In less than half an hour, the entire bunker was evacuated. The alarm blared uncontrollably, repeating itself and echoing throughout the structure in an extremely irritating and disturbing way.
People rushed immediately toward the elevators—the very same ones they had prayed to reach in order to save themselves. The crowd formed again. Where before people had desperately tried to get inside the shelter, now they were desperately trying to get out, because they had been deceived.
There was no salvation in that place. There never had been. The truth was, the people inside knew it. They wanted to deceive themselves, to self-sabotage, just to stop feeling fear. It didn't work. And yet, they all kept doing it.
A young girl stood apart from the others. She leaned against a filthy, mold-covered wall, sitting on the ground with her head resting on her raised knees. She hugged her legs tightly. Her face, buried in the fabric of her pants, soaked them with tears without pause. Her sobs cut through the noise of the desperate crowd like blades. They wanted to live.
She, instead, was accepting her fate.
In her right hand, she held a crucifix. Its lower end touched and lightly trembled against her leg with every sob, almost scratching against the fabric. It was fairly large. In contrast with the dark wood of the cross, the figure of Christ was pure white marble—clean, radiant, eternally illuminated in the dark chaos of Earth.
"My Lord… I don't want to die. I want to go back to my child, please…"
Each word was broken by a faint breath, obstructed by the mucus clogging her nose. Her eyes were warm, red, completely soaked—just like her blonde hair that had fallen forward with them.
Near the center of the room stood a man. Age had condemned him to look at least twenty years older than he actually was. With cracked, wrinkled eyes, he stared in terror at the mass of people in front of him.
"Dogs… you're all just dogs."
His voice trembled. Pure rage could be heard within it—rage toward those seeking salvation. His fists were clenched inside his jacket pockets. He trembled, as if an earthquake were shaking him from within. His eyes were glossy, the veins inside them bulging and pulsing, red like fire.
"What do you think you're doing?! Do you really think you'll find salvation? There is no salvation—just like there is no God…"
Despite his fury, he spoke with a disturbing kind of clarity.
"True salvation is not of this world. We live knowing we've been abandoned, yet we preach false rituals just to satisfy our need to feel fake happiness. The truth is, happiness doesn't exist. We're conditioned to feel it so we won't notice death looming over us every single day. We're distorted so we don't suffer.
And yet… I am suffering. I suffer more than you dogs—desperate and hopeful for a bright future that will never come…
You disgust me."
The man slowly turned toward the crying girl. Amid the loud, desperate crowd, he could hear her prayers—and they filled him with disgust.
His furious expression, his bulging eyes, the sweat, the drool slipping past his clenched teeth—it was only the beginning. He was already moving toward her, his steps heavy and fast.
She heard them.
She lifted her gaze—and froze in terror at the sight of him. In that moment, he was no different from a monster. Those pale eyes, stained only by tiny black pupils… that twisted smile… the face of a madman overflowing with hatred.
The man snatched the crucifix from her hands, tearing it away so violently that its edges scratched her skin, causing immediate, sharp pain.
He didn't hesitate to throw it to the ground, shattering the figure of Christ into a thousand pieces that scattered like bullets in every direction.
The girl froze.
She stared in horror and sorrow at the cracked face of Christ on the floor—like a tear—seeming to look directly at her.
"What's wrong?! Don't feel safe anymore?!"
His tone was mocking, completely unhinged.
"What was that statue supposed to do, huh? Come to life and save you?!"
The girl remained silent.
Then she bowed her head again.
She resumed praying—for his salvation, for his forgiveness.
"Shut up, you whore!" he screamed, kicking her in the face.
Two of her front teeth flew out, hitting the floor along with blood.
People turned to look.
At first, no one moved.
The girl trembled in pain, collapsed against the wall, making small, broken sounds like a frightened child, trying to curl in on herself to avoid looking at the monster.
After a few seconds, she started praying again.
"…Take this suffering soul into Your arms, clouded by the hands of Evil…"
"I told you to shut up!"
He grew even more furious. His kicks became stronger, more violent. He aimed for her face. It broke, deformed, spilling blood that stained his clothes.
She kept praying.
Kick after kick.
Wound after wound.
Crying, suffering—under the eyes of those too afraid to act.
Every drop of blood was mixed with a tear.
Every broken bone was followed by a stronger prayer, louder—despite her fading voice.
"That's it—I've had enough!"
He roared like a beast, pulling out the gun he had kept hidden in his jacket the entire time. He pointed it at her immediately.
She felt the cold metal against her skin—the contrast with the heat of the bullet that would soon pierce her skull.
And still, she prayed.
Her hands—broken but clasped tighter than ever—were the last form of strength she had left.
"Since you worship your God so much… send Him my regards."
He pulled the trigger.
And didn't stop.
A rain of bullets tore through her body, filling it with holes as blood burst out like fountains, splashing all over him as he watched with satisfaction.
"So this is the true value of life?"
Then he kept kicking her.
Harder.
Harder.
He focused on her head—where it gave him the most satisfaction.
Her face was completely destroyed. Her nose crooked and bleeding. Her cheeks, once soft, now torn and swollen. Her lips split and crushed. Her eyes—once bright blue—were gone.
Only dark, blood-stained cavities remained.
She had died with the first shot.
But it wasn't enough for him.
Even after he finished beating the corpse, he wasn't satisfied.
He was terrified.
In an instant, his perception shifted.
Calling it disgust would be an understatement.
He still held the smoking gun. He felt it more than anything else around him.
"What have I done…?"
He looked around slowly.
No one spoke.
And yet, the noise was overwhelming.
He could hear the girl still praying.
But she wasn't asking for salvation.
She was condemning him.
He stood up.
Her blood-covered smile, her broken teeth, her empty eyes—those details made him tremble.
She approached him slowly, speaking words more grotesque than his own actions.
How could someone so gentle use such twisted language?
That's what he thought—terrified—as she moved toward him with graceful, slow, almost dancing movements… but vile, unnatural.
Something that should not exist.
But his mind was already dead.
His soul was the last on Earth.
The first in Hell.
He was chaos.
He was the true monster.
The girl was not a monster.
She was judgment.
A rightful punishment.
All of it culminated in a single act:
She embraced him.
"I hope my daughter never learns of your existence."
He broke completely.
His screams faded.
Soon, he found himself standing before Christ.
He wanted forgiveness.
He demanded salvation.
He didn't deserve it.
Or maybe he did.
A shadow wrapped around him like a warm sheet.
His mind would never find peace again.
Perhaps it never wanted to.
He had made suffering his home.
So why was he afraid?
Why did he fear the voices?
Her voice?
Or the judgment of someone he didn't even believe existed?
Why was he afraid now?
No one would ever know.
With the last bullet in the chamber, he blew himself apart.
The last shot for the last good soul.
Now—
hell truly began.
"This is a war without victory…"
Those were his final whispered words.