"...Why do things always have to get fucked up?"
I muttered, staring at the mess.
The man's face… looked like a crushed tomato. Bashed into the concrete until nothing was left to recognize. Just red, bone, and meat.
"Fuck… I need to do something about my anger issues," I sighed, a weary breath escaping my lips, though I had no clue where to start.
Now, with things ending like this, the real question hit me, cold and sharp: What the hell do I do next?
We're deep in the slums, tucked in some forgotten alley where the city's hum barely reached. But those gunshots? Even muffled by stone and grime, they would have carried. They'd bring someone. Authorities, maybe. Someone worse, probably.
No luxury of standing here like an idiot. No time for philosophical musings on my newfound temper. I needed to decide—now.
First, grab the suitcase—the root of all this shit. It lay forgotten a few feet away, its dark leather a stark contrast to the blood-slicked ground. I didn't even know what was inside, but if it was enough to get someone killed, it was definitely worth something. Guesses wouldn't help. Only action.
I was on the move. Every muscle screamed, a dull, persistent throb. The pain in my chest, where the bullets tore through, made every breath feel like hell. But I kept going. Complaining was a luxury I couldn't afford.
You're probably wondering—how the hell am I even walking after getting shot twice?
The answer's simple. I'm an Awakened.
Once mana flows through your veins long enough, your body changes. Hardens. Muscles, skin, bones—not normal anymore. They knit faster, resist more. Tough enough that regular bullets won't kill you. They won't tickle, though. It hurts like a son of a bitch. A searing, tearing agony that claws at your insides.
That's why the academy gives us swords, not guns. Our weapons are forged from ores mined in dungeons, mana-rich veins. Designed for Awakened. Anything less wouldn't even scratch someone like us.
"Why don't people just forge bullets with special ore then?"
Don't ask that fucking question. Not now.
That answer needs a whole damn textbook, and I'm bleeding out in a back alley. No time for a lecture. No time to explain the complexities of mana-infused metallurgy, the scarcity of resources, the political ramifications, or the sheer cost.
So shut up and keep up.
Just because I'm not dead doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. I'm still low-rank, newly Awakened, and this pain? Brutal. The kind that makes most people curl up and cry for their mom. It's a constant, burning fire that tries to drag you down.
The only reason I wasn't groaning like a dying dog was my outlet trait—Pain Resistance.
A trait that activates in high-stress combat. When pain threatens performance, it intercepts and dulls nerve signals before they reach the brain. Not a full shutdown—just enough to keep me moving. It's like a faulty circuit breaker, diverting the worst of the overload. But it has limits. A time cap.
…And I felt it now. The burn. The sting. Every breath sharpening like glass in my lungs. The numbing haze was dissipating, leaving a sharp, throbbing reality in its wake.
The effect was wearing off.
I needed to move fast. Before the pain grounded me. Before the lingering echoes of the gunshots brought unwanted attention.
I picked up the filthy blanket—the same one I'd used earlier for the junkie disguise. Crumpled, still reeking of piss and alley grime. Perfect for a corpse.
I wrapped it tight around the first body, obscuring its broken face. Then I took off my extra dirty shirt—ripped, sweat-soaked, stained with too many things—and bound it around his busted head. No more blood trails. No more identifiable features.
Then I lifted him.
Dead weight. Always heavy, no matter how many times you've had to carry it. The man's limbs flopped awkwardly against my back, his broken neck allowing his head to loll.
Suitcase in one hand, corpse over my shoulder, I walked. Past the sleeping junkies, past the corners that still reeked of rot and last night's regrets. Eventually, I reached the spot—a garbage zone, a dump, whatever the hell you wanna call it. A city's open wound, festering in the shadows.
Rotten food. Scrapped metal. Broken crates. Old syringes. The scent of mold and rust thick in the air, cloying and acrid. A rare blessing. It would mask everything.
And there, beneath torn tarps and cracked plastic bins, lay the first man I killed. Neck twisted like a broken marionette. His face, at least, was intact—unlike his partner. He should thank me for that. Small mercy, considering the circumstances.
I laid the second guy beside him. Close enough they could chat in the afterlife. Compare notes. Figure out who not to fuck with next time.
Spoiler: it's me.
Then I headed for the big dumpster nearby. Full, of course. Overflowing with who-knows-what. I needed it emptied—at least enough to fit two grown men.
So I dug.
Shoving broken crates, slimy bags, rusted cans until there was just enough space for my guests. My hands, despite the pain resistance, felt raw from the sharp edges of refuse.
God. I really looked like a garbage man. My clothes were already ruined, but now I was actively embracing the aesthetic.
Once there was room, I hauled them over, one by one, and dumped them in.
Each thud was dull, final.
No prayers. No last rites. Just trash where trash belongs.
After that, I started filling the dumpster again.
Not just any trash—the worst. Rotting food, damp fabric, anything that reeked bad enough to match or mask the stench of decay once the bodies started to turn.
The goal wasn't perfection. Just delay.
Make them harder to find. Harder to trace.
Once done, I took a step back. A thin sheen of sweat covered my body, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
One job down. Time for the next.
I'd already wrapped my hands in cloth before handling anything. No bare fingers. No prints. Covered. A basic precaution, but often the most overlooked.
But the trail of blood I left behind… that was the problem. The messy, bright crimson reminder of getting shot.
That mess happened when I got shot.
So I headed back—fast. Vaulting low walls, cutting corners like a rat that knew the alleys better than any city planner. My destination?
The spot where I first ambushed the middleman.
I had stashed a plastic bag of supplies nearby. Just in case. You always have a just-in-case bag.
Found it right where I left it, hidden beneath a loose board. Grabbed the hydrogen peroxide. Headed back to the bloodstains.
Still fresh. Dark red. Too noticeable.
I knelt. Unscrewed the cap. And poured.
The blood sizzled faintly as the peroxide hit it, bubbling on the concrete like a secret boiling out. I scrubbed the worst spots, wiped others with old cloth. Not perfect, but better. Enough to make someone passing by think it was just spilled wine or piss from a drunk. Or maybe just a weird stain.
It'll do.
Clean, cover, erase. That's the rhythm. That's the job. The mantra of anyone living in the shadows.
After that, I stripped off my clothes. Each movement was a fresh agony, a reminder of the two gaping wounds in my chest. The skin around them was swollen, hot to the touch, pulsing with every ragged breath. I'd wrapped it tight earlier, just enough to stop the bleeding, but every strained movement reminded me I wasn't invincible. Not yet, anyway.
Still, no time to complain. The stink of the alley, of the dead men, of my own exertion clung to me. I shed it like a snakeskin.
I changed into a fresh set of clothes, wiped the dust off my face and hair, then sprayed myself with some cheap deodorant I'd picked up at a convenience store on the way in. It was a pathetic attempt at normalcy.
It wasn't glamour. It was survival. Every step, every action—just part of the brutal math: stay alive, don't get caught.
See, murder's easy.
It's the cleanup that's hard.
No one tells you that. They all think the killing part is where the panic sets in—the rush of adrenaline, the primal fear—but no. That's just the show. The real hell comes after, when your heart slows down and your brain starts working again.
When the adrenaline ebbs, leaving you with the quiet, mundane horror of consequences. Blood dries fast, leaving undeniable proof. Guilt... that's for other people. For me, it was just the looming threat of being caught.
So if you ever think about killing someone?
Plan the cleanup first. Or don't bother.
If I'd known things would turn out like this, if I'd truly grasped the depths of this inherited mess, I never would've gotten involved. I never would've let things spiral this far. But regret comes too late, doesn't it? It's a useless emotion, a distraction.
Now there's only one thing left to do before I leave this godforsaken place.
One last stop—the large dumpster near the exit. The one where I'd left the middleman.
The walk there was quiet. Almost peaceful. Just the dull ache in my chest, the smell of rot, and the gut feeling that fate wasn't done screwing with me.
When I arrived, my stomach sank.
The dumpster lay tipped over, its lid gaping wide—a yawning maw against the grimy wall.
Ropes lay discarded on the ground, coiled and cut. So did the new sock I'd shoved into his mouth. The dirty, cheap sock, now a discarded symbol of my failure.
He escaped. The thought hit me like another punch to the ribs, heavier than the first. My body was already screaming from the bullets, but this was a fresh, frustrating ache, purely mental.
"Fuck," I muttered, the word raw. "Why does everything keep getting worse?"
I'd stripped him clean—wallet, clothes, phone. Even powered it off before tossing it. Left him in nothing but his underwear. How the hell did he break free? Did he stash something sharp where I didn't check? A hidden blade, a lockpick, or just some sheer, bloody-minded will to survive?
Damn it. The 'how' didn't matter now. Only 'what next'.
What mattered was how far a half-naked man could get before someone reported him for being a creep. Or where the hell he might be hiding in this maze of alleys.
One loose thread. A single, irritating complication, weaving itself into an already snarled tapestry.
Now I had two options:
One, chase him across the city, bleed out in public, and risk exposing myself for a man who knew nothing of value.
Two, let him go.
I chose the latter. He never saw my face—I'd approached him disguised as a beggar, shrouded in grime and shadow. He had nothing on me, no leverage, no intel to offer anyone. Chasing him was a waste of dwindling time and energy I couldn't afford.
I slipped out of the alley, leaving the overturned dumpster and the lingering scent of failure behind.
First, I checked if anyone had seen me. Even if they had, the hat and handkerchief mask I'd worn ensured they wouldn't remember my face. Standard procedure. I found a nearby shop, ducked inside, and quickly changed clothes. The suitcase was emptied, its contents—everything already packed and sealed—transferred into a new, innocuous backpack. The now-empty suitcase (and empty of money, damn it) went straight into a public dumpster. No reason to drag around dead weight. Essentials on my back, mask still in place, I slipped into the bustling crowd. Just like that—a ghost fading out of the city.
As I walked, a pair of earnest-looking boys waved at me from a street corner. "Hello kind sir, would you like to donate to the needy?"
I walked up, slipped my hand into their donation box, and pocketed a few bills. A wry, bitter smile touched my lips.
"The most needy person here is me," I muttered, my voice barely audible.
They cursed behind me, their indignant shouts fading as I put distance between us. I didn't look back.
By the time I got back to the academy, all I wanted was a bed. Rest. Silence. The constant throb in my chest had intensified, a relentless hammer against my ribs.
Inside my dorm, the familiar quiet was a welcome balm. I pulled out antiseptic and a clean knife. My shirt came off, revealing the blood-soaked cloth binding my chest. I unwrapped it, stuffing a fresh rag between my teeth. The wounds were angry, purplish-red.
I poured alcohol on the first wound. The pain was electric, searing, a raw scream caught in my throat, muffled by the rag.
My muscles seized, trembling.
Then, slowly, carefully—like muscle memory from a past life, a lesson in brutal self-reliance—I dug the knife in and pried out the first bullet. It scraped against bone, a dull metallic clink in the silence.
The second was deeper, lodged tighter. I gritted my teeth, pushing, twisting, a muffled groan escaping into the cloth. Sweat beaded on my forehead, blurring my vision.
No screams. Just a raw, visceral struggle.
Once done, I stapled the wounds shut. Makeshift stitches. Not pretty, crude, but effective.
Couldn't go to the nurse. Too many questions. Too many explanations I couldn't give. The Awakened program wasn't for public consumption.
I collapsed on the bed. Drained.
Bleeding. Numb. My body felt like a lead weight, battered and bruised. Every nerve ending pulsed with the ghost of pain, a dull echo of the agony.
Hell of a day.
What would tomorrow bring—more problems, or the fallout from this one?
Didn't matter.
That's future-me's problem. I closed my eyes, letting the darkness consume me. Just for a while.