What he had done was, without a doubt, fucked up.
But in Marino's mind, what mattered was the big picture—not these small, fleeting details. His destiny, his purpose, was far greater than anything this miserable little town could comprehend. His life held value beyond measure. These people? Rats in a maze. Background noise. The only ones who mattered were his parents, the lord… and himself, of course.
So what if a few rats died? One, two, a hundred, even ten thousand—it made no difference. The world wouldn't stop spinning. Nothing would change.
This was Marino's cold, calculating mindset. And now, only one thing remained:
No witnesses. No leads. No problems.
Knife in hand, Marino turned toward the house and started running up the ramp, eyes locked on the front door. The rain pelted down, the storm raged, but he moved like a shadow, full of murderous resolve.
Until something yanked him violently backward.
His left foot snagged. His balance failed. He hit the muddy ground face-first with a wet thud.
Dazed, Marino twisted his head around—and his blood ran cold.
Neymar.
Still alive.
Barely.
Somehow, the man had crawled forward and grabbed Marino's ankle, fingers like iron despite the gaping wound in his throat.
"You persistent son of a bitch…" Marino growled, fury bubbling to the surface. He kicked hard, his heel smashing into Neymar's face with a sickening crunch. The man groaned, releasing his grip.
Marino scrambled to his feet, seething. He walked over, stood above the dying man's ruined face, and planted his boot squarely on it—pressing down.
Neymar wheezed, blood pouring from his mouth.
"You little cockroach," Marino hissed, his voice trembling with hatred. "Why won't you just die like a good little pest?"
He raised the knife.
And with a sharp thrust, he drove it through Neymar's eye.
The blade slid into the skull with a sickening resistance, cutting through tissue and bone until it buried itself deep in the brain. A chill ran up Marino's spine. The sensation—the horrid, visceral sensation—snapped him out of his rage.
He let go of the knife and stumbled back, staring at what he had done.
Two men. Two bodies. Blood everywhere.
His heart ached. His chest tightened as if pierced by a thousand needles. What was this feeling?
Regret.
For a brief moment, he wasn't a killer. He wasn't the monster. He was just a boy, lost and horrified by his own actions.
He looked at the men again. Their faces twisted in defiance, not fear. Their last breaths had been spent protecting someone they loved. They had fought with everything they had.
They were warriors.
And strangely, Marino felt... respect.
His hands trembled. His eyes burned. Then—tears.
But the moment shattered as quickly as it came.
A sharp pang exploded in his skull. A blinding pain forced him to his knees. He clutched his head and screamed.
"Aaaaaaghhhh!"
The pain surged through his brain like fire—then, just as suddenly, it was gone.
He blinked.
His eyes flashed—bright crimson.
Something inside him had shifted again. Like a door slamming shut.
He stood, drenched in blood and rain, and looked down at Neymar's body—his expression now twisted with loathing.
"This isn't my fault... No." He spat. "This is your fault."
His voice cracked with anger as he screamed at the corpse:
"If only you'd just minded your own business! None of this would've happened! Your family would've been fine! But now—now you've left me no choice!"
His hands curled into fists.
"Pity and regret are for the weak," he muttered. "A real man owns his mistakes—and finishes the job."
With those thoughts burning in his mind, he turned back toward the main house.
But the door was closed.
No figures stood in the entryway. No faces stared in horror. The witnesses were gone.
It was just him.
Alone in the rain.
Marino exhaled slowly, wiped the blood from his eyes, and cracked his neck.
"I guess we're doing this the hard way," he muttered.
He walked back into the chicken house.
And picked up the axe.
Back in the house, chaos reigned.
Lara Lopes and her family were panicking. Her mother clutched her tightly, trembling, while her grandfather paced frantically, trying to come up with some kind of plan.
"I want my Papa!" Lara cried out, voice breaking.
"Shhh… it's okay, Lara. Mother is here," her mother whispered, brushing the girl's soaked hair away from her face. "We're safe in here. I'm sure someone saw what happened. Help is on the way. And once they get here—they'll help your father. And Uncle Neymar too."
But Lara had seen something no child should ever have to see.
She hadn't witnessed her father die—but she had seen Neymar, throat slit and staggering, thrown through the doorway like a rag doll. Behind him, that thing stood in the rain. A small, blood-drenched figure with glowing red eyes and a devil's smile.
It was a sight that had seared itself into Lara's soul. A nightmare made flesh.
Still, she tried to believe her mother's words. She sniffled and quieted down, clinging tightly to the warm body next to her. Her mother rocked her gently, whispering comforts through her own tears.
Meanwhile, the old man had made his way into the kitchen. He opened a drawer and pulled out a heavy butcher's knife—his gnarled hand trembling as he gripped the handle.
Then—
BANG.
A deafening crash hit the front door.
Everyone jumped.
BANG. BANG.
Each strike was harder than the last, making the wooden door groan and rattle. Lara and her mother screamed in unison, tears returning as panic took over once more.
Then came a splintering crack, louder than the others. The door creaked and gave way under the pressure—
CHUNK.
The curved blade of an axe punched through, poking out like a claw reaching into the house.
Lara's mother screamed. She collapsed to the floor, paralyzed by fear.
The old man walked forward, slow and steady. His eyes never left the door.
"Go," he said softly. "Get to my room. Hide."
But her mother couldn't move. She just stared, frozen.
Lara, though, turned to her grandfather with wide eyes. For a moment, despite everything, she looked at him not as a frail old man—but as a hero. A brave knight, like the ones in her bedtime stories.
He stood tall before the breaking door, the butcher's knife held firm in his hand. And under his breath, he whispered:
"Sigard, give me strength. Help me vanquish this evil creature."
Snapping out of her trance, Lara remembered her father's words—be brave, protect the family—and wriggled free from her mother's grasp. She ran for her grandfather's room, heart pounding in her chest.
But she didn't just hide.
She looked for a way out.
The room was dim. There were no windows, save for the one near the front door—the worst place to try escaping from. She checked the fireplace for an exit, but the smoke hatches were far too narrow. Not even a child could fit through them.
Back in the main room, the final blow came—
CRASH.
A third of the front door collapsed inward, a jagged hole large enough for someone to pass through.
And then he stepped in.
Marino.
Drenched in rain. Covered in blood. Axe in one hand, knife sheathed on his belt. A sick smile on his face.
"Honey… I'm home," he said, voice low and mocking.
The old man stood trembling, the butcher knife in his frail hands quivering as he pointed it toward the intruder. His voice cracked as he spoke.
"Why have you come here? What do you want?"
Marino's grin widened at the question, a gleam of madness dancing in his blood-red eyes.
"What do I want?" he echoed mockingly. "The same thing all men want—more."
Without warning, he hurled the axe.
It flew through the air with stunning precision, embedding itself deep in the old man's chest with a sickening thud. The force sent the old man stumbling backward as he let out a raw scream:
"Aaaaaaaagh!"
He collapsed, groaning in agony.
Before Marino could take another step, a cry rang out from his right.
"No, Grandpa! I won't let you hurt him!"
A blur crashed into him. It was the girl—Lara.
She slapped him across the face, a sting of defiance more shocking than painful. He stumbled back slightly, caught off guard, before she tackled him to the floor with all her weight.
Marino covered his face as the girl flailed wildly, striking him with closed fists and open hands. Her blows were weak—laughably so—but the fire in her eyes caught him off guard. She struck with such desperate fury that it froze him for a moment. Despite everything, Marino found himself fascinated.
Such hatred, he thought, shielding his face. Such spirit… and yet, so fragile.
But fascination quickly gave way to rage.
With a snarl, he grabbed the girl and flipped her beneath him. Straddling her, he wrapped his hands around her throat.
Just like Neymar had done to him.
She squirmed, fought, clawed at his hands, but he held firm.
He hesitated—for just a second. Could he really kill a child? But her eyes… she had seen his face. There was no turning back now.
He gritted his teeth, tightening his grip.
Lara's light blue eyes began to dim. Her flailing grew weaker, and her vision blurred. The last thing she saw was the bloodied face above her, red-eyed and hollow, a flicker of regret glinting in his gaze.
Then… darkness.
Her body went limp.
Marino held her still, even as her breath stopped. There was relief in his chest. Satisfaction, even. And yet… he didn't move. He just sat there, hands around her tiny neck, lost in thought.
Until—
CLANG!
Pain exploded in his skull.
The world spun. His ears rang as he toppled to the floor beside Lara's unconscious body.
Dazed, he looked up.
Standing above him was a middle-aged woman, her hands gripping a frying pan. Her eyes burned with fury.
She raised it again.
Marino rolled away just in time as the pan came crashing down beside him. He scrambled backward, then managed to flip to his feet—but the woman was already swinging again.
The next strike came too fast to dodge.
He raised his arm and blocked it, the heavy pan slamming into his left side. He cried out in pain, staggering—but his hand moved instinctively.
He drew his knife.
As the woman lifted the pan once more, Marino ducked low and slipped under her arm. A flash of silver followed.
His blade opened her stomach in a clean, horrific arc.
She gasped. Her eyes widened in terror. The pan clattered from her hands as she dropped to her knees, clutching her stomach in a vain attempt to hold herself together.
But it was no use.
Her intestines spilled from the wound as she collapsed to the floor, lifeless.
In pain and exhaustion, Marino scanned the now-silent room.
The girl lay motionless on the floor. A frightened dog peeked around the corner of the other room, its ears flattened, too scared to bark. Groaning drew Marino's attention back—astonishingly, the old man was still alive.
Dragging his feet, Marino walked over.
The old man was still fighting, gripping the axe embedded in his chest and trying to pull it free. His fingers were slick with blood, his breaths ragged. When he saw Marino approaching, he froze and muttered through bloodied lips:
"What... what did you do to them?"
Marino tilted his head, expression unreadable.
"I gave them peace."
The old man coughed, blood dribbling from his mouth. "So what now?"
"Now?" Marino asked, crouching beside him. "Now, I'll let you join them. Got any last words?"
The old man winced but met his gaze with surprising clarity. "Spare the girl."
Marino paused, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face.
Who does this old fool think I am? he thought bitterly. Does he actually think I'd… defile a corpse? I'm not that twisted.
His lip curled as he gave a curt nod.
"Sure."
And with a swift motion, he ended the old man's life.
After the final breath was drawn, Marino let out a long, exhausted sigh and slumped back against the wall. He glanced down at himself—his clothes were drenched in blood, dirt, and gore.
There's no way I can go home like this.
Grabbing his knife, he left the house and disappeared into the night.
A few minutes later, Lara's eyes fluttered open.
She sat up slowly, her head pounding. Disoriented but alive, she peered out the broken door. The monster was gone.
Quietly, she crawled out and looked around the ruined home. Her eyes welled with tears at the sight of her dead mother, her grandfather, and the bloodstained floor. She collapsed to her knees, sobbing.
The dog emerged from hiding and sat beside her, pressing its warm body against hers in comfort.
Meanwhile, down by the shore, Marino stood waist-deep in ocean water, the wind howling around him. He scrubbed furiously at his skin, washing away blood, bits of flesh, and the stink of death.
He had run several hundred meters from the village to reach the beach. If anyone had followed, they'd have lost his trail in the sand and the storm.
His clothes were beyond salvaging—soaked, torn, and stained. He tore them apart and tossed the pieces into the sea, watching the tide drag them away.
They'll never trace them back to me. No one has fingerprints here. No DNA tests.
Once satisfied, he began washing the rest of himself. As the clouds broke and moonlight spilled across the water, he caught sight of his reflection—and froze.
Three faint scars had appeared above his right eye.
And his eyes… they were no longer brown.
They were bright yellow. Glowing. Luminous like fireflies in the night.
He stepped back, heart pounding, but quickly realized the change came with… clarity. He could see in the dark as if it were daylight. His muscles felt denser. His movements more fluid. Even his manhood had grown by a few inches—a fact he noted with morbid amusement.
What… am I becoming?
Despite everything—the slaughter, the chaos—he didn't feel guilt. Not truly. His mind was calm. Centered. As if killing came naturally now. There was a strange desire bubbling inside him, one that hadn't been there before.
He wanted to carve strange symbols onto his flesh.
He wanted to chant.
And he felt—deeply, instinctively—that if he did, he would grow stronger.
But not yet, he told himself, shaking the thoughts away. Not now.
Knife in hand, he turned away from the beach and vanished into the bush. He ran through the undergrowth instead of taking the road—no footprints, no evidence.
When he reached home, he crept through the door and locked it behind him. He washed the knife carefully and returned it to its place, then headed to bed.
He lay down naked, the night air cool against his skin.
As he stared at the ceiling, a wicked smile crept across his lips.
He hadn't been caught.
And no one would ever know.