Bab 1: The man with the purpose
The rainwater wasn't just cold; it held a biting malice, soaking through the man's clothes and chilling him to the bone. He hadn't bothered to take shelter, the ruined shoe a badge of his indifference towards the world's discomfort. Lightning flashed before the thunder, an electric warning he ignored. People scurried past, their hurried gait a stark contrast to his languid stroll. They were slaves to duty, tethered to obligations that wouldn't wait. He, however, was a free man, at least in the most morbid sense of the word.
He wasn't a doctor rushing to a bedside vigil, though the urgency in his steps could have fooled an observer. His clothes were as simple as they came, a brown canvas jacket shielding a plain white shirt already marred by dark water stains. The alley beckoned, a dark maw in the urban jungle. It reeked of dampness and decay, the perfect entrance for a man on a mission.
Inside, the world shrunk to a suffocating tunnel. The flickering bulb cast grotesque shadows that danced across the damp brick walls. Stray dogs huddled under the overhang of a dilapidated building, their eyes gleaming with distrust. Fear was a palpable presence here, a constant companion to those who dared enter this forgotten corner.
The man stopped, not at a sound, but a feeling. A tremor in the air, a ripple of unease. He raised his head, eyes adjusting to the gloom. Then he saw it – a dim bulb flickered above a back door, a beacon in the sea of darkness.
Reaching the door, he rapped twice, and then once more, an oddly specific rhythm. He turned, a slow, deliberate movement. This wasn't a doctor on a house call, this was a man prepared to make a deal.
A horrific sight met his eyes. The hallway was a macabre tableau, a butcher shop for the damned. Young men hung limply from the ceiling, their bodies grotesquely contorted, faces frozen in eternal screams. Yet, the man displayed no flicker of surprise, no shred of fear. He didn't flinch, didn't look up or down, didn't even acknowledge the macabre display. He walked through the hallway, a ghost amongst the dead, his only concern avoiding the lifeless forms.
The hallway led to a single door at the far end, crafted from weathered wood and adorned with a curious totem. Dust and cobwebs clung to its intricate carvings, hinting at its age and forgotten purpose. The man paused, his gaze lingering on the totem for the briefest of seconds. It was a silent conversation, a recognition between two entities bound by an ancient pact.
He pushed the door open, revealing a stark contrast to the horrors outside. This was a room of normalcy, a living room frozen in time. The walls, painted a pale, comforting white, were adorned with idyllic landscapes – rolling hills, quaint cottages, a stark counterpoint to the nightmare he'd just witnessed. A fireplace crackled merrily in the corner, casting a warm glow that felt like a lie. There was no furniture, no clutter, just a stark, unnerving emptiness.
The man reached into his pocket, his movements deliberate and measured. He produced a wooden cube, intricately carved with arcane symbols. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he tossed it into the fire. The cube erupted in a flash of blinding light, followed by a deafening crack that echoed through the room. A horrifying shriek pierced the air, the fire erupting into a miniature inferno. The man shielded his eyes momentarily, but his face remained impassive.
Reaching into the dying embers, he retrieved a knife. Not metal, but a bizarre black wood, its surface polished to an unnatural sheen. He ran it across his wrist, the blade leaving no wound, but drawing a single, bead of crimson blood. The act felt ritualistic, a final act before the true bargain began.
The moment the man's blood touched the wooden blade, the hallway outside erupted in a cacophony of sound. The lifeless bodies writhed, their mouths contorting into silent screams. The man himself began to transform, his body slowly pulling upwards, suspended mid-air. He was no longer a man, but a monstrous reflection, his face elongating, teeth sharpening, eyes glowing with a malevolent red light. He was becoming one with the very darkness he'd embraced.
He was now hanging in the hallway, his face a grotesque mask of pain and twisted pleasure. This was the cost of his deal, a payment in flesh and blood. But as the transformation neared completion, a manic grin spread across his face. He had made his choice, and the power it brought was worth any price.
The fire in the living room roared back to life.