Pitter.... Patter.....
Pitter....Patter.....
The rain had reached its peak.
Every window trembled under the storm's weight.
In the middle of that place was a small yet luxurious house.
A person was sound sleep on the bed, the wind swept through his face, swaying that shiny long silver hair.
His face was calm, too calm and still, looking lifeless.
Elias Veirdan, youngest swordmaster.Yet now too frail to pick a sword.
Inside his mind was brewing a storm far more violent then the one outside.
---
Inside Elias dream:-
A storm was brewing outside in the city. Too strong, too violent.
Inside a dim apartment, the only light came from a flickering computer screen—a glow far too cold to be comforting.
A man sat hunched before it. Still. Like a statue carved from shadow.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
His fingers danced across the keys with a desperate rhythm. Each keystroke struck like the tick of a countdown clock—louder, faster, urgent.
Thunder cracked. A white flash lit up the apartment, revealing cracked walls, half-drunk mugs, prescription bottles left unopened. A single photograph on the desk had been turned face-down long ago.
Then… silence.
The typing stopped.
He didn't breathe. Didn't blink.
And then—slowly—he turned.
His face emerged from the darkness. Pale. Hollow. Cheeks sunken, lips colorless.
Hair like a bird's nest,some standing straight like electrocuted, while some too damp.
His eyes were the most haunting of all—ringed with bruised shadows, too wide, too quiet.
But not mad.
Not broken.
There was something behind them. Something sharp. Dangerous.
Purpose.
Not the kind that inspires. The kind that festers. That grows quietly in the mold-ridden corners of grief. The kind that waits.
He rose, each movement deliberate.
The chair creaked. The storm howled.
He walked to the kitchen and opened a drawer.
Pulled out a knife.
It was thin. Long. Almost delicate. It caught a sliver of lightning through the window—gleaming like a whisper, not a scream.
He paused.
Just once.
In front of a dusty picture frame.
Him… and two children. Both laughing. One missing a front tooth. The other clutching his hand like they'd never let go.
His throat clenched. His hands trembled. But he didn't cry.
He turned the frame face-down.
The man then picked up two bags, And walked out the door.
Slam!!
Door slammed shut and he never turned back to see whether it's closed or not, he just kept walking.
---
He was barefooted, clothes wrinkled just a white shirt and blue trousers.
The pavement was ice beneath his feet. The rain soaked through him, flattening his shirt to skin, washing him in cold clarity.
Cars hissed past, honking, their headlights glaring like judgmental gods. Someone shouted at him.
He didn't flinch.
He never stopped walking, not even once.
---
The balck haired man reached the club by midnight.
Gilded doors. Velvet ropes. Laughter that stank of wealth and detachment. The scent of perfume, liquor, and something older—corruption.
Two guards stepped forward.
He dropped a bag of cash on the ground. The bags had all the money left by taking loans and withdrawing all the cash, like it doesn't matter anymore.
He dropped one of them.
Both the guards looked at each other and then again looked at the man, hesitation vivid on their faces but.....in front of money, it was all useless.
They hesitantly picked up the bag ,opening it, their tension faded in thin air, their eyes gleaming with greed.
They made a way for him without a word, the man just looked towards them and walked inside clutching the knife in his pocket.
----
The dream Man's POV:-
Inside, the lights were colorful, the air heavy, the music vulgar. People lounged in velvet chairs like kings without crowns.
And there—at the center—sat him.
The rich brat, who smiled.
The one who laughed after taking away his happiness.
The same person who walked free after taking two small lives like it didn't make any difference.
There was a wine glass in his one hand. A woman on his lap. And no guilt in his eyes.
Just satisfaction.
'Disgusting freak' this was the only words coming to mind after seeing the man in front of me.
---
The pain in my chest didn't burst. It coiled.
Grief became something new. Not just mourning. Not even hatred.
Judgment.
My heartbeat drowned out the music. I walked towards him, silently, my footsteps making no sound.
' How careless, he didn't even notice me in that pleasure of his.' I thought.
Everyone else stopped sensing the danger— Me.
And when the guy looked up, confused by the sudden silence—
The knife was already there.
Pressed against his throat.
---
Screams followed. Chairs scraped. Panic spilled across the club like blood.
But the doors were locked behind him.
Steel bolts. Welded shut. Ten minutes before security would break in.
' Thankfully his spoiled nature of wandering around freely, helped me a lot, there was no personal bodyguards to stop me.'
I had ten minutes, but I only needed five.
End of POV
---
The man didn't shout.
He didn't threaten.
He acted.
He dragged the blonde youth by the collar, through shards of glass and spilled wine. Dropped another bag—cash again—at the feet of the frozen crowd.
"Money or morality," he whispered, voice barely louder than the storm outside. "Pick."
And the lightning struck behind him.
No one moved.Then slowly they backed away.
The women backed away. The guards looked down.
The blondey begged. Sobbed. Promised salvation, bribes, redemption.
He looked almost pitiful, just like he did.
Before the courts laughed.
Before justice turned away.
---
The black haired man dragged him on the rooftop, connected to the room.
He didn't stab the heart.
That would be mercy.
Every movement had intention—surgical, exacting.
First, the hands. The ones that signed away guilt and bought silence. He carved each finger slowly, like crossing out a name from a ledger.
Then the legs. The legs that carried him out of court without shame, while two small coffins waited in the rain.
The youth screamed. Pleaded. Promised penance.
" Please, Please stop!!!!, Why?? Why ME!!"
The man nearly laughed at it, the same words he asked himself,god knows how many times.
But instead of giving answer, he leaned closer to the trembling guy.
He leaned in close. "No court sentenced you," he whispered, blade trembling near the lips. "But I will."
And then, with careful precision, he opened the blonde man's mouth—ruining the last tool he ever used to lie.
Every time the blade met flesh, it wasn't revenge. It was correction. A rewinding of time. A scream for the silence that justice left behind.
Blondey was still breathing, before the guy died. The man closed the distance and whispered in his ears
" Pfft...." He laughed
"Funny, right?? No one even dared to save you. You look so helpless and Pitiful, do you still think that I will let you leave that easily?? Hmmmm....."
The man hummed. Not delightfully but firmly, he asked.
Not getting any answer he turned and looked at the trembling guy and said one last thing,
" You know what I did all this time??... Bet you don't. Let me tell you, I found it.
....
Curious??" The man said after a pause
' I found your father's secret, black money, illegal transaction. How?? Through hacking Duh!!"
The man deadpanned looking straight at the blondey's eyes which were already blurred through crying.
And then, the man—smiled, as the body grew colder and collapsed in his arms.
---
After 10 minutes:-
When the doors were finally broken, the man stood on the terrace.
Rain poured over him like holy water. Cleansing. Damning.
Behind him, the body. Lifeless. Eyes still wide in disbelief.
Below—sirens. Flashing red. Voices shouting over radios.
Around him—silence.
He stepped onto the ledge.
There was no fear.
Only peace.
And then—
He fell.....
----
He fell, arms wide like someone surrendering to the sky. And even as the ground raced to meet him, there was no scream.
Only peace.
For a moment, it felt real.
And then—
Jolt.
-----
Elias gasped awake, heart clawing inside his ribs like it had nowhere left to hide.
----