In a dimly lit room, where shadows clung to the corners and moonlight poured like silver liquid through a floor-to-ceiling window, a solitary figure sat on a one-seater sofa. Legs were crossed with a languid elegance, one hand gripping a phone as though holding a fragile secret.
"Hah." A cold, derisive snort cut through the silence. The figure shook their left foot over the right leg in rhythm with the tapping hand on the armrest, a subtle symphony of impatience and amusement and a hint of hesitation and fear which was barely visible veiled behind the nonchalant posture.
On the other end of the line, a voice trembled, urgent and anxious, spilling words faster than the figure could care to respond. Yet, the shadow on the sofa remained utterly unshaken, exuding a languorous calm that made the panic on the other end seem almost absurd.
"So she has made her decision," the figure murmured, low and deliberate, the words barely breaking the oppressive silence but heavy enough to carve a chill through the air.
Despite the lazy, almost playful posture, the figure seemed strangely fragile. In the cold, sparsely furnished room—containing only a bed, a desk, and the sofa—their isolation felt absolute, an almost pitiful silhouette swallowed by darkness.
Beneath the bed, a faint red dot pulsed intermittently, accompanied by the relentless countdown of a hidden timer. The ominous device went unnoticed, as if the figure were impervious to everything but their own contemplation.
The furniture, the shadow, and the figure itself merged seamlessly in the dim light, forming a tableau of darkness that thickened the tension and whispered of inevitable doom.
"When is it?" The hand on the sofa clenched, knuckles whitening, tapping abruptly ceasing as impatience and something deeper and more poisonous seeped in.
Something bordering the edge of pain and heartache.
"In a month, Boss," came the reply, a quiver in the voice betraying fear beneath respect.
"Oh." The figure breathed the single syllable as though tasting it, letting it hang in the stillness.
A lone tear traced a silvered path down a pale cheek, catching the moonlight in a glimmering, tragically beautiful descent.
With a slow, deliberate tap of long, slender, fair fingers, the call ended. The screen went dark, yet the reflection lingered—eyes rimmed in crimson, burning with quiet malice and unspoken sorrow. A rare look of vulnerability and disappointment surfaced in the ever so cold eyes.
Before the figure's face could fully reveal itself—
BANG!
A deafening explosion ripped through the silence, turning the apartment building into a roaring inferno. Flames clawed through every corner, consuming walls, furniture, and shadow alike. The solitary figure, along with the luminous tear, was swallowed in a brilliant, tragic blaze, vaporizing in a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity.
The arena reeked of sweat, blood, and fear. Sunlight streamed through cracks in the high, iron-grated walls, casting elongated shadows that danced across the uneven floor, splattered with dark, hardened blood, now flecked with fresh, gleaming red. The crowd's roar was deafening, a tidal wave of crude laughter, shouting, and jeers.
In the corner, squatting low, a slim, tall figure observed the wild and boisterous crowd with unnerving stillness.
Her face was half-hidden beneath a massive tattoo: a black snake coiling around a thorny rose bush, fangs bared, eyes glinting with life. The snake's forked tongue curled at the corner of her lips, almost tasting the air, threatening, poised to strike. It appeared so fierce and sinister like it would come alive the next moment and strike you ruthlessly.
Her left side bore deep scars, tangled among smaller marks—a road map of battles survived and pain endured. Yet beneath the violence etched on her skin, her large, clear eyes flickered with a ghost of past beauty, icy yet alive, sharp as shattered glass. A blade of grass dangled between her lips, swaying as she casually brushed away the buzzing mosquitoes by her feet.
She was wrapped in a rugged oversized jacket, hood drawn over her head, and dusty cargo pants that scraped against the blood-streaked floor. Despite the grotesque combination of tattoo, scars, and dishevelled clothes, she radiated an effortless menace, a predator coiled and waiting.
Yet, her petite figure amongst the burly men made her stand out like a chicken in a crowd of rhinoceros.
The center of the arena was a storm of raw violence. Two hulking men—Raner and Ripley—clashed with brutal precision. Raner's clawed hands reached for Ripley's throat, aiming to crush and silence, while Ripley lunged, fists smashing into Raner's chest. Flesh tore. Blood sprayed.
Groans of pain mixed with the ecstatic, bloodthirsty shouts of the crowd:
"Raner! Rip his throat out!"
"Smash that bastard's head!"
"Ripley! Tear him apart!"
Ripley's lower jaw was torn grotesquely from his face, blood gushing like a broken dam. Raner, chest heaving with pain, spat crimson onto the arena floor.
The combatants staggered, their grunts and the wet thuds of their blows echoing off the walls, a macabre symphony. Finally, Ripley was dragged away, a grotesque, half-mutilated figure, while Raner limped back to his camp, eyes burning with rivalry-fuelled fury.
And with that, the long standing conflict between the two men settled. The Supervisor who permitted the duel crossed out the name of Raner and Ripley from the shortlisted registered candidates.
Scarface's sharp gaze followed every movement, unflinching. She frowned, lips curling into a faint, disdainful sneer. She was small, almost fragile compared to the mountain-like men surrounding her, yet she exuded a magnetic, dangerous calm.
A voice from the crowd sliced through the cacophony:
"Hey, Scarface! How 'bout you show us some moves?"
Immediately, every eye turned toward her. Sneers, lustful stares, ridicule—they all aimed to intimidate. But she didn't flinch. Slowly, deliberately, she rose, her tall frame pulling herself upright with predatory grace and laziness.
Dust fell from her old sleeves as her cold, indolent gaze swept over the crowd.
Her voice cut through the chaos, low and sharp:
"Are you worthy?"
The words were a strike of ice. The jeering faltered, laughter and mockery replaced by an uneasy silence.