The Heart Or The Mind?
He stood there, frozen in time, a living statue amidst the chaos, embodying the collective dread and desperation of his comrades.
The air was thick with tension, and his heart swelled with a complex mix of affection and fear for each member of this beleaguered group.
Yet, one name echoed louder than the rest in his mind: 'Jack'
Despite the tremors coursing through his limbs, he managed to pivot, his gaze locking onto the beast that loomed before him, a flicker of hope igniting within the depths of his soul.
Leonard was no ordinary man; he was an earthquake, a force of nature who had weathered the fiercest storms life had thrown his way.
His intellect was his greatest weapon, a sharp blade honed by years of relentless study and experience.
He took pride in his knowledge and abilities, especially when it came to the intricacies of the mind.
Yet, this very pride made him acutely aware of the value of wealth and the lengths to which one might go to amass it.
Leonard was not blessed with the gifts of a half-ling or the powers of an awakened; he was simply a regular human, striving to survive in a world that seemed hell-bent on crushing him beneath its heel.
As he scrutinized the beast before him, he began to question the reports he had meticulously compiled, wondering if he had truly grasped the creature's nature or if he had merely scratched the surface of its dark complexity.
He couldn't recall when or why he had been hypnotized, nor did he care to delve into those murky waters.
Deep down, he understood that no scientist, no matter how gruesome their experiments, could rival the efficiency of his own mind.
When the beast had selected him from the seventh group of scientists, it was clear that it had targeted him with a predatory intent.
Despite his extensive research, Leonard had never anticipated a foe of such intelligence.
The offhand remarks from his bar buddies echoed in his mind, fueling his doubts: Was everything and everyone around him part of an elaborate plan?
Though he longed for answers, they remained tantalizingly out of reach.
As he faced this new and terrifying problem, Leonard gazed into the beast's eyes, which had transformed into a shade of red more daunting than anything he had ever encountered.
This crimson hue was not merely a color; it was a tapestry woven from the fabric of fear, thicker than blood and embroidered with a beauty that rivaled the most exquisite roses.
The beast's smile had long since faded, replaced by a chilling silence that hung in the air like a storm cloud ready to unleash its fury.
It stared at him, its presence heavy with an unspoken threat that sent shivers down his spine.
"I.."
Before Leonard could utter a single word or feel the first drop of blood trickle from his chest, the beast lunged forward, its cold, metallic hand pressing against his heart.
Time seemed to stretch and warp, the world around him growing colder—not just from the drop in temperature, but from the stark realization that he was staring into the abyss.
His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor, his nose and mouth erupting with blood in great, violent gushes.
The red fluid burst forth like a fountain, flushing out his life force, leaving him feeling hollow and weak…
His eyelids grew heavy, and his mind began to cloud…
For the first time, he noticed the crimson droplets splattering across his face, and with a Herculean effort, he managed to shift his gaze upward…
The beast was feasting on his heart, its long, milky-white teeth sharp as razors, slicing through flesh with ease.
With swift, almost graceful movements, it swallowed, licking the blood from its lips as it stepped over his lifeless body, which still struggled to accept its own demise.
"Too bitter," the beast murmured, its voice a sigh of disappointment.
"What a meager heart for a human. At least it doesn't have much impurity. I hate it when my food neglects its health."
With an indifferent glance at the remaining six scientists, the beast dashed like a black blur toward the one who appeared the most delicate—Baron.
The irony was not lost on Leonard; Baron had always shown a disinterest about hearts or love, and now, he was about to become the main course of some twisted pleasure.
The terror that gripped Baron was palpable; he had long since lost control of his bodily functions, a testament to the primal fear that coursed through him.
For Leonard, the act of killing him had been effortless, but for Baron, the beast's task was complicated by the excess fat that clung to his body, making it difficult to extract a clean heart, let alone do so painlessly.
Yet, the time spent on this gruesome task was mere seconds.
The others, trembling and paralyzed by fear, could only watch in horror as they realized their attempts to escape were futile; Sinn, the beast, stood guard at the door, a sentinel of death.
To them, Sinn was a monster, a creature devoid of humanity, and it was logical for them to think so.
But the truth was far more complex. As Sinn's gaze swept over them, a chilling realization settled in.
When he spoke, his calm tone laced with sarcasm sent shivers down their spines.
"Hungry." Just that single word, accompanied by a smile that was too perfect, too innocent, shattered their fragile hope.
Even a toddler could sense the mockery in Sinn's demeanor, a cruel jest at their expense, as if he reveled in their despair.
In the face of death, human intelligence crumbled, and the evidence of Sinn's predilection for hearts should have been enough to awaken their instincts long before this moment.
Without allowing the despair to linger, Sinn melted away, only to reshape himself moments later, dimming his eyes as he did so.
The Sinn that Mark had been keeping an eye on began to fade, becoming transparent, a ghostly figure in the midst of chaos.
What Sinn referred to as 'hell' was not death itself, but the paralyzing fear of uncertainty—of not knowing whether one was truly in reality or trapped in a simulation.
Mark found this ability terrifying; he had believed Leonard and Baron were dead, and that the other five were next in line for the slaughter.
But as he surveyed the sea of blood splattered across the walls and the lifeless bodies of his colleagues, a cold sweat broke out across his brow.
The door Leonard had opened was a cruel illusion, and the five remaining scientists were not safe; they were dead, their bodies having a capping hole, where there heart should be..
"Fuck! This is terrifying! What the fuck is happening? I didn't sign up for this goddamn nightmare!"
Mark's thoughts spiraled into chaos, a cacophony of fear and disbelief as he grappled with the horrifying reality that had unfolded before him.
The door was utterly destroyed, its fragmented pieces of metal scattered across the floor like remnants of a violent storm.
The walls were smeared with blood, some areas marked by handprints that seemed to reach out in silent desperation.
Pools of blood lay stagnant on the floor, their dark reflections casting eerie shadows in the dim light.
Mark's eyes scanned the room rapidly, his breath heavy and labored, sweat pouring down his face as he tried to make sense of the chaos around him.
Everything he saw, everything he heard, felt like an elaborate illusion—a cruel mirage designed for one purpose: torment.
The beast, a creature of unimaginable strength, acknowledged its power to escape on its own.
Yet, it chose to stay, conducting twisted experiments on those trapped within its grasp.
Mark couldn't comprehend what the beast gained from this macabre game, but he knew one thing for certain: he had no clue where it was or if it even existed in reality.
Was he next?
Was any of this real?
Despite his growing paranoia, the expected attack never came. No matter how much he looked around, past the back-and-forth of his frantic searching, nothing happened.
From time to time, mocking laughter echoed through the corridors, taunting him with its eerie presence.
Minutes stretched into hours, and Mark stood there helplessly, the word "hell" echoing relentlessly in his mind.
He finally understood the true meaning of hell—not just an illusion blurring the lines between reality and nightmare, but a prison from which there was no escape.
On the second day, the relentless assault on his senses began to unravel his sanity.
He wandered out of the bloodstained room and into the lounge, consuming whatever food he could find in a desperate attempt to ground himself.
After what felt like weeks, though time seemed distorted in this surreal landscape, silence enveloped him—oppressive and suffocating.
His supplies dwindled, leaving him with nothing but the clarity of his own thoughts—a clarity that bordered on madness. Memories of his daughter haunted him, interwoven with the guilt of past sins.
Mark cried for days, begged for weeks, pleading for release from this waking nightmare.
He realized that time here moved differently than in the outside world.
Each attempt to leave the bunker was thwarted by an invisible barrier, confirming his suspicion that he was trapped within his own mind.
There was no escape, no awakening from this endless cycle of despair.
He would remain here, imprisoned by his own consciousness, until his mental faculties eroded away completely.
As his mind teetered on the brink of collapse, only one thought remained clear—his daughter. "Sasha…" he whispered, clinging to her memory as the last vestige of hope in a world devoid of mercy.
[ Year #,### ]
"Shatter!"
End of chapter 6