolted him. The taps were slow and deliberate, coming from directly above him.
"Peek-a-boo.", said a steady voice.
Sergei's heart plummeted as icy terror swept over him. His body was drenched in cold sweat as he slowly lifted his head.
Gas stood in the doorway, half-shrouded in shadow, the dim light catching the glint of his gas mask. He was motionless, his AK held low, like a predator savoring the moment.
"P- P- Please," Sergei stammered, rising unsteadily. "PLEASE! Don't hurt me! I paid my debt! I don't know what you want!"
Gas tilted his head slightly as if considering the plea. The AK's barrel rose slowly, leveling at Sergei's chest.
Sergei's eyes darted around the room, scanning for any means of escape. The cluttered furniture offered no salvation. He backed up against the wall, his voice trembling.
"Please," he begged, "I- I do not want to die I don't deserve this"
"It's not about what you deserve. It's just your turn.", Gas said flat out.
Sergei's hands tightened even more around the cross realizing there was no clean escape.
His gaze darted to his left—a window.
"God, forgive me." He muttered as he rushed and threw himself out of the window.
The cold wind screamed with Sergei as he plummeted.
Gas stepped calmly to the edge, his expression unreadable behind the gas mask. He watched as Sergei's body met the ground with a final thud.
Gas lingered for a moment, then turned away, his rifle resting against his shoulder.
"Humans can't fly," he muttered, his voice barely audible beneath his breath.
Gas descended the stairs with deliberate steps, each creak of the warped wood echoing through the empty building. The air grew colder as he approached Sergei's mangled body sprawled across the cracked pavement below.
The sight was grotesque: Sergei's skull lay split open, fragments of bone glinting in the dim light, while a crimson pool of fresh blood spread beneath him. Broken limbs jutted out at unnatural angles, his cross lay undamaged next to him, a macabre display of what desperation had brought.
Gas paused a few steps away, his head tilting slightly as he studied the wreckage.
DECEASED.
"Poor guy," he thought coldly, his tone devoid of sympathy.
Reaching into his hoodie, Gas retrieved a battered camera. He knelt down, the faint hum of the device breaking the silence as he lined up the shot. The cracked lens reflected Sergei's lifeless, wide-eyed expression—frozen in terror.
"Say, cheese", Gas said clicking the shutter. The flash illuminated the grisly scene for a fleeting moment, capturing it forever in stark, unforgiving detail.
He paused for a moment looking at the wooden cross soaked in blood.
Gently picking up the cross, he placed it on Sergei's chest.
Satisfied, Gas straightened up, slipping the camera back into his pocket. His boots splashed softly in the blood as he stepped away. His gaze was fixed on a forest on the horizon.
Walking through the forest back to camp, Gas's mind raged with regretful thoughts.
"What could such a religious man have done to deserve this?" he asked himself, Sergei's wide, terrified eyes seared into his memory. The image of Sergei's shattered body mingled with countless others—faces of the desperate, the guilty, and the unlucky. They all stared back at him in silent accusation.
Gas adjusted the strap of his rifle, its weight suddenly unbearable. Each step felt heavier, as if the forest floor itself was dragging him down. The muted crunch of fallen leaves beneath his boots only emphasized the oppressive silence of the woods.
"He begged," Gas thought bitterly, gripping the straps of his pack. "They always beg. And I always pull the trigger."
The cross Sergei had clutched flashed in Gas's mind—a pitiful defense against a man who played the part of a demon. Gas exhaled sharply, his breath fogging the lens on his gas mask.
"And yet he jumped," he reminded himself, trying to shift the weight of blame. But it didn't stick. Gas's own words—cold, dismissive—echoed back to him. "It's just your turn."
The trees thinned as he approached the outskirts of the camp, the dim light of a dying fire casting shadows on the uneven ground. Gas stopped, staring at the flickering light as though they might hold an answer.
"How much longer can I do this?" he thought, running a hand over his mask, his expression twisted—a fleeting crack. He reached into his pocket and felt the smooth, battered edge of the camera.
"Monster. Monster. Monster," the word thudded in his mind like a heartbeat, trailing him as he reached the camp.
The sharp voices of the bandits cut through the night. A stocky bandit in a stained jacket cursed loudly with a stutter as a blur of fur dashed past him.
"G- G- Goddamn cat stole it again! T- That's the second c- chunk of meat today!"
Gas glanced down. Little guy streaked towards him, a slab of meat almost bigger than his head clamped between his jaws.
"Well, hello there," Gas said cheerfully, bending to scoop him up. Little guy dangled in his grasp, growling triumphantly as he gnawed on his prize.
The stocky bandit stomped closer, pointing an accusing finger. "Y- You better keep that p- pest on a leash, Gas! It's b- bad enough we gotta deal with you!"
Gas chuckled, low and sharp.
"W- W- W- What's so funny, huh?" the bandit demanded, his face reddening.
"Maybe you should lose some weight," Gas replied, holding Little Guy higher, the cat's tail swishing like a victorious banner.
From the other side of the fire, a wiry bandit snickered, flicking the ash from a roll-your-own cigarette. "He's got you there, Viktor. You couldn't catch a cold in the dead of winter."
Viktor scowled but said nothing, his arms crossing defensively.
Near the fire, the nutcase bandit—known only as Tima—leaned back against a log, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the cat. His fingers twitched over a scarred hand, remnants of a self-inflicted wound.
"Однажды я убью этого кота, (One day I'll kill that cat)" Tima muttered with a lazy grin, his voice coated with the sticky edge of a drugged stupor.
Gas's gaze snapped to him, sharp as a blade. "Старайся изо всех сил,(Try your best)" he said coldly, his voice cutting through the campfire chatter like an executioner's axe.
Tima didn't flinch but smirked wider, his yellowed teeth catching the firelight. "Чувствительный, не так ли? (Sensitive, aren't you?)" he drawled, dragging a finger across the fresh edge of his blade.
"Keep talking, Tima," Gas replied, his voice even but the threat unmistakable. "Maybe the next time I'll carve snakes out of your arms myself."
The camp went quiet. Even Viktor's blustering died down as the weight of Gas's words settled in the smoky air. Little Guy let out a triumphant yowl, breaking the silence as he gnawed at his stolen feast.
Tima shrugged lazily, his drugged grin never fading. "Ты скучный, Gas (You're no fun, Gas)." But he looked away first.
Gas let out a low breath, "I can't make a scene here", He thought.
Setting Little Guy down. The cat, oblivious to the tension, stalked off with his prize like a king retreating to his throne.
Gas straightened, brushing past the bandits toward the medical area. The shadows flickered across his mask as he passed by.
Inside the makeshift medical area, Andrei lay sprawled on a creaky bed, his flashlight casting a pale glow over the glossy pages of a tattered nude magazine. He was so absorbed he didn't hear the door flap rustle.
"Damn, dude," Gas said, his voice cutting through the quiet.
Andrei flinched, slamming the magazine shut and nearly dropping the flashlight. His eyes darted to Gas. "Don't you know how to knock?" he snapped, fumbling to shove the magazine under the bed.
"No," Gas replied mockingly, leaning casually against the doorway. "What do you want?" Andrei continued, trying to sound indignant but failing to hide his embarrassment.
"How are you doing?" Gas asked, tilting his head slightly.
Andrei huffed, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. "I think my leg's healing okay," he muttered, his fingers fidgeting over the bandage.
Gas glanced at the bandaged leg before meeting Andrei's gaze again.
"You think or you know?"
"It's fine!" Andrei snapped, though his tone betrayed a flicker of doubt. He hesitated, then added, "How did your hunt go?"
The question hit harder than Andrei likely intended. Gas froze for a moment, his gaze shifting as the image of the cross Sergei had clutched flashed through his mind.
"He's dead," Gas said, his voice dropping from mocking to cold and flat.
An uneasy silence stretched between them, thick and oppressive. Andrei opened his mouth as if to say something but stopped when the flap of the tent rustled again.
"My boy!" a booming voice shattered the quiet. Big Boss strode in, his grin as wide as the horizon. "How did the hunt go?"
Gas didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulling out the camera. He held it up without a word, the small screen showing the grainy picture of Sergei.
Big Boss's grin widened further as he snatched the camera, peering at the image. "Amazing job!" he bellowed, patting Gas on the shoulder, turning to push Andrei a little.
"Careful, Boss!" Andrei grumbled, glaring at the older man.
"Ah, you'll live," Big Boss waved him off, already digging into his pocket. "You know, Gas, I can always count on you. You weren't my most valued soldier for no reason!"
He pulled out a box of ammunition, the dull gleam of the cartridges catching the faint light as he handed it to Gas. "For the next one," he said emotionlessly.
Gas took the box, his expression unreadable behind the mask. "Thanks," he muttered.
"Always earning your keep," Big Boss continued, patting Gas on the back again before turning to Andrei. "And you, stop lying around. You'll get soft!"
Andrei scowled, muttering something under his breath as Big Boss made his way out.
Gas glanced down at the box of ammunition, then pocketed it without another word. The image of the cross lingered in his mind as he turned back to Andrei.
"You're lucky you're stuck here," Gas said quietly, before stepping out into the night.
Hard metallic clicks echoed as Gas locked the door behind him.
Little guy sat perched on the bed, still gnawing at the piece of meat he'd pilfered earlier.
Gas lay down beside him, his hand absently stroking Little Guy's fur. His gaze fixed on the ceiling, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't banish the image from his mind—the brutal, desperate death that had unfolded, one he had orchestrated with his own hands.
"Am I even human anymore?" The thought clung to him, an unrelenting whisper in the cavern of his mind.
"Why?" The voice came again, ghostly and familiar. It had haunted him since that first innocent life he'd taken.
Gas had stopped trying to answer the voice long ago, the same night Jake laughed—laughed—as Gas drove the blade into him. That twisted, hollow mirth still echoed in his mind, a cruel refrain that refused to fade.
"Why?" the voice whispered again, insistent. "Why did you do this?"
Gas turned onto his side, facing the wall, his body curling inward like a shield against the accusing tone.
"Why?" it echoed once more, relentless.
"I don't know…" Gas murmured, his voice cracking under the weight of sorrow.
For a moment, there was quiet—a respite that almost felt like mercy. But then the voice came again, louder this time.
"I didn't raise you like this, son."
Gas's breath caught in his throat, his chest tightening. "Leave me alone, Dad," he began, his words trembling with frustration and despair. "You think I planned for it to happen like that?"
He turned, heart pounding, to find his father standing in the room. The sight was grotesque—a figure of charred flesh, his clothing fused with his melted skin, the seams of his humanity undone.
"Why?" his father asked, his voice a slow, rasping drawl. What seemed like a grin stretched across his deformed face, unnerving in its ambiguity.
Gas stared, paralyzed by the apparition, before the fury rose like a tidal wave. "FUCK YOU!" he roared, his voice raw and primal. The grin twisted, contorting into something darker.
"STOP FUCKING TORMENTING ME!" Gas clutched his head, his hands digging into his scalp as if to claw the voice out of his mind.
Silence.
He opened his eyes, his chest heaving. The room was empty. His father was gone.
The little guy stood there, paralyzed with a mixture of fear and confusion. His wide eyes darted around the room, uncertain whether he was reacting to the apparition or simply recoiling from Gas's thunderous yell.
"I'm sorry," Gas spoke after a moment, picking up Little Guy. He petted him, holding him close to his body. "I'm sorry, little buddy," he continued. "I love you."
Gas sighed a deep, trembling sign and placed the camera on the cupboard, its sleek, damaged body slightly reflecting light. Gas looked at his gun and then at the list.
One more name, David Mouse.
"One more...", He thought, saying it as if he wasn't talking about a human.
This night he was too tired to even go through his nightly routine, he lay down again trying to sleep. Minutes turned into hours as he slowly drifted to sleep.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
"NO! PLEASE, DON'T HURT ME!" Gas cried out, his voice cracking with terror as he clutched the cross in his trembling hands. His knuckles whitened, the symbol of faith offering no solace against the darkness pressing in on him.
"Calm down," a voice cooed gently, almost soothing—until the words turned sharp. "It's just your turn now."
The voice began to laugh, soft at first, but it grew and twisted, morphing into a blood-chilling scream that tore through Gas's mind.
His breathing quickened, his chest heaving as he frantically scanned the room. His head snapped toward the window.
"Father, forgive me," he whispered, his voice hollow and barely audible.
Without hesitation, Gas lunged forward, throwing himself out the window.
The world vanished into an endless abyss, and he fell—infinitely, weightlessly—his torment following him into the void.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Gas jolted awake, drenched in a cold sweat. His chest heaved, lungs burning as he gasped for air. His wild eyes darted around the dim room, searching for threats in every shadow. Little Guy stirred, his fur standing on end.
With an annoyed meow, the cat glared at him, clearly irritated by the sudden commotion.
Gas ignored him, springing to his feet. His hand found the AK leaning against the wall, fingers tightening around the cold metal. He locked the door behind him with a sharp, decisive click and stormed into the corridor.
The bandits sneered as he passed, their mocking laughter biting at his ears like a pack of wolves.
"Look at him—chasing ghosts again!"
"Gonna find another corpse to haunt you, Gas?"
Their taunts blurred into white noise, his focus fixed on the list clenched in his fist. His grip tightened until his knuckles turned white.
"This ends now."
Hours later, the world seemed far away as Gas reached his destination. The factory stood like a monolith of decay, its crumbling frame looming against the night sky, rust streaking its walls like blood.
Inside, the air was oppressive, thick with the scent of mold and rot. The wind howled through shattered windows, its eerie whistle slicing through the stillness. Gas moved cautiously, his boots crunching against debris as he stepped from one empty room to the next. Each was more barren, more foreboding than the last.
The silence grew heavier with every step, suffocating in its intensity.
"Another apparition?" he muttered, his voice low and strained. The sound of his own words barely reassured him. His fingers shifted uneasily on the AK, the weight of the weapon somehow unbearable.
Shadows slithered in his periphery, flickering in the pale moonlight. The factory seemed alive, breathing, watching.
"COME OUT, LITTLE MOUSE!" Gas bellowed, the mockery in his tone barely masking the unrest brewing in his chest. His voice echoed through the empty halls, swallowed by the void.
The air seemed to thicken with every passing second, each breath harder to draw. His movements grew frantic, the tension clawing at his sanity. Room after room, door after door—empty.
Until one wasn't.
Gas slammed through the final door, his boot splintering the rotted wood.
There, sitting in a broken chair leaning against a dilapidated bed, was David.
David didn't flinch. He gazed up at Gas with hollow eyes, despair etched into his every feature. His shoulders sagged under an invisible weight, his body motionless, resigned.
Gas shouldered his rifle, the barrel steady, his finger grazing the trigger.
But something stopped him.
Staring into David's eyes, Gas felt it—a flicker of something long buried. Humanity? Regret? He couldn't name it, but it was enough to still his hand. His grip faltered, the rifle trembling, then lowering as his breath caught in his throat.
Slowly, deliberately, Gas slung the weapon over his shoulder. The silence between them was deafening, the weight of unspoken words filling the space like lead.
David didn't speak. He didn't need to. His eyes, hollow yet piercing, told a story of resignation, of someone who had nothing left to give.
Gas's gaze fell to the floor, his once-unshakable resolve unraveling thread by thread. He stood there for a moment, as if the act of moving might shatter the fragile quiet between them.
Finally, Gas broke the stillness. "Eyes don't lie," he said softly, his voice low and uneven.
David's eyes flickered, a spark of something—pain, anger, or maybe even fear—crossing his face. With deliberate movements, he reached up and tugged his bandana down, revealing the lines of exhaustion etched deep into his features.
"Just do your job," David said, his voice firm but brittle. The command rang hollow.
Gas hesitated, his fingers twitching at his side. He looked back at David, their eyes meeting, the silence between them growing heavier. Slowly, Gas walked over to the bed and sat down beside him, the springs creaking under his weight.
He pulled his camera from his pocket, turning it over in his hands, his fingers brushing against the worn edges of the device. He fidgeted with it absently, his eyes fixed on a crack in the floorboards.
"When was the last time you felt like a human being?" Gas asked, his tone calm but weighted with a sadness he couldn't fully mask.
David flinched at the question, his jaw tightening. He didn't answer immediately, and when he did, his voice was sharp, almost a snarl. "Just fucking kill me already!"
Gas didn't flinch. He placed the camera down gently on the bed, its lens glinting faintly in the dim light. "You planned this, didn't you?" he asked, his voice quieter now, but with an edge of certainty.
David's breath hitched, his chest rising and falling unevenly. His gaze dropped to the floor, his hands clenched into trembling fists on his knees. "It doesn't matter," he muttered, his voice cracking under the weight of the words. "None of it matters anymore."
Gas leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the cracked floorboards. "It matters to me," he said after a long pause. His words were soft, almost inaudible, but they carried a weight that made David glance up, his eyes wide with something close to disbelief.
"Why?" David asked, his voice hoarse. "You're a hitman. Just do it. You don't get to care."
Gas let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Maybe I don't. Maybe I lost that right a long time ago. But here we are."
David's shoulders slumped. "You don't know what I've done," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath.
"Neither do you," Gas replied, meeting his gaze again. "Not really. We tell ourselves it's justice, or survival, or whatever makes it easier to sleep at night. But deep down, we're all just..." He trailed off, searching for the word. "Lost."
David's breath hitched again, a single tear sliding down his cheek before he could stop it. He wiped it away angrily, as if ashamed of the display.
"It's ok to cry", Gas added caringly.
He picked up the camera again, turning it over in his hands. The silence stretched on, but this time it wasn't suffocating. It was heavy, yes, but shared—like the weight of their burdens had, for a moment, been split between them.
David finally broke the quiet. "You gonna take my picture before you kill me?" he asked, his voice wavering between sarcasm and despair.
Gas looked at him, then at the camera, before placing it gently back down. "Not today," he said softly.
David blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion. "Then what the hell are you waiting for?"
Gas didn't answer immediately. Instead, he leaned against the cracked wall, his expression unreadable. Then, with a suddenness that startled David, he spoke.
"Take off your jacket."
"What?" David's voice was sharp, incredulous. "No. Why?"
"Just do it," Gas replied, his tone eerily calm, almost disarming.
David hesitated, he reluctantly shrugged out of the worn jacket, letting it drop onto the bed beside him.
Gas reached into his backpack, pulling out a small plastic bag filled with blood. The sight of it made David's stomach churn, his expression twisting in disgust.
"What the hell is that for?" David demanded, his voice rising with a mix of suspicion and revulsion.
Gas ignored the question. He opened the bag, the metallic scent of blood hitting the stale air, and poured its contents over the discarded jacket. The dark crimson liquid soaked into the fabric, spreading like a grotesque stain of finality.
"What now?" David asked, his voice low and uneven, as if afraid of the answer.
Gas picked up his camera, cradling it for a moment, his gaze distant. Then, without warning, he slammed it to the floor.
The sound was deafening, the crash echoing through the room like a gunshot. Pieces of shattered lens and fractured plastic scattered across the floor, the destruction absolute.
David flinched but said nothing, his eyes darting between Gas and the wreckage of the camera.
For a moment, the silence was overwhelming, the tension between them a tangible force. Then Gas spoke, his voice steady but cold.
"Go straight east," he said, his words deliberate and measured. "There's a village not far from here. They'll take you in."
David stared at him, disbelieving. "What are you talking about? You're just… letting me go?"
Gas didn't answer right away. His gaze drifted to the blood-soaked jacket on the bed, a grim symbol of the scene he was crafting. He let out a slow breath before continuing.
"I'll meet you there," Gas said, his tone softening, though his face betrayed no emotion.
David's jaw tightened, his mind racing with questions he didn't know how to ask. Finally, he stood, his movements cautious, as if any sudden motion might shatter the fragile truce between them.
"Why are you doing this?" David asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Gas met his eyes, the weight of years—of choices, regrets, and ghosts—bearing down on him. "Because sometimes," he said, almost to himself, "you have to break something to set it free."
David opened his mouth to reply, but no words came. His lips moved soundlessly, grappling for a response that never formed.
Before he could articulate a single thought, Gas snatched the blood-soaked jacket off the bed. Without a glance back, he turned toward the door, his shadow stretching long and dark against the crumbling walls.
In a moment, Gas was gone, disappearing into the night as if he was never there, leaving only the faint scent of blood and the sound of his fading footsteps behind.
David stood there, frozen, his mind racing.
What had just happened? He tried to piece it together, but his thoughts felt disjointed, fragments of disbelief, and unspoken questions swirling in his head.
For a long, tense moment, he didn't move, staring at the door as if expecting Gas to return. But the silence remained unbroken. Finally, with a deep, shuddering breath, David gathered himself.
He stepped into the night, the cool air biting at his skin. The vast expanse of darkness stretched before him, unfamiliar and foreboding. He hesitated, looking over his shoulder once before forcing himself to move east, as Gas had instructed. Each step felt like an act of faith—or desperation.
Meanwhile, Gas walked alone through the night, his thoughts heavier than the weapon slung on his shoulder. The jacket dripped faintly as he carried it, leaving dark streaks on the ground like a trail of regret.
His mind churned with possibilities and problems. He thought of Bigg Boss, his demonish grin at the dead bodies. He thought of the village, the risk of being followed, and the weight of his own decisions.
"How am I going to leave without them noticing?" he wondered, his jaw tightening. Every solution seemed troublesome, complicated, and tangled in a web of deceit and danger.
But deeper than the logistics, Gas wrestled with the questions he couldn't escape.
Why had he spared David? Was it guilt, pity, or some desperate attempt to hold onto a shred of his own humanity?
Others were scared and lost too, but he mercilessly killed them...
His fingers tightened around the jacket as he quickened his pace, the image of David's haunted eyes still fresh in his mind.
As the distant lights of the camp came into view, Gas exhaled sharply, steeling himself for the next step. This wasn't over—not yet.
But for the first time in a long time, he felt the faintest flicker of something unfamiliar.
Hope? No. That wasn't it.
Resolve.
Arriving back at camp, Gas was greeted by the familiar booming voice of Big Boss, his deep laughter cutting through the cold night air.
"My boy!" Big Boss bellowed, his oversized grin as unsettling as ever. "Another job well done, ha?"
"Yes," Gas replied flatly, his voice devoid of emotion. He handed over the blood-soaked jacket. "The camera broke in the struggle."
Big Boss waved off the explanation with a hearty chuckle. "No problem, boy! You did your part." He tossed a box of ammunition and a wad of cash at Gas, as if rewarding a loyal dog.
Gas caught them without a word and turned on his heel, walking away without waiting for dismissal.
He headed straight to the makeshift hospital. But as he scanned the dimly lit room, Andrei was nowhere to be found.
"Where is he?" Gas demanded, his voice sharp as he cornered one of the bandits working inside.
The man looked up lazily, chewing on the end of a cigarette. "Kicked himself in the ass," he said with a shrug. "Infection got him. You can find him at the dump now."
Gas froze, disbelief and anger flaring in equal measure. He stared at the bandit, his jaw tightening, before forcing himself to leave.
Back at his room, Gas stopped dead in his tracks. The door was ajar, the frame splintered as if it had been kicked open with force.
His heart sank.
Little Guy.
Gas bolted inside, his breath shallow and quick. His chest tightened with a feeling he didn't want to name. His eyes darted around the room, searching desperately, until they landed on the bed.
There he was.
Little Guy's small, lifeless body lay sprawled across the blanket, his head twisted at a grotesque angle, as if something had taken cruel pleasure in the act.
Gas froze. He didn't move. He didn't blink. For a long moment, he simply stood there, staring, as the world narrowed around him. His head twitched slightly, his expression fixed in cold, hollow silence.
For the first time in his life, Gas felt something worse than hurt.
He took a step forward, his boots heavy against the floor. Slowly, deliberately, he knelt beside the bed, his movements almost mechanical.
His hand reached out, trembling despite his effort to steady it, and he stroked the soft fur of the lifeless form.
"I'm sorry, little buddy," he whispered, his voice low, almost inaudible.
Carefully, with an almost unnatural gentleness, Gas wrapped Little Guy's body in an old blanket. He worked methodically, tucking the edges as if the small creature might still feel the chill. He placed him in a wooden box he'd found, the lid creaking faintly as it closed.
Gas stood, gripping the box tightly in his hands. He didn't have time to mourn. Not here. Not now.
Before he could step toward the door, Big Boss's hulking figure appeared in the doorway, filling the space with his shadow.
"What's this about, my boy?" Big Boss asked, his tone suspicious.
Gas didn't let him finish. "I'm quitting," he said coldly, his voice cutting through the air like a knife.
Big Boss's grin vanished, replaced by a scowl. "What?" he roared, his voice shaking the walls. "You can't just leave!"
"Yes, I can," Gas shot back, his tone unwavering. He threw the ammunition, money, and his weapon onto the ground at Big Boss's feet.
The older man's face darkened with fury. "You ungrateful little—"
But Gas didn't wait to hear the rest. He pushed past Big Boss and the bandits gathered outside, clutching the box tightly in his arms.
"Дебил, (Moron)" Tima sneered as Gas passed him.
Gas didn't even glance his way.
Big Boss's curses followed him for nearly fifty meters outside the camp, but Gas didn't stop. His focus was on the road ahead, the bandits and their taunts fading behind him.
When he reached a quiet patch of earth beneath a lone, leafless tree, Gas stopped. The moonlight illuminated the ground as he knelt, digging a small grave for Little Guy.
When it was done, he placed the box gently in the hole, covering it with care.
Gas sat there for a moment, his head bowed, his hands trembling slightly. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm sorry I couldn't keep you safe, little buddy."
The wind whispered through the trees as Gas stood, his shadow stretching long against the cold, barren earth.
He turned eastward,
toward the village, and began walking.
Gas pushed forward, disappearing into the shadows of the night swallowing him whole.