A raindrop fell like a heavy stone, embedding itself into a stagnant puddle. The dirty water's surface trembled, reflecting a decaying, lead-colored sky. The rain poured down violently, as if avenging the earth not cleansing it, but soaking it with the filth accumulated in the alleys and broken corners of the crumbling street. In the distance, police sirens howled like hungry wolves seeking their final prey.
Heavy breaths, saturated with pain, echoed in the air like the last beats of a dying heart. There stood a man in his late thirties, his large body embalmed in sweat and blood, black hair clinging to his skin like the scales of a wet serpent Around his neck, a tattoo of a snake coiled around his lifeline, as if feeding on it. His name was Slazar... a name the capital whispered in its darkest nights.
He could barely stand, his body swaying, and the trail of blood he left behind drew a map of his ending. The bullet that pierced his side wasn't just a hole in his flesh—it was a gateway to another hell. He looked at it, the wound pulsing like a separate heart, and cursed everything in a raspy voice, drenched in blood and bitterness.
Slazar... the butcher, the killer, the human wolf who terrorized the capital. It wasn't surprising that hundreds of police boots hunted him, or that the alleys were choked by his name. He was used to pain—raised by it. Every wound on his body was a line in his black book, every scar a name in his victim list.
He coughed blood coughed up what remained of his liver and leaned on a wall stained with black moss and the remnants of old urine. He slumped, but the stench of his blood mixing with the sewage made his skin crawl, as if life was fleeing every cell in him.
His jacket pocket buzzed. His phone... He knew who it was. One of the old man's dogs—the man who ran the organization Slazar had sold his soul to long ago. He didn't care. He took a deep breath and stared at his spilled blood forming a miserable painting on the ground. A painting that resembled him deformed, silent, dying.
He raised his head to the polluted sky and smiled—the smile of someone who knows the end is inevitable. That the sky doesn't forgive a killer, a blood-stained slaughterer. For a moment, he wished a mad wish... to be granted one chance for redemption. But the sky doesn't speak to wolves.
He closed his eyes, and memories surged through him like a black flood: the faces of his victims, the sound of the first scream, the first blood he tasted, the first time he laughed while holding a knife soaked in entrails. He was a tool—just a knife walking on legs in the hands of the organization. Replaceable, like a thief replacing gloves.
Then… silence.
But it wasn't death. He could still feel. Yet the body felt lighter. The scent of blood and sewage was gone, replaced by the stench of rotting corpses—a warm, nauseating scent of old death.
He opened his eyes. There was no angel of death—just a pale sky, tinted with a distorted orange, like the aftermath of a chemical explosion in hell. He didn't understand where he was. The place was strange, yet real. Alive.
He tried to stand. His foot hit something soft and sticky. He looked down. A human head. Severed. No eyes. The mouth sewn shut with black thread. But in the eye sockets... there were teeth—sharp, human teeth embedded in the skull. On the forehead, a twisted infinity symbol, like a cursed seal.
His heart quivered. He ran—or tried. But he fell. Tumbled. Like a man rolling down a hill of death, of bones and filth.
"Shit... my head…"
He opened his eyes to see where he'd landed... but what he saw made his soul scream. Before him: a mountain of corpses, rotting bodies stacked like stones. Some stitched together like a quilt of nightmares, others without limbs, without heads, without any identifiable gender.
Bodies dripping pus and maggots, weeping in silence.
This was hell—not the one he'd heard about, but his own personal hell. A world of rot, death, and the unknown.
He saw a large pool of blood. Looked into his reflection... but he didn't see his own face. He saw another face one he didn't recognize, with a wide, torn smile.
Let me know if you'd like this revised for tone or edited into a cleaner prose version!