PREVIOUSLY ON CRIMSON MIND.....
A voice smooth, dark, and all too familiar, cut through the silence behind him.
"So… did you miss me, Damien?"
Damien turned, slowly. And there he was. Leaning casually against the fridge, wearing his exact face but with a smirk that bled malice, was him.
As the man grinned with that unsettling smile, we see Damie begin to mirror it — the same eerie, twisted grin spreading across his face.
Cut to the next scene: it's 2 AM. Damien stands outside the infamous Blackwood Bar. Inside, the seven men who had shattered his daughter's dignity are drinking, partying, tossing money at strippers, a chaotic blur of excess and filth. When Damien tries to enter, a bouncer blocks his path, coldly stating that the bar is closed, and it's "owner's time only." But Damien doesn't flinch. He's seething, trembling with rage. He no longer cares about rules. He's past the point of no return.
Suddenly, the power went out—total darkness.
"Ugh, what the hell?" Vincent groaned, clearly irritated. "This place has a damn inverter. How the fuck is there a power cut?"
"I'll go check it out," one of his friends offered, already stumbling toward the back.
Minutes passed. No sign of the lights… and no sign of the friend.
Getting impatient, Vincent sent another guy to look for him. This one was completely wasted, swaying like a drunk snake as he staggered toward the storage room where the switchboard was kept.
The storage room was pitch black, thick with the scent of rust and rot.
The drunken friend, now slightly sobered by the eerie silence, fumbled with his phone and flicked on the torch.
What the beam revealed made his stomach twist.
There, slumped against the wall, was the bouncer — his eyes gouged out, sockets hollow and weeping blood. His body looked mauled like a pack of rabid animals had torn into him. Flesh hung in strips, ribs exposed, and his throat was ripped so wide it looked like a second mouth.
Beside him lay the first friend.
Only... what was left of him.
His face had been caved in — jaw hanging off, nose flattened to bone dust, one arm twisted fully backward. His chest was split open, ribs shattered, and something had carved a jagged "X" into what was left of his stomach.
The second friend stumbled back in terror. Before he could even scream, a hammer slammed into his skull with sickening force. The phone dropped from his hand, landing screen-down, casting a cold light across the blood-soaked room.
In that light, a shadow moved — fast, heavy.
The figure didn't hesitate.
Down came the hammer again.
Smash.
Smash.
Smash. Smash. Smash.
Blood sprayed with every hit, painting the walls in frantic streaks.
The camera finally pans up, and we see him.
Damien.
But not Damien.
This one's face is twisted, almost unrecognizable. Eyes wide, unblinking. Breathing like a beast. Covered head to toe in gore, he looks like a man possessed — or maybe… unleashed.
The Damien that smiled.
After a few attempts, Vincent finally stumbled into the storage room, too drunk to notice anything unusual. Unbeknownst to him, Damien had already entered the bar. The others assumed it was Vincent returning, but it was Damien who had arrived instead, in the dark.
"Yo, can you pass me the syringe?" one of the guys asked casually."Sure," Damien replied—and without hesitation, drove it into the boy's throat with brutal force.
The room erupted into panic and chaos as the others struggled to process what had just happened. But it was already too late. One by one, they were slaughtered—each death more savage than the last.
Damien approached one of the boys and, without hesitation, slammed the sharp edge of his hammer into the kid's thigh. The crack of bone echoed as the boy collapsed, screaming in agony.
Damien crouched beside him, grabbed him by the collar, and whispered coldly, "Playing with my daughter's life, huh? How about we play a little game—only this time, you're the toy."
His voice dropped to a growl, "Watch closely… as I shatter and rip apart every bone, every shred of skin, every nerve, every cell that ever touched my daughter—one after another... after another... after another."
Without warning, he jammed the hammer into the boy's jaw and yanked it sideways, tearing flesh and bone in one sickening motion. Blood sprayed. Screams turned into gurgles.
Then, using the same blood-slicked hammerhead, he plunged it deep into the boy's chest and began dragging it downward—ripping through muscle, sternum, and skin—until the organs were laid bare, exposed like butchered meat.
He didn't stop there.
Damien pummeled him with kicks, punches, and hammer blows, finally splattering his head into an unrecognizable mess of skull and blood—each strike fueled by rage, grief, and something far darker.
When the power came, it was over already.
When Vincent came back from the storage room, the lights flickered back on, and what greeted him in the bar hall made his blood run cold.
The floor was soaked in blood. His friends' bodies were everywhere, torn apart, mutilated beyond recognition. Limbs were twisted, necks snapped, some faces so caved in they were barely human anymore.
Vincent froze, breath catching in his throat—then suddenly dropped to his knees and puked violently. Chunks of vomit splashed across the gore-streaked floor, mixing with blood and bits of flesh. His body trembled as he stared wide-eyed at the massacre.
And then he saw him.
Standing in the middle of it all—Damien. A hammer in his hand, coated in blood, with skin, hair, and bone stuck to its head.
Vincent backed away, horrified. "Wh–who the ffff–fuck are you?!"
Damien turned to face him, almost calmly.
Vincent's eyes locked on one of the bodies, and he screamed out the name. "MARC—!"
"Marco?" Damien said, confused. "So… what's his name again?"
"Marco," Vincent muttered, stunned.
"Then what's your name?" Damien asked slowly, walking closer.
"…Vincent," he replied, voice shaking.
"Ohhh," Damien said, casually nodding. "You're Vincent. My bad… missed."
Before Vincent could even react, Damien threw the hammer with terrifying speed.
THWACK.
The sharp end slammed into Vincent's back, tearing through muscle and bone, and burst out through his abdomen. Blood sprayed across the room like a geyser. Vincent let out a guttural scream, crumpling to the ground in agony.
Then the worst part began.
His intestines started slipping out of the open wound. Thick, glistening ropes of guts spilled onto the floor, warm and wet. Vincent tried to hold them in, hands soaked in his blood, but they kept sliding out, uncontrollably.
Damien walked up, grabbed Vincent by the hair, and yanked his head up.
He leaned close, voice like a growl."How could you destroy a girl's life… my daughter's life."
Even as his organs poured from his body, Vincent smirked, ego unshaken. "Who's your daughter?" he spat, mockingly—like this wasn't his first time hurting someone innocent.
Damien's face went blank.
Then the hammer came down.
CRACK.CRUNCH.SPLAT.
Blow after blow, Damien smashed Vincent's body with pure, relentless rage. Bones snapped. Flesh split. The floor turned slick with blood and pulp. The hammer tore him apart, bit by bit.
Vincent coughed out one last bloody breath. "You… don't know my father…"
Damien leaned in close, eyes cold.
"And you never knew me."
He lifted the hammer one final time—and slammed it straight into Vincent's skull.
The head cracked open like a rotten fruit. Brain matter sprayed out. Blood soaked the floor—one final twitch.
Vincent was dead.
His death may have come fast, but it was by far the most brutal thing left in the room.
When the rampage was over, Damien suddenly woke up to discover what his dual personality had done.
He moved fast, haunted, trembling. Dragging lifeless bodies one after another, he piled them into a grotesque mountain of the dead. Each corpse added to the heap twisted his stomach further—his breath shallow, his face pale, choking back vomit with every step. The stench of blood and death clung to the air like smoke.
Then came the alcohol—bottle after bottle ripped off the shelves, splashed like holy water onto the corpses. But he wasn't done. From the back room, he hauled out canisters of gasoline, dousing everything, creating a second wave of destruction—a firewall that would erase every trace.
He stormed into the security office. One by one, every feed, every recording—deleted. The cameras? Smashed beyond recognition. He wasn't just cleaning up; he was obliterating history.
In the dark corners of the bar's storage, he found one last can of gasoline. He poured a slick trail from the exit, crafting a fuse for his fiery masterpiece. With shaking fingers, he struck a match.
The silence snapped.
He tossed the flame.
Boom.A monstrous explosion tore through the night like a scream. The fire devoured the bar whole, consuming wood, flesh, and memory. Sirens hadn't even begun wailing when the bystanders gathered, frozen in horror.
Through the chaos, a lone figure walked away.A man, buried beneath an oversized hoodie. Silent. Expressionless. Gone.
THE NEXT DAY…
The charred remains of Vincent and his friends lay mangled and unrecognizable. Officer Erickson—seasoned, greying, eyes sunken with dread—stood over the wreckage.
He muttered, "How the fuck am I supposed to explain this... to that man?"
Cut to black.
A blood-red light hums overhead.Screams echo off the concrete.Dozens of people—tied, gagged, trembling—sit in a room that reeks of death and power.
In the middle of it all, a towering man stands silent. His muscles ripple beneath the shadows.He opens a worn locket in his hand. Inside, the face of someone long gone.
He looks up.
The room freezes.
Marcus Blackwood.The name itself is a death sentence. The most feared man in the country.
And someone just killed his beloved brother.
TO BE CONTINUED…