Inside an old, abandoned building, a frail, elderly man hung from the ceiling of the third floor. His wrists were bound, his body sagging under the relentless pull of gravity. A gag silenced his screams, and his face was covered in dark purple bruises—showing a long, tiring struggle.
Standing before him was a young man with eyes like a darkened abyss, showing no sign of mercy.
"Uhm..." The old man let out a weak, muffled groan, his eyes filled with tears—a final plea for a life already forfeited.
The abductor didn't listen, he just looked straight into the old man's eyes as if the man were nothing. He felt nothing; he only wanted to get the job done.
In a blur of motion that defied human limits, he plunged his bare hand into the man's chest, ripping the heart clean out.
The man possessed the left hand of a devil.
With cold, careful moves, he placed the heart—still beating with the last rhythmic pulses of life—into a small briefcase. He glanced back at the hanging corpse one last time. A quick shadow of pity crossed his features, only to be swallowed by a familiar, empty coldness.
He watched as the holographic display of the dead man's identity above his head began to flicker and dissolve into nothingness.
[Target profile:
Name: Romchai Phromsa.
Age: 67 years old.
Occupation: Retired Police Officer.
Ethnicity: Thai (Thailand)
Status: Married, with four children.
Transgressions: Aggravated Sexual Assault, Multiple Counts of First-Degree Murder...more.]
Briefcase in hand, the devil's left hand man walked away into the shadows, leaving the dead to hang in the silence. Wishing somebody would see his corpse.
Above the young man's head, unseen by any living eye, a ghostly countdown flickered and shifted in the air: 105… 104.
[Soul Collector:
Name: Kenzii Macque Monteriel.
Age: 24 years old.
Occupation: Hellbound Justiciar.
Ethnicity: Filipino (Philippines).
Status: Single.
Transgressions: Soul mortgaged to the Devil.]
I am a killer. I have become a master of death, yet I am a slave to a life I cannot escape.
.
A calm morning light bled through the tall glass windows of the luxury hotel suite. Fifty-four stories below, the city breathed with life; people looked like tiny ants walking across the streets, greeting the newborn day with smiles. But Kenzii, sitting high above in his glass cage, was a world away from them.
Kenzii stared into the horizon with hollow, lightless eyes. He was exhausted—not the kind of tired sleep could fix, but a soul-deep weariness. His mind was a battlefield of problems he knew how to solve but lacked the permission to change.
The wide mahogany table before him was a graveyard of paper. Blueprints and profiles were scattered like fallen leaves, many of them stamped with a chilling, crimsonseal: "ACCOMPLISHED".
This was the cycle of his life—a suffocating loop of studying targets, drafting plans, executing the work, and sleeping, only to wake and do it all again.
When did it all start to go wrong? He couldn't even remember the version of himself that didn't have blood under his fingernails. He only knew one thing for certain: his bloodline was a curse. His ancestors had signed a check, and now, he was the payment.
The vibration of his phone cut through the silence. He didn't need to check the screen; the unregistered number called every time. He picked it up, his gaze never leaving the horizon.
"Hm?" he muttered, his voice a dry rasp.
"We're expecting the result this afternoon," the voice on the other end commanded. Before Kenzii could exhale, the line went dead.
He remained frozen for a moment, phone still pressed to his ear, until a flash of movement caught his eye. A small zebra finch bird with a broken wing had landed on the ledge outside the glass. Kenzii watched it, mesmerized. How could something so fragile reach the 54th floor?
Is that what it's like to be free? he thought, a ghost of a smile touching his lips before dying out. To reach the impossible just because you have wings?
He exhaled deeply and turned back to his desk. He needed to get back to work, there's no time to question things he knows he cpuld do nothing about.
He picked up the profile sitting in the center of the chaos and compared it to the system window—a flickering, blood-red hologram conjured by the Devil's power. They were identical; a perfect, haunting match.
[Target Profile:
Name: Enrico Mendez.
Age: 56 years old.
Occupation: Businessman / Politician.
Ethnicity: Filipino (Philippines)
Status: Married with three children.
Transgressions: Plunder and Embezzlement of Public Funds…more.]
Kenzii studied the photo on his desk. The man was fat, with a thick mustache and a sharp, arrogant nose. He looked vibrant, as if he had a long life ahead of him—but Kenzii knew he wouldn't last much longer. He meant to die today in his hand.
Kenzii looked at his reflection in the glass—his own profile, flickering like a death sentence.
Ijust need to finish this mess. After all of this, I will be free.
Kenzii stared at the remaining numbers on his list—104 lives. The conclusion will strike when the time is finally right; he would either be reborn or live forever as the living proof of payment for the debt of a dead man's fury.