The room is dark and it smells like night dinner filled with trash and magzines ; office work it's all messy .
He woke up with his messy Hair slides the curtains and looks outside the window and starts cleaning the mess and arranging the things ,he lives a mundain life his eyes are life less filled with emptyness willing to be coloured and a glimmer of hop but still dark one can't find their way out
he finishes cleaning and moves downstrais prepares breakfast for himself ,prepares himself for the day takes a bath starts dressing
buttoning up his shirt, looks in the mirror a man ready for another tired day ; agony with no recognization ,name,respect,just work ing a boring job day after day to live
he lockes the door
he moved towards his place of employmet ,the way so familiar it needed no deliberation.
the path is so familiar the he knows each and every event wich occur their at the exact point of time the one who cause it,the one who endure it every morning the path is filled with leaves and sticks as the cleaning staff arrives late on thursday ,at 9pm the school bus reaches the entrance of the prefecture area of the Mallxmall where he waits at the traffic sign to go ,moves towards his office building Rose Life Publishers ,he works in a publishing company his work is to collect the work of the writters and send for printing this is his every day life His work felt hollow ,as uselesss as the scattered pens and idel desks that filled the office .when the day's tasks were done he handed in the work copies quietly ,unnoticed by his colleagues.without a word,as if he were invisible ,he made his way home. The room is dark and filled with the smell of leftover dinner, mixed with trash and magazines; office work is all messy. He wakes up with messy hair, slides the curtains open, and looks outside the window. Then he starts cleaning up the mess and arranging things. He lives a mundane life, his eyes lifeless and filled with emptiness, longing to be filled with color and a glimmer of hope, but it remains dark, making it hard to find a way out.
After finishing cleaning, he moves downstairs to prepare breakfast for himself. He gets ready for the day: taking a bath and dressing. As he buttons up his shirt, he looks in the mirror and sees a man ready for another tiresome day—an existence marked by agony, without recognition, name, or respect, just working a boring job day after day to survive.
He locks the door and heads towards his workplace, a path so familiar that it requires no deliberation. He knows every event that occurs at each point along the way: the one who causes it, the one who endures it. Every morning, the path is strewn with leaves and sticks, as the cleaning staff arrives late on Thursdays. At 9 PM, the school bus reaches the entrance of the prefecture area of Mallxmall, where he waits at the traffic signal to cross.
He moves towards his office building, Rose Life Publishers. He works at a publishing company, where his job is to collect the work of writers and send it for printing. This is his everyday life. His work feels hollow, as useless as the scattered pens and idle desks that fill the office. When the day's tasks are done, he quietly hands in the work copies, unnoticed by his colleagues. Without a word, as if he were invisible, he makes his way home.
He reached home long after dusk had swallowed the streets. Without haste, he cooked for himself—simple fare, prepared with care—and ate alone. The kitchen fell silent once more, save for the soft clatter of dishes he washed with deliberate precision. The routine, mechanical as ever, drew itself to a close, and he prepared to rest, a faint smile playing upon his lips as if the quiet of the evening pleased him.
But the smile lingered too long.
As it spread, soft laughter escaped his lips—at first barely audible, then rising in amusement as though some private jest had overtaken him. Without warning, he rose from his bed, eyes gleaming with a strange purpose. He moved through the dim corridor and stopped before a locked door at the far end. His hand, practiced and patient, found the key, turned it, and pushed the door open.
Inside, a grotesque sight awaited him.
A man hung upside down from the ceiling beams, his face veiled in darkness, lips parted. Drool streamed from his mouth, mingled with fresh blood that traced red rivulets down his chin and neck. His expression—mocking, twisted with disdain—seemed carved into his flesh, as if he enjoyed the torment inflicted upon him.
Haethurr's smile widened.
He spoke softly, almost affectionately, as if addressing an old companion.
"How was your day?" he asked, tilting his head as one would to a distant friend. His eyes gleamed with amusement.
The captive remained silent, but his mockery lingered in the curve of his mouth.
Haethurr chuckled.
"Work… colleagues… always distant, always preoccupied with petty grievances. They'll never understand, will they? No matter how hard they try."
The laughter echoed softly against the walls before he turned away.
With deliberate care, he dressed—his dark suit impeccable, his every movement precise. He looked into the mirror; for a fleeting moment, the handsome predator stared back at him, his sharp features chiselled with practiced allure. Cold eyes, yet magnetic. Killer and gentleman in one.
He stepped out into the night, locked the door, and made his way to the garage. The old Mustang waited like an obedient beast. He opened the shutter, slid inside, and started the engine with quiet power. The car's growl cut through the silence as he sped toward one of the city's more decadent bars—where the wealthy gathered to drown their ennui in drink and desire.
Inside, the bar shimmered with dim lights and hushed laughter. He ordered a drink and took a seat, eyes scanning the room with the calm detachment of a hunter surveying a field. A woman approached him, graceful and curious.
"May I sit?" she asked softly.
"By all means," he replied with a gentle smile. "I am Haethurr Rudolf. A publisher by trade."
Her eyes brightened, but before the conversation could deepen, her husband appeared. A man of stature and vanity, his eyes restless with calculation as he scanned the room for new pleasures to conquer.
Haethurr's gaze lingered on the man briefly—cool, assessing. Then he turned to the woman with a charming smile.
"He's only after your wealth, isn't he?" he whispered, leaning in.
The woman's eyes widened with recognition.
"Yes… he doesn't care for me," she confessed. "One day he'll be done with me… once I'm no longer useful."
Haethurr's smile sharpened. "Then allow me to assist you," he murmured, his voice honeyed with menace. "No need to worry… I know how such things end."
He ordered another drink and joined her husband at the table, his manners flawless, his words smooth. He introduced himself once more, spoke lightly of publishing and society, and then—when the conversation lulled—he offered him a ride.
"Let me drop you home," he said, eyes gleaming with hidden intent.
The man accepted without suspicion.
The drive was quiet, the road empty beneath the headlights. Without warning, the atmosphere thickened. Haethurr's smile returned—wide, predatory. At his home, the guest barely registered the change before it was too late. He was subdued, drugged, and dragged toward the very room where the other captive hung.
There, with the grim precision of a craftsman, Haethurr completed his work.
Smiling, he struck his own face, once, twice, thrice—as if testing the boundaries between pleasure and pain. Then, with terrifying calm, he drew a blade across his tongue, severing it. A wet gasp escaped him, but he did not flinch. His eyes shone with madness and delight as blood poured from his mouth, staining his clothes crimson.
Without pause, he slit his own belly with a smooth, practiced motion. Organs spilled forth; his hands, steady and unhurried, reached within and drew out his kidney. His face, now masked in gore, glowed with feverish ecstasy, as though the violence were some dark ritual granting him power.
The next morning, the police discovered the corpse by the bridge—his body torn, blood-slick, his death a mystery whispered about in newspapers and taverns alike. Authorities speculated about suspects, motives, and dark pleasures, but none could unravel the horror that had taken place.
And yet, when the sun rose again, Haethurr awoke as though from a dream. He washed his face clean, his clothes free of stain, and prepared for the day's work. With a calm breath, he set out once more toward his office, his smile barely hinting at the darkness that lurked beneath.