The whispers, temporarily sated by the latest blood price, were now a dull throb in the back of his skull, a constant, low-frequency hum of malice. But even in its quietude, Nolan knew it was merely resting, waiting for the next demand. It would come, perhaps in hours, perhaps with the setting sun. Always another two. Always another bastard. Always more pain.
He found himself outside his apartment building, the window of Lily's room a dark square above. He didn't go in. Not yet. He couldn't face Marcus's exhausted worry, or Lily's innocent, trusting gaze, not when the phantom screams of his victims still echoed in his mind, and the chilling vision of her tormented face was burned behind his eyelids.
Instead, Nolan sunk to the grimy steps of a forgotten doorway across the street, his back against the cold concrete. He pulled his knees to his chest, burying his face in his arms, the rough fabric of his scavenged clothes scraping against his skin. He felt utterly spent, a hollow shell of the man he once was. The curse was a monster, but he was its living, breathing tomb, and the thought was a crushing weight.
He closed his eyes, desperate for a rest
"Kill... another 2... people... Tonight... or morning..." The whisper was no longer a hum, but a sharp, cutting command, resonating directly in his fractured mind. It was a promise, a threat, a relentless drumbeat that would not cease until he obeyed.
He opened his eyes, staring out at the waking city with a hollow, terrifying resignation. Nolan had given up the fight against the inevitable. He pushed himself to his feet, a gaunt, ragged silhouette against the artificial glow of the urban landscape. His cursed body, despite its agony, moved with an instinctual, terrible purpose.
He hadn't walked far, perhaps two blocks, the relentless rhythm of the curse in his skull guiding him, when a sudden, piercing sound ripped through the stillness of the early morning. It was the high-pitched scream of a child, followed by a muffled cry and the harsh, grunting voices of men. His head snapped towards the sound, his cursed eyes locking onto the scene unfolding in a dimly lit cul-de-sac.
A dark, unmarked van was idling, its side door a gaping maw. Two burly men, their faces obscured by shadows, were struggling with a small figure. It was a boy, no older than six, kicking and flailing desperately, his cries abruptly cut short as one of the men clamped a hand over his mouth. They were trying to drag him into the van.
A different kind of fire ignited in Nolan's chest, cold and pure, twisting with the curse's demands. Not just rage, but a primal, protective fury, corrupted by the monstrous power that now flowed through him. This wasn't just another two; this was a child. A child like Lily.
There was no hesitation. No internal debate. The curse pulsed with approval, recognizing the target. Nolan moved.
He covered the distance in a terrifying blur, a phantom appearing from the morning gloom. The first kidnapper, a man with a thick neck and a cruel grin, was halfway into the van, dragging the struggling boy. Nolan hit him like a human cannonball. The impact wasn't a punch; it was a full-body collision, a brutal expression of overwhelming force. The man's body contorted with sickening elasticity, his spine snapping with an audible crack before he even registered what had struck him. He was slammed against the side of the van, leaving a grotesque, bloody imprint, then slid bonelessly to the asphalt, utterly broken.
The second kidnapper, momentarily stunned, loosened his grip on the boy, his eyes widening in terror as Nolan spun to face him. He barely had time to register the feral glare, the impossible speed, before Nolan's hand clamped around his head. It wasn't a grab; it was a vice. With a horrifying, visceral squelch, Nolan twisted. The man's neck didn't just break; his head rotated with impossible violence, a sickening pop echoing in the quiet street as his body went limp, collapsing instantly.
The 6-year-old boy, released, tumbled to the ground, sobbing, his eyes wide with terror, staring at the ruin of his would-be captors. Nolan stood over the motionless forms, his chest heaving, the air thick with the metallic tang of fresh blood and the faint, sweet scent of the boy's fear. The curse within him pulsed, a deep, satisfied thrum. Two more lives taken. Two demands fulfilled. But Nolan felt nothing but a profound, expanding emptiness, tainted by the image of Lily's tormented face still etched in his mind.
He glanced down at the terrified child, frozen in shock and tears. Nolan's cold, cursed eyes softened for a fraction of a second, a fleeting echo of the man he used to be. He took a single step towards the boy, his hand unconsciously reaching out. But the boy flinched violently, scrambling backward, his small body trembling with uncontrollable fear.
Nolan froze. He saw it then: the pure, unadulterated terror in the child's eyes, not of the kidnappers, but of him. The monster he had become. The silent, judging gaze cut deeper than any blade.
With a profound, weary sigh that seemed to carry the weight of centuries, Nolan turned. His task was done. The curse was temporarily sated. He was just the aftermath. He melted back into the encroaching morning light, leaving behind the whimpering child, the mangled bodies, and the dark van, a new, terrible dread settling into the hollow space where his soul used to be.
The city began to stir around him, the first buses rumbling, a few early risers walking dogs. Normalcy. A cruel, mocking normalcy that existed only because he, Nolan, was out here, a hidden nightmare, ensuring the true, world-ending nightmare remained locked away. He was a cancer treating a tumor, consuming himself in the process.
He walked aimlessly for a time, past waking cafes and shuttered shops, the cold concrete beneath his feet a dull reminder of his physical agony. The whispers in his head were quiet now, a low, satisfied hum, but he knew that quiet was temporary. It was the calm before the next storm, the brief respite before the hunger returned. Always another two. Always another bastard. And the visions. Always the visions.
He stopped at a deserted park, its playground equipment glinting ominously in the nascent light. A swing set swayed gently in a breeze that wasn't there. He stared at it, the image of Lily on a similar swing, laughing, flashing through his mind. The phantom agony of her distorted face, as conjured by the curse, rose to meet it, clashing violently.
He eventually found his way back to the apartment building, the morning sun now fully risen and starting to bake the humid air. He pushed open the door to their small unit, the familiar scent of instant coffee and Marcus's frantic energy hitting him immediately.
Marcus was already up, pacing the cramped living room, a phone pressed to his ear. He looked up, his face a mixture of explosive relief and simmering fury as he saw Nolan. He quickly ended the call.
"Man, where the hell were you?! I was calling the police, I was about to go looking for you myself!" Marcus's voice was hoarse with exhaustion and fear. He eyed Nolan's still-grimy clothes, the weary slump of his shoulders.
Nolan just walked past him, his gaze distant, his voice flat. "How much money is left? My MMA career money."
Marcus blinked, taken aback by the abrupt change of topic. "What? Money? What are you talking about, man? I've been managing it, it's all in the accounts... why?" He scratched his head, clearly bewildered. "Uh... about 13 million dollars. Why?"
Nolan turned, his eyes fixed on Marcus, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. "Give me some money. I'll buy something."
"Buy something? Nolan, you look like you haven't slept in a week! And you just stormed out in the middle of a screaming fit! What do you need money for? Are you going to run, man? We can't just up and leave Lily!" Marcus's voice rose with panic.
"Just... give me some," Nolan insisted, his tone allowing no argument. "It's important. It's for... fixing things." The vague answer hung heavy in the air, but the absolute finality in Nolan's voice brooked no further questions.
Marcus, defeated by the sheer exhaustion and Nolan's unyielding resolve, retrieved his wallet. He peeled off several large bills, watching Nolan with a mixture of fear and bewilderment.
Nolan took the money without a word. He left the apartment as quickly as he had entered, leaving Marcus standing alone, the morning light doing little to dispel the chilling dread that now permeated their home.
He didn't go to a normal hardware store. His cursed mind, honed of unintended brutality, led him to a specialized shop he'd once seen in a dark corner of the city's industrial district, a place that dealt in heavy-duty machinery and precision tools. He walked past welding torches and grinding wheels, his eyes scanning, until he found what he was looking for: a set of surgical-grade forceps, clamps, and a powerful, almost industrial-grade dermal extractor. The cold steel felt heavy and precise in his hand, a chilling promise of the agony to come. He paid in cash, ignoring the curious look from the shopkeeper, and returned to the labyrinthine streets, the tool a grim weight in his pocket. He was going to remove the bullets. All of them.