URANUS HALE
"Uranus Hale! You are advised to step out of the building to avoid serious repercussions."
The young man sitting on the sales counter didn't flinch. He calmly spun a yellow lighter between his fingers, his expression unreadable.
Rather than panicking about being surrounded by almost all of Norway's enforcement, his sharp gaze lingered on the group of terrified people lying flat on the bakery floor.
'And how did I even get here?'
His only response to the thought was a small, absentminded nod.
What was supposed to be a simple task—settling an unfinished business with a man who had been testing his patience—had spiraled out of control.
One moment, he was walking into the bakery; the next, he was surrounded by a fleet of cops.
'So much for an easy job.'
Hale hopped down from the counter, taking a deep breath of the gas-filled air.
The smell of cooking gas mixed with the faint sweetness of pastries made him smile.
This had been his favorite bakery for years. The staff were friendly, the atmosphere serene.
But now, it was all over. He would make sure of that.
From the moment the police had surrounded the building, he'd wasted no time taking control.
Switching on the gas and stoves was his first move. He knew his chances of escaping were nonexistent. But if this was the end, he'd make sure it was a memorable one.
Hale was well aware of his crimes. Or, as he preferred to call them, "stamp marks."
To him, they were justified acts of interest—punishments he dealt after observing his targets.
Whether it was a child, an adult, or an elder, it didn't matter. They all met the same fate once they caught his attention.
"They shoot, we're dead. You move, we're dead." Hale chuckled lightly, locking eyes with a trembling staff who couldn't bring themselves to look away.
Spinning the lighter, Hale noticed how the room seemed to hold its breath.
The hostages' eyes followed the flickering movement, their chests rising and falling as if their lungs couldn't decide whether to collapse or expand.
He understood the absurdity of it all. Twenty-five lives in his hands— it only took a real man to realize such accomplishment.
"Don't worry," Hale said, his voice low but commanding.
The words reverberated through the tense room, forcing the hostages to meet his gaze. Even the police officers outside, their guns trained on the glass doors, seemed to hesitate.
"When it happens, it'll be over before you even feel it. Don't be scared, alright?"
Silence.
Hale shook his head, almost disappointed.
He was growing bored. This would end soon; there was no point in dragging it out.
If he was going to die, he would at least leave his name engraved in the headlines one last time.
"Aren't you all tired of this? Let's end it—"
"Uranus Hale! Step out of the shop with your hands behind your head!"
The firm voice of a police officer cut through his words, making him scowl.
"I hate being interrupted," Hale muttered under his breath, his glare fixed on the floor.
But he didn't linger in irritation. Raising his head, he also lifted his right hand—the yellow lighter now drawing everyone's attention.
"I know you can't shoot," Hale shouted at the officers, his tone cold and eerily calm.
Something about his voice unsettled the hostages.
It was devoid of panic or emotion, as if his mind existed in an entirely different plane.
"You don't want these lives on your hands..." he continued, his gaze sweeping over the terrified group.
'Unfortunate for them—they got caught up in my business.'
He paused, taking in the room one last time. "But I can."
With a flick of his thumb, the lighter sparked, its tiny flame illuminating Hale's face.
For a second, everything stood still—time, breath, fear—before the world shattered in a roar of fire and chaos.
And then, there was only darkness.
For a moment, Hale felt nothing—just his mind floating in a hollow void.
He felt empty— unable to think beyond his awareness.
Slowly, sensation crept back.
Tingling nerves, the prickling of his skin and a metallic taste pooling on his tongue pulled him out of the emptiness.
Bit by bit, his consciousness returned.
Yet his mind stayed unnervingly still, except for the steady pounding of his heart.
'What is this?'
The thought echoed in his head, the first coherent one since he could remember. For some reason, a strange excitement bubbled within him, unexplainable and raw.
It was a rush, something he'd only felt before while punishing his victims. But this was different—sharper, deeper, like his blood was surging through him.
Maybe, he thought, this was some leftover thrill, a chemical high from blowing himself and twenty-five others to pieces.
'Myself too?'
The memory hit him hard—the explosion, the fire, the deafening blast. He had been sure the flames would reduce him to ash, along with everyone else. But now, here he was, still thinking, still aware.
'Was I saved? No! I'd rather die than let myself be arrested.'
His chest tightened as his eyes threatened to tear up, but something held him back.
There were no hospital sounds—no beeping monitors, no restraints on his body. His hands were free, and the surface beneath him felt soft.
Still, one question gnawed at him.
When his awareness returned, it hadn't come alone.
An eerie chant echoed in his mind, distant but clear, like a crowd speaking in perfect unison.
It drilled into his thoughts, dragging out strange, fragmented images.
'Turpin West…'
Hale shivered, but a faint smile touched his lips as he watched the memories play out in his head.
They weren't his—too chaotic, too foreign—but nonetheless intriguing.
He'd seen it in movies, but had never believed in it—until now.
Drawing a deep breath, he noticed the gritty, unfamiliar yet familiar smell of the air.
It wasn't comforting, but it wasn't hostile either.
Slowly, he opened his eyes to a dim world.
"Hun?" Hale tilted his head feeling an exhaustion suddenly creep in.
The ground he laid was unusually soft, and for a moment, he wanted to lay back his head and fall asleep.
However, when his head directly rested on it, his nose picked up a cruel smell that made his stomach turn.
He shot up, pushing himself back a bit as he gazed at whatever he laid on.
'A body?'
'Pile of bodies?'
Hale held his breath, trying to hold in the feel the rupture the place with his guts.
The corpse were grey and some of the carcass had become nothing more than shards of dry and flaky bones.
Skin flakes glued his skin and even his body still sat over a dozen of the corpse.
Hale wanted to jump up and find somewhere more honorable, but he couldn't. Every second felt like a pressure that forced his eyes to close.
The air around him felt heavy, humming with energy.
A voice pierced the silence, distant yet clear, 'It worked.'