The Burden Of The Curse..
The distant wail of sirens began to grow louder, approaching fast. Nolan paused for a beat, his bloodshot eyes flicking towards the alley's mouth, then back to the ruined forms of the two dealers. He didn't wait for the inevitable discovery, melting into the deeper shadows and vanishing into the labyrinthine streets before the first police cruiser even screeched to a halt at the alley's entrance.
Moments later, flashlights cut through the gloom. Uniformed officers spilled into the scene, their urgent shouts quickly replaced by gasps of shock. One, a veteran detective named Miller, grimaced as he surveyed the first dealer, plastered against the wall like a grotesque, abstract painting. Another, younger and visibly ill, stared at the splattered remains of the second.
"This... this is impossible," one officer whispered, his voice trembling. "And inhuman."
Detective Miller knelt, gloved hand hovering over the shattered remnants of the first victim. He slowly straightened, his face etched with a grim, dawning horror that went beyond the usual callus of his profession.
"Just yesterday," Miller murmured, his voice low, filled with a terrible certainty. "We found that 6'6" very obese man... died around 8 PM. And then, hours later, the old man who used to be in jails for raping teenagers and now was known for molesting children, and the wife abuser who'd beat up his wife and son everyday... all found dead with the same... overwhelming force." He gestured vaguely at the pulverised bodies before them. "Now this? This is a brutal massacre. These two guys did not last seconds. What in God's name is happening?"
The silence that followed was thick with unspoken terror. They had dealt with violence, with depravity, but this was different. This was beyond human. Something was hunting in their city, moving with terrifying speed and leaving a trail of impossible, destructive force. And it was escalating.
The phone rang, a secure line, cutting through the strained silence of the President's private study. The digital clock on his desk glowed 02:47 AM. He picked it up on the first ring, his face already taut with anticipation.
"Mr. President," a voice, ragged with barely suppressed terror, whispered from the other end. It was General Alistair Vance, head of clandestine operations.
The President's knuckles whitened as he gripped the receiver. "Report, General. What is it?"
Alistair's voice cracked, a sound the President had never heard from the hardened veteran. "President... the curse... Oh my Lord, it's here."
A heavy silence descended, broken only by the President's slow, deliberate breath. His gaze drifted to the rain streaking down the reinforced window, obscuring the city lights beyond. "Understood," he finally said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Vance, listen carefully. Make sure nobody knows. Make sure all police and those news outlets... reveal nothing to the citizens. Not a single soul."
"But, sir," Alistair stammered, "the bodies—"
"Cover it up. Label them gang violence, cartel clean-up, anything. Blame it on the weather if you have to. Just ensure the truth remains buried."
Another pause, then Alistair's voice, tinged with a morbid curiosity that bordered on horror. "So, President, it's real? Years ago... all governments managed to come up with a lie, and they believed it. How terrifying was it?"
The President closed his eyes, a phantom image of a desolate, ash-choked landscape flashing behind his eyelids. He remembered the classified files, the grainy satellite images, the unspeakable reports from that lost country.
"...Let's leave him alone," the President finally dictated, his voice devoid of all emotion, a chilling pronouncement of a decision made years ago. "Even if we managed to kill him... the events years ago would repeat. No one in this country would survive. The true form of the curse... Years ago, once the user died, it came back as a 7ft tall monster, effectively immortal and relentless. It never stops after everything is dead... men... women... elders... children... animals... that's what happened to that country years ago. Let him kill... don't interrupt him."
Alistair's voice returned, a raw whisper. "But, sir... what happened to that user years ago...?"
The President's eyes opened, cold and distant, staring into the middle distance. "The curse let him go after he killed everything. The curse... seeks entertainment. After that, the man was so consumed by guilt, he killed himself days later." He paused, a deep, weary sigh escaping him. "And now... that same curse is here... on another man... the former champion... sigh..."
The line clicked dead. The President sat in the silence, the weight of his decision pressing down on him, the lives of a few balanced against the extinction of all. Outside, the rain poured, washing the city clean of everything but its hidden, growing dread.
The small apartment door creaked open, revealing Marcus, Nolan's long-time lovin' brother and Lily's official protector while his out, standing in the doorway. His face was a mask of exasperation and profound relief.
"Man, where have you been since yesterday?" Marcus exclaimed, his voice a mix of anger and concern. "Your daughter is so damn worried for you! She loves you so much, you are her only parent left! Don't do this, man! Why are your clothes changed, though? It looks dirty, did you steal clothes from the garbage bin, man, what the...?"
Nolan winced, the dull ache of the lodged bullets a constant throb. His current clothes, scavenged from a dumpster after his last rampage, were indeed grimy and ill-fitting. The scent of stale blood and fear still clung to him, a phantom odor only he could detect. He knew he looked a mess.
"Sigh... sorry, bruh," Nolan mumbled, running a weary hand over his face. He pushed past Marcus, his eyes immediately seeking the small, vibrant figure that darted out from behind Marcus's legs.
"Daddy! I missed you!" Lily cried, her small arms wrapping fiercely around his leg.
Nolan's cold, cursed eyes softened imperceptibly, if only for a moment. He knelt, pulling his daughter into a tight, almost desperate hug, burying his face in her hair. The warmth of her small body, the innocent scent of her shampoo, was a fragile anchor in the storm of his mind. He ignored the fresh pang of guilt, the echoing screams in his skull momentarily muted by her presence.
He gently pulled back, ruffling her hair. "Lily bug... it's Monday today, yes? You'll go to school later." He forced a tired smile, pushing the lingering stench of death and the President's chilling choice to the furthest corners of his awareness. For now, he was just a father. Lily went to school.
Later that night, as Nolan sat alone in the dim apartment, the whispers returned, sharper, more insistent.
"Kill... another 2... people..."
Nolan's head snapped up, his eyes burning with a mixture of rage and despair. He clenched his fists, the old wounds from the bullets aching in protest. He strode to the grimy window, staring out at the city lights, each one a potential target.
"Fuck... you," he hissed, his voice a low, guttural snarl. "You demanded me to kill 1 person yesterday, and then another one, and then another one. And then two bastards today! I just killed 2 bastards, now you want me to kill another 2 bastards?! Enough is ENO—"
The words choked in his throat, replaced by a sound of pure, unadulterated agony. The world twisted, and in the cramped confines of his apartment, a vision bloomed with impossible clarity, a most realistic hallucination of Lily getting...
Nolan screamed, a primal, guttural roar that tore from his chest, fueled by a rage more intense than any he'd known in the octagon. He stumbled backward, clawing at his own head, his eyes wide and vacant, staring at the unseen horror unfolding before him.
"AAAAAH! YOU BASTARD! YOU NASTY BITCH! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!" he shrieked, his voice raw and broken, echoing in the sudden, terrible silence of the apartment. He lunged at empty air, swinging wildly, desperately trying to destroy the tormentor only he could see.
The thin walls offered little muffling. A moment later, the bedroom door burst open, and Marcus stood there, shirtless, his eyes wide with alarm, sleep instantly banished. "Nolan! What the hell was that?! What's wrong, man?!" He rushed forward, his concern overriding his fear.
Nolan's wild, tormented gaze swept over Marcus, recognizing him but seeing past him, still caught in the aftershocks of the hallucination. His chest heaved.
"I... I gotta go out," Nolan rasped, his voice still hoarse from the scream, his eyes already hardening with a grim, determined resolve. He moved towards the door.
Marcus instantly stepped in his path. "Go out?! Are you crazy?! You just screamed like a damn banshee, you're still having seizures man!, and it's almost dawn! What are you doing?!"
Nolan didn't meet his gaze, his hand already on the doorknob. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "I just... I gotta go. Don't wait up." He pulled the door open, the faint sounds of the waking city drifting in.
Marcus grabbed his arm, his face etched with desperation. "No, man, don't do this! Not like this! We can figure this out—"
Nolan pulled his arm free with surprising force. "I have to," he cut him off, his voice barely a whisper, but with an underlying current of absolute finality. "Don't follow me. Just... take care of Lily."
And then he was gone, slipping out into the predawn gloom, leaving Marcus standing bewildered and terrified in the open doorway.
Later that night, the rage drained, replaced by a hollow, terrifying resignation. Nolan had given up. The image of Lily, distorted by the curse's malice, was seared into his mind, an unbearable threat. He stumbled out into the humid air of the city, the neon glow of distant signs reflecting in the slick streets, the demands of the curse a relentless drumbeat in his skull.
He didn't search. The curse guided him, an invisible hand pushing him down a dimly lit alleyway, past overflowing dumpsters and the distant murmur of late-night sounds. Then he heard it: muffled cries, a woman's desperate whimper, and the coarse, slurred voices of men.
His eyes, now burning with that familiar, cold light, locked onto the scene. Two men, their shadows looming large, had cornered a terrified woman against a grimy wall. One of them, a bulky figure easily six-foot-four, was grabbing at her, while the other laughed.
There was no hesitation. No internal debate. The previous agony, the vision of Lily – it had broken him, leaving only the grim, terrifying will of the curse. With impossible speed, a blur of motion in the dim light, Nolan was there. He moved like a ghost, silent and swift.
He didn't aim for a punch or a kick. Instead, with inhuman strength, he grabbed the six-foot-four man by the leg. The man barely registered the vice-like grip before his world spun. Nolan, with a terrifying, effortless heave, swung the massive man like a club, slamming him with sickening force directly into his accomplice.
The impact was catastrophic. A wet, tearing sound. The crack of bone. The two men crumpled to the ground instantly, intertwined in a broken, lifeless heap. They hadn't even had time to scream, dying from the sheer, brutal force of the collision.
The woman stared, her eyes wide with shock and dawning horror, looking from the ruined men to Nolan, who stood over them, unmoving, his face a mask of terrifying stillness. The curse within him pulsed, satisfied for now. Two more lives taken, two demands fulfilled. But Nolan didn't feel relief, only an expanding emptiness.
A moment later, the horror of what she had witnessed, combined with the earlier terror of the attack, overwhelmed the woman. Her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed in a faint. Nolan, his movements still precise and eerily swift, caught her before she hit the ground. He carried her carefully, placing her gently behind a large, unseen dumpster further down the alley, out of sight from the street, ensuring she was as safe as he could make her.
His task for the curse was done for now, but a different compulsion, a quiet echo of his own humanity, pulled him. He turned and retraced his steps, heading back towards the familiar alley where his forced rampage had begun. His mind fixated on the small, vulnerable figure he had left earlier that night – the same boy he had saved from the obese man, the one who had triggered his curse's first, terrifying command.
He found the boy exactly where he had left him, still huddled and unconscious, though now shivering in the cool night air. Nolan knelt, his hulking frame casting a long shadow. From his pocket, he pulled out a piece of bread he had scrounged earlier that day, a sparse meal he hadn't touched. He gently placed it beside the boy, then hesitated, his hand hovering over the small, frail form. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through his hand before he forced himself to stand. He glanced back once, then melted into the deeper shadows, leaving the boy and the grim alley behind once more.