The night was eerily silent. The wind howled softly through the cracks of an old, abandoned bungalow standing alone in a deserted area far from the reach of civilization. The structure was small, worn out, and decayed with age. The creaking of wooden planks echoed under the weight of each step. The air carried the scent of damp wood, rust, and something more unsettling—a metallic tang of blood.
Inside, the bungalow had two rooms. One appeared to be a makeshift kitchen, cluttered with old utensils, an iron stove, and a single kettle. The other room was more sinister in appearance—an eerie work shed lined with different tools, some rusted with time, others sharpened with meticulous care.
A shadowy figure emerged, standing in the dim light of a flickering bulb. The man, known only as V, moved with an eerie calmness. His face was hidden in the darkness, his posture relaxed yet deliberate. He approached the small, rusted sink, turned on the creaking faucet, and filled a dented kettle with water. His movements were precise, almost mechanical, as if he had done this a hundred times before.
He placed the kettle on the stove and lit the flame. The fire crackled to life, illuminating part of his silhouette. The sound of bubbling water soon filled the silent air as he reached for a small container of tea leaves. Scooping a precise amount, he poured them into the boiling water and let it steep. The aroma of strong tea mingled with the heavy scent of iron in the air.
Lifting a porcelain cup, V poured himself a serving, steam rising in delicate swirls. He brought it to his lips, took a slow sip, and let out a long sigh of relief, savoring the warmth.
Then, a low, guttural groan interrupted his moment of peace.
He turned his head slightly, his shadow stretching ominously across the floor. The sound came from the work shed-like room. His eyes, hidden in darkness, flickered with mild interest as he picked up his cup and walked towards the source.
The dim light barely illuminated the figure bound to a chair in the center of the room. The person—bloodied and barely conscious—struggled weakly against the thick ropes restraining their wrists and ankles. Their breathing was labored, mixed with occasional whimpers of pain. Blood dripped slowly from fresh wounds, creating dark red pools on the concrete floor.
The victim, a man in his mid-thirties, had once been strong, but now, his strength had been drained by pain and exhaustion. His eyes, though swollen and half-shut, radiated defiance and rage. He tried to speak, but his voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper.
V took another sip of his tea, watching his captive with unsettling indifference.
The victim groaned again, this time louder, as if summoning whatever strength he had left to protest. It was a futile attempt. V placed his cup on a small stand beside him and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small but deadly sharp blade. The cold metal glistened under the flickering light.
He stepped forward.
The victim's body tensed. His breathing quickened, his eyes widened in sheer terror. He thrashed against his restraints, but they held firm. Panic set in. He tried to scream, but his voice failed him.
V tilted his head slightly as if observing an insect trapped in a glass jar. He crouched down, his hand gripping the man's chin firmly, forcing him to meet his gaze—though his face remained unseen.
Then, without hesitation, he pressed the blade against the man's throat.
A sharp gasp filled the air, followed by a wet, gurgling sound. Blood gushed in thick streams, spilling down the man's chest and pooling onto the floor. His body convulsed violently before going still. The light in his eyes faded into nothingness.
V wiped the blade clean with a piece of cloth and placed it back into his pocket. He stood up, retrieved his cup of tea, and took another sip.
The room was silent once more, save for the faint hum of the stove in the next room.
Outside, the wind howled, carrying the scent of death into the night.