POV: ??????
"The order of the Monolith commands you, Asset 9."
"Kill them all."
I comply.
My body moves with mechanical precision, a force of nature guided by the will of the Monolith. My hand strikes like a vice, my fingers snapping the neck of a man with such force that the vertebrae crack audibly, the sound reminiscent of brittle twigs snapping underfoot. His body collapses, limp and lifeless, the head hanging unnaturally, a grotesque testament to the speed and power of my strike.
Without hesitation, I shift my weight, my foot slamming into the skull of a child. The impact is sickening. A sharp, bone-crushing crunch reverberates through the air as my heel sinks into the fragile cranium, collapsing it with such force that fragments of bone and blood splatter across the ground. The child's body crumples, twitching for a brief, pitiful moment before it falls still, a lifeless husk.
I move swiftly, grabbing a woman by her blonde hair and yanking her toward me, forcing her neck back with brutal force. My hand moves like a serpent, precise and unforgiving, snapping her cervical spine in one fluid motion. The sickening sound of tendons and ligaments being torn apart fills the air, and her body drops to the floor with a hollow thud.
I don't pause.
With a practiced fluidity, I transition into the next strike, utilizing the Monolith Martial Arts technique: [Vein Extraction]. My fingers move with deadly grace, my thumb and index pinching the carotid artery of an elderly man. The pulse beneath my fingertips is faint, growing weaker with each passing second. Then, with a swift and brutal movement, I sever the artery. The blood floods beneath my skin, rushing outward as the artery bursts in a spray of crimson. His body falters, eyes wide in shock, but his life slips away in an instant as the blood pools around him. His body sinks, crumpling to the ground in a final testament to my skill.
I don't allow myself to linger. My gaze shifts, and I move toward the next victim.
A man stands frozen in terror, his pulse quickening, his body rigid with fear. He is useless. His trembling form is no match for the inevitable. I close the distance between us with calculated steps, each one measured, my shadow casting over him like the end of a long, dark tunnel.
My hand strikes like a viper, a fluid extension of my intent, and I seize the area behind his shoulder blade with surgical precision. The Monolith's teachings flood my mind where the most pain can be inflicted, where the body is weakest, where the agony will break the spirit.
With calculated brutality, I twist my hand, targeting the soft, vulnerable area of his scapula. My fingers dig deep into the joint, my thumb pressing against the tendon and muscle fibers that support the shoulder. The Monolith taught me that the shoulder is a nexus where movement, strength, and stability all converge. It is a place where the body, despite its resilience, can be brought to its knees in excruciating defeat.
In a single, violent motion, I tear his arm back. The shoulder joint, previously a stable anchor for his movements, breaks under my pressure. The cartilage and ligaments snap, torn apart as if they were mere paper, the humerus bone fracturing violently with a brutal crack.
"AAAAAAAGGGHHHH!" His scream is guttural, a raw sound that claws its way from his throat. His voice breaks with agony, the pain so intense it consumes every inch of his consciousness. His body jerks in protest, the shock of the injury making his other muscles spasm, but there is nothing he can do.
The shoulder is a direct line to the nervous system. The humerus, dislocated and broken, sends pain signals that flood the brain like fire, overwhelming him from the inside out. The agony becomes unbearable his arm useless, hanging limply as his nerves continue to fire in a vain attempt to resist the damage.
His chest rises and falls in shallow gasps, each breath a labored effort, his body trembling under the stress of the injury. His eyes widen in terror as his arm hangs limply, twisted beyond the body's natural limits, the muscle fibers torn and shredded from the violent manipulation.
His scream fades, replaced by shallow, ragged breathing as his body goes into shock. His pupils dilate, his skin paling as the shock sets in, the pain overwhelming all other sensations. His throat tightens, his ability to scream diminishing as his body begins to shut down in response to the trauma.
I stand over him as he crumbles to the ground, his ruined arm a broken testament to the precision of my strike. The Monolith's teachings had shown me where the greatest pain resides, and now, I see the result: a man reduced to nothing more than a broken shell, consumed by the very agony I had been taught to inflict.
I spot another figure a man clutching a young girl to his chest, trying desperately to protect her. His eyes, wide with hopelessness, meet mine for a fleeting moment before his futile attempts become apparent.
I close the gap between us in an instant, my hand wrapping around his throat, squeezing with a precision born of years of training. My fingers dig into the soft tissue of his windpipe, the cartilage giving way with an audible crack. His pulse flutters weakly beneath my touch, each beat growing weaker as his body slowly shuts down. The pressure builds, squeezing the life out of him, the oxygen leaving his bloodstream with each agonizing second.
His eyes shift toward the girl his final, desperate plea to save her. But his body succumbs to my grip. His gaze dulls, the light fading as his life slips away, and with one final convulsion, he becomes a lifeless weight in my hands. I drop him with a hollow thud, and the girl's scream pierces the air.
Her fate is sealed.
I step toward her, my eyes cold, calculating, devoid of any mercy. Her scream is a momentary distraction, but nothing more. I swing my fist, the force of the strike smashing through her fragile ribcage. I feel the bones splinter and crack under the impact, the sound like dry twigs breaking. Her lungs collapse, the air forcibly expelled from her chest as she gasps for breath. Blood bubbles in her throat, but it's all for nothing. Her body crumples to the floor, lifeless, her eyes vacant, a look of horror frozen on her face.
I step over her body, moving on to the next.
A man with a knife charges at me, desperation evident in his eyes. But his effort is futile, a mere distraction that's brushed aside in an instant. I pivot with fluid grace, my body reacting with the precision of a predator. My hand snaps out, catching his wrist mid-swing. The bones in his hand give way under my grip, the sound of them cracking like dry branches in winter. His weapon falls to the floor, useless.
I twist his arm with the speed of a striking viper, the radius and ulna breaking under the pressure. I lift him off the ground with a single motion, his body convulsing as his muscles fail to respond. His face is contorted in pain, terror, but it is all futile.
With a final, decisive twist, I snap his neck, severing his spinal cord in one smooth motion. His body goes limp, blood pouring from his mouth as he crumples to the ground, another victim in the wake of my relentless assault.
The carnage continues. Each strike, each movement, each snap of bone is methodical, precise, and inevitable. There is no resistance, no fight left in them. They scream, they beg, but all of it fades into the background as the inevitable conclusion plays out.
The destruction is systematic, a flawless execution of the Monolith's will. There is no hesitation, no mercy only the cold, calculated march toward annihilation.
And in this moment, I am the instrument of that inevitability.
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POV: Ryan Ashford
[Ryan Ashford - Age 10]
I gasp for air as I wake from the nightmare, my chest rising and falling in quick, erratic breaths. The cold of the room presses against my skin, but it's nothing compared to the cold that settles deep in my bones the chilling, unshakable feeling of blood staining my hands. My heart hammers in my chest, frantic and relentless, a drumbeat that won't slow, won't calm.
I clutch the sheets tightly, the fabric digging into my fingers, desperately trying to hold onto something anything so I can escape the brutal images still burned into my mind.
It's just a dream. It's just a dream.
I repeat the words in my head like a mantra, but they do nothing to quell the panic clawing at my chest. The images won't leave me, each one more vivid than the last. The violence, the faces broken, contorted in their final moments linger in my thoughts like ghosts, haunting every corner of my mind.
I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing it would all disappear.
I take a deep, shuddering breath, feeling the air fill my lungs, cold and sharp.
I exhale slowly, the tension in my chest tightening before it begins to ease.
It's just a dream. It's just a dream.
I whisper it again, quieter this time, each repetition a slow attempt to ground myself, to push back against the fear. Slowly, the edges of the nightmare blur and fade, the tightness in my chest loosening, little by little, with each exhale.
Eventually, the words are no longer a chant, but a quiet reassurance soft, almost comforting, reminding me that I'm awake now. That it's over.
The morning sunlight begins to seep into the room, casting a pale, golden hue across the walls. I raise my hand instinctively, shielding my eyes from the brightness, my fingers pressing against my eyelids in an attempt to block out the light, to buy myself a few more moments of peace before the world fully demands my attention.
I push myself upright, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, the cold floor pressing against my bare feet. The chill from the room clings to my skin, and for a moment, I close my eyes again, just to steady myself before I stand.
I take another deep breath, letting the air fill my lungs.
It feels good.
Slowly, I rise, the floor creaking beneath me as I move toward the door. My steps are heavy, my body still aching from the lingering tension of the nightmare, but I push forward, mechanically like I've done this countless times before.
The kitchen is just down the hall, and the inviting scent of breakfast fills the air, the familiar aromas of sizzling food pulling me toward it.
As I enter, my mother's soft voice greets me.
"Oh, Ryan, dear, you're awake," she says, her hands finishing the delicate task of setting a plate on the table. The soft clink of porcelain echoes in the quiet room.
"I was about to come in and wake you, but I see you beat me to it," she adds with a gentle smile, her voice laced with warmth.
She looks at me with a soft, knowing gaze, her brow furrowing with concern. "What's the matter, dear? Are you feeling alright?"
Her instinct is always spot-on, that familiar motherly concern never failing to find its way through the layers of my composure. I can see it in the way her eyes linger on me, searching for any sign of distress.
I take a breath, trying to steady myself. "Just a nightmare. Nothing to worry about," I say, forcing a smile that feels too tight on my lips.
She doesn't look convinced. Her eyes narrow just slightly, the edge of doubt in her expression. "Are you sure, honey? Do you want me to do anything about it? Talk about it? You know I'm here for you."
Her words are soft, gentle, but there's an undeniable firmness beneath them an offer of comfort that I know I can't refuse without feeling guilty. She always means well, but I'm not sure how to explain this, how to make her understand the weight of what's really on my mind.
"It's nothing, Mom. I'm fine. Let's just eat," I say, my voice steady but distant, as I try to push the lingering darkness away.
A sigh escapes her lips, the sound tinged with concern, but she doesn't press further. "Okay, dear. Just… tell me if you need anything. I'll be here for you," she says softly.
She steps closer, her hand resting gently on my shoulder before she leans down to kiss me on the forehead, her touch warm and grounding. It's a small gesture, but it carries a quiet strength that comforts me, even if just for a moment.
I nod, managing a small smile, hoping it's enough to reassure her.
I take a seat at the table, the warmth of the food in front of me filling the air with a familiar, comforting scent. The dishes are always delicious, the flavors something that grounds me, no matter how lost I feel inside. I pick up my fork, the rhythm of eating steady and simple, a routine that brings a fleeting sense of normalcy, even as my mind drifts back to the nightmare that still lingers like a shadow at the edge of my thoughts.
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Late in the afternoon, I begin my walk, the soft light of the setting sun casting long shadows across the land. My destination lies just beyond the edge of the woods, near the stream that runs alongside my house. The sound of the water, a gentle murmur, calls to me as I step forward, the cool breeze rustling through the trees, carrying with it the scent of earth and fresh grass
I sigh and settle down near the water's edge, letting the peaceful surroundings wash over me. The soft ripple of the stream, the coolness of the breeze, the faint rustle of leaves everything should bring me comfort. But the serenity doesn't last.
The nightmare still clings to me, vivid and haunting. It feels as if I were there living it, breathing it each death, each cry of pain, reverberating through my body as if they were my own. The blood. The violence. It all felt so real, so painfully real.
I bury my face in my hands, frustration bubbling up from deep within. I try to push it all away, but it lingers, an unwelcome shadow, clawing at the edges of my thoughts.
"Asset 9," I mutter under my breath. The name slips from my lips, foreign and yet oddly familiar, as if it's been lingering just beyond the reach of my memory. It should mean nothing, but there's a weight to it, something unsettling that gnaws at my mind.
"What's Asset 9?"
"KYAAAAAA!!!!" The scream bursts from my throat, high-pitched and frantic, as the sudden, familiar voice catches me completely off guard. My heart skips a beat, my entire body jolting in shock. The unexpected sound sends a wave of terror flooding through me, and for a moment, I think I just shit myself
"What the fuck! Rena, what was that?" I shout, my voice trembling with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. My pulse races, and my chest tightens, but I can't shake the lingering shock that still has a grip on me.
She bursts into laughter, holding her stomach as she doubles over. "AHAHAHA! What was that scream? You screamed like a little girl! HAHAHA!" Her laughter echoes in the air, infectious and carefree.
I stand there, fuming, as she continues to laugh. "And—AND—you actually cursed? Hahaha! I'm gonna tell your mom you said a bad word! Hahahahaha!" she wheezes between fits of laughter.
My face pales, and I can feel my heart sink. The weight of her words hits me like a ton of bricks. I've never heard her laugh like this, and somehow, it's making everything worse.
"Please, Rena," I beg, my voice suddenly weak, almost pleading. "Please don't tell her. I swear, I'll do anything. Just… don't tell my mom." My heart races in sheer panic as the thought of her knowing sends a cold chill through my bones.
Rena's laughter slowly dies down, but the teasing smirk doesn't leave her face. She crosses her arms, tilting her head as if she's considering my plea. "Hmm, I don't know… I could make this really embarrassing for you. But I guess I'll let you off the hook this time."
I exhale in relief, my entire body slumping. "Thank you," I whisper, my voice still shaky.
"Don't worry," she says, her tone suddenly light. "But, seriously, you scream like a girl. You should probably work on that."
"Fuck you"
The moment the words leave my mouth, I see her eyes glint with mischief. "Oh, really?" she says with a smirk, turning on her heel and sprinting off toward the house. "Okay, I'm telling her now."
"NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!" I shout, panic flooding my voice. I bolt after her, my legs pumping furiously as I close the distance. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Don't tell my mom, please!"
But it's too late. She's already halfway to the house, and the growing distance between us only makes my desperation grow. I curse under my breath, berating myself as I run, knowing I've just made everything worse.