— "You're in quite a state," Thana remarked, a cruel smile stretching across his lips. His voice, soft yet icy, resonated in the oppressive darkness of the cave.

  — "It's been ages since I last had a shower," the old man replied in a hoarse and weary voice. Each syllable seemed torn from his dry and fatigued throat. His body was nothing more than a carcass, his protruding bones casting shadows under parchment-like skin, streaked with scars.

  Chained in this dark and cold cave, he was no longer a man but a relic. His gaze, clouded by endless fatigue, slowly rose to meet Thana's. There was neither defiance nor fear in his eyes, only the echo of a being who had long abandoned the idea of fighting—or even hoping.

  — "I have a proposition for you," murmured Thana, his voice sliding through the air like slow poison. "Capture a woman for me, and I will grant you your freedom."

  The deep wrinkles that lined the old man’s face told stories of decades of suffering.

  — "I have little choice," he finally replied.

  Thana tilted his head, his smile widening.

  — "You could always refuse," he whispered.

  The old man closed his eyes, his features tightening briefly. He knew all too well the horrors Thana was capable of inflicting. He understood that the choice presented to him was nothing more than a cruel illusion.

  — "Very well," he murmured at last, his voice nothing more than a hollow echo. "I accept."

  A metallic clink echoed in the darkness. The chains that had bound him fell heavily to the ground. The old man, now freed, immediately collapsed, his emaciated body struggling to bear its own weight.

  A cold glow, emanating from an invisible source, illuminated his ravaged face. His slumped shoulders, trembling hands—everything about him screamed exhaustion and submission.

  Thana, unmoving, observed him.

  — "You must capture a woman who wields fire," Thana declared, stepping closer, his shadow spreading like a dark tide along the walls of the cave. "Her name is Kendrys."

  He placed his icy hand on the old man’s shoulder. A brilliant light erupted instantly, flooding the space.

  The old man’s wrinkled skin smoothed out, the creases vanishing as if they had never existed. His atrophied muscles regained strength. His dull, graying hair transformed into a cascade of gold. With a sharp crack, his spine straightened.

  Thana stepped back, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.

  — "That’s better," he exclaimed. "You have a new chance. Don’t waste it."

  The young man, stunned by his transformation, brought a trembling hand to his face. His fingers brushed against his smooth skin, as if to confirm he wasn’t dreaming. Thana, unfazed, then held out Kendrys’ hairbrush.

  — "She’ll return to the city in a few weeks," Thana murmured. "Catch her."

  With another gesture, a new transformation came to life. Clothes materialized around the young man: a dark coat, adorned with intricate embroidery, draped over his shoulders. In his hand appeared a pouch overflowing with gold, its metallic clink resonating in the silence.

  — "With this," Thana continued, "you will blend in unnoticed."

  The young man clutched the pouch tightly in his fingers. His heart pounded wildly, a mix of excitement and fear. He knew failure was not an option.

  Armyr, now rejuvenated and revitalized, felt a new energy coursing through his body. Every movement he made was imbued with a precision and strength he hadn’t experienced in centuries. His fingers, once trembling and weak, opened and closed with confidence.

  Thana calmly raised his hand. A portal materialized in the air before them, its swirling, blinding light tearing through the atmosphere. Armyr hesitated for a moment, casting one last glance at his captor. Thana's imposing shadow, still and impenetrable, seemed to follow him even in that moment of uncertainty. Then, Armyr stepped into the light.

  He emerged in a narrow alley, and the fresh air hit him square in the face. A familiar scent flooded his senses: a mixture of damp earth, refuse, and spices—the scent of a bustling city. He inhaled deeply, welcoming the mix as if it were an intoxicating perfume. No matter how harsh it was, it was the scent of freedom.

  He raised his eyes to the twilight sky. The vivid hues of orange and purple painting the horizon at sunset overwhelmed him with an emotion he thought long extinguished. A tear rolled down his cheek, followed by another. Every shade of light, every movement of air around him, felt miraculous.

  He closed his eyes, letting this outside world imprint itself upon him. Then, rejuvenated and free from all pain, he opened his eyes once more and walked forward with firm steps toward the city stretching out before him.

  The cries of merchants echoed in the air, mingling with the clinking of coins and the rustling of exchanged fabrics. Laughter burst forth here and there, punctuated by the dull rumble of cart wheels on cobblestones. Armyr let himself be carried by this cacophony, his eyes scanning the crowded streets.

  His attention was drawn to a dense crowd gathered outside a bar. The energy was palpable: men and women laughed loudly, their voices rising above the music of a flutist. The acrid smell of tobacco smoke and the sweeter scent of alcohol lingered in the air.

  Armyr slipped through the throng, his young and nimble body allowing him to move fluidly. He stepped inside the establishment, where the warmth and noise engulfed him. The flickering light of candles reflected off the wooden walls, while bursts of laughter and lively conversations filled the space.

  — "What can I get you?" the server asked, his apron stained with grease and wine.

  — "The special of the day and a beer," Armyr replied.

  He made his way to a table near the window, where the soft twilight light brushed against the rough wood. His fingers drummed absentmindedly on the striated surface. Every texture, every sensation seemed new.

  The coarse, uneven grain of the wood contrasted with the cool air seeping through the slightly open window.

  A smile appeared on his lips. These simple gestures, so mundane for others, were priceless treasures to him. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the moment, before the server returned with a steaming plate and a mug of beer.

  — "Here you go," the man said with a tired smile, setting the order on the table.

  Armyr nodded in thanks, his eyes fixed on the plate as if it held a fragment of the world he was rediscovering. He cut a piece of meat and brought it to his mouth.

  The warmth and flavor burst on his palate—a blend of salty juices and spices that transported him to blurry, distant memories.

  He paused for a moment, unable to contain the emotion rising within him. A tear rolled down his cheek, followed by more. He felt ridiculous and vulnerable, but there was no one to judge him.

  After savoring every bite, Armyr pushed away his empty plate and drained his mug in one last gulp. With his stomach at ease and his soul strangely light, he stood and walked to the counter. He reached into his pouch and pulled out a gold coin, shining like a star.

  The server, seeing the coin, froze for a moment, his eyes wide.

  — "I... I don’t have enough change to give you," he stammered.

  Armyr gave him a smile.

  — "Keep it," he said simply, before turning toward the exit.

  Armyr stepped out of the tavern, and a soft purple glow bathed the city as twilight spread like a veil over the rooftops. The first stars timidly pierced the sky, their fragile light heralding the imminent arrival of night. Armyr walked at an unhurried pace, leaving behind the bustle of the lively streets.

  The sounds of the city gradually faded, replaced by the whispers of nature. The chirping of crickets resonated in the cool air, accompanied by the gentle breath of the wind playing with the tall grass. Far from human activity, the shadows of houses grew fewer, their silhouettes dissolving into the deepening darkness.

  Eventually, Armyr stopped in front of a small, isolated farm, surrounded by fields. A light shone through a window. Armyr inhaled deeply, the scent of the earth mingled with the subtle aroma of distant harvests filling his lungs.

  He approached the wooden door, his footsteps faintly echoing on the dirt path. His fingers knocked three firm times on the rough wood. After a few seconds, the door creaked open on its hinges.

  A corpulent man, dressed in patched clothes, appeared in the doorway. His face, worn by hard labor, creased as he scrutinized Armyr with suspicion. His eyes scanned the young man’s pristine attire, its elegance starkly contrasting with the modest surroundings. A shadow of disdain crossed his face.

  — "What do you want?" he growled.

  — "I’m looking for a place to stay for the night," Armyr replied.

  The farmer furrowed his brow, looking Armyr up and down.

  — "We don’t offer rooms here," he replied curtly, crossing his arms.

  Armyr pulled a gold coin from his pouch. The metallic glint briefly illuminated the doorway, and the farmer’s gaze latched onto it immediately.

  — "Just one night," Armyr insisted, holding out the coin.

  The man took the coin, rolling it between his calloused fingers. He brought it to his mouth and bit the edge. Satisfied, he nodded with a resigned sigh.

  — "Alright, but only for one night," he grumbled, slipping the coin into his pocket.

  Armyr nodded silently. The farmer grabbed a lantern resting by the door and led his guest through dim, poorly lit corridors. The walls, damp and swollen, exuded a smell of wet wood and mildew.

  They climbed a creaking staircase before reaching a small room on the upper floor. The modest, austere space contained only a wobbly bed with rough sheets and a poorly fitted window that allowed a draft of cold air to seep through.

  — "Here you go," the farmer said.

  — "This will do," Armyr murmured to himself, his gaze scanning the room without searching for more than the bare essentials.

  The farmer turned on his heel, closing the door behind him with a loud click. Armyr remained motionless, staring at the rusty handle for a moment. Silence settled in again, broken only by the groaning of the floorboards.

  He placed his pouch on the table and sat on the bed. The frame let out a low, rough creak, an almost plaintive sound, as if the aging structure protested against the weight of a new occupant. Armyr opened the window, letting the night breeze sweep into the room. The cool air brushed against his skin. He took a deep breath.

  Removing his sweater, Armyr lay down on the bed, a peaceful smile lighting up his face. The mattress was hard and squeaked under his weight, but it didn’t matter. He let out a satisfied sigh, savoring the night wind that caressed his skin through the open window.

  His fingers brushed against the rough sheets as he stared at the ceiling, where dancing shadows played under the distant light of a lantern. Everything felt so alive, so vibrant, that even the imperfections of this room seemed precious to him.

  — "This world..." he murmured to himself, almost in disbelief.

  He closed his eyes, his thoughts fading away, and drifted to sleep, a smile still lingering on his lips.

  A few hours later, a sudden jolt woke him. Armyr found himself sprawled on the cold floor, the blankets scattered around him. Moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating the bed, which now tilted precariously to one side.

  He burst into laughter.

  — "Even the beds can’t handle me anymore," he joked, getting to his feet.

  Armyr felt a surge of energy coursing through his limbs, as if every fiber of his body had come alive once more.

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  He raised his foot and delivered a sharp kick to one of the bed's legs.

  The wood gave way with a crack, splintering under the impact. Shards fell to the floor, and the faintly sweet scent of broken wood briefly filled the room. Armyr crouched down to pick up a piece of the wood.

  Kneeling near the window, he pulled a blade from his bag and began carving the piece of wood. Each stroke of the blade cut clean, precise lines into the rough surface.

  When he was finished, he examined the makeshift stake. The sharp tip he had shaped glinted faintly.

  He took his knife and pressed the point against his palm. The blade cut into his skin.

  A crimson line appeared, and blood began to flow—warm and vivid. Armyr held his hand above the stake and clenched his fist, letting the dark liquid drip onto the wood. The blood seeped into the rough fibers.

  A faint smile played on his lips.

  He slid the stake between his shirt and pants, ensuring it was securely hidden yet easily accessible. Then he stood, casting one last glance around the room.

  — "Time to move on," he murmured.

  Armyr left the room, his quiet footsteps echoing on the worn wooden floor. The house was enveloped in silence, disturbed only by the creaking of the old building and the whisper of the wind.

  In the kitchen, the dim light of a lantern illuminated the farmer, seated at a sturdy wooden table. Empty bottles were scattered around him.

  The farmer clutched a half-empty mug, his rough fingers gripping it with unnecessary force, as if trying to extract something it no longer held. His cheeks, flushed with alcohol, and his glassy eyes betrayed his state.

  — "Dinner was served at 7. You should’ve come down," he grumbled.

  Armyr regarded the man for a moment before replying.

  — "I wasn’t hungry."

  His stomach protested silently, but he ignored it.

  The farmer let out a short, bitter laugh that faded almost instantly.

  — "Not my concern," he muttered, downing the rest of his drink in one gulp.

  The sound of the mug being slammed back onto the table reverberated through the room. His gaze hardened, his bleary eyes finally locking onto Armyr.

  — "Everything alright?" Armyr asked.

  The farmer frowned, a deep crease forming on his forehead.

  — "What’s it to you, kid?" he retorted.

  Armyr shrugged.

  — "My grandparents were farmers. I used to help them a lot when I was a teenager."

  The farmer grumbled something unintelligible, his fingers tapping compulsively on the wood.

  — "Hope you’re still helping them," he muttered.

  — "They’re dead," Armyr replied.

  The farmer’s tapping slowed, then stopped altogether. He lowered his eyes to the worn surface of the table.

  — "Everyone dies," he murmured at last.

  A draft made the lantern’s flame flicker.

  — "Maybe," Armyr replied.

  The farmer straightened up, his movements betraying the weariness of a man worn down by time. Without a word, he grabbed a bottle and filled another mug, which he handed to Armyr.

  — "Bottoms up, kid," he said.

  Armyr took the mug, raised it to his lips, and drank in large gulps, savoring the warmth of the alcohol spreading through his stomach.

  The farmer, visibly pleased to see his guest enjoying the drink, filled a second mug.

  — "You’ve got a good tolerance, kid!" he exclaimed, patting Armyr on the shoulder.

  — "Are you alone here?" Armyr asked.

  The farmer’s smile disappeared instantly. A shadow crossed his face.

  — "Yes, alone. My wife passed two winters ago, and my sons… they still haven’t come back since the war."

  A heavy silence fell, each word hanging in the air like a stone sinking into a bottomless well. Armyr lowered his gaze slightly, feigning a compassion he didn’t feel, his fingers idly tracing the edge of his mug.

  — "It must be hard managing the farm on your own," he murmured.

  The farmer shrugged, a bitter smile crossing his face.

  — "I lived through the Great War, you know. The one where you weren’t even born yet. You get used to it over time," he added, as if speaking more to himself than to his guest.

  Armyr nodded.

  — "If you help me milk the cows, you can sleep here," the farmer offered.

  Armyr inclined his head.

  — "I’ll think about it," he replied.

  The farmer shook his head, a frustrated sigh escaping his lips.

  — "Young folks never seize opportunities. You’re all lazy!" he declared.

  Armyr burst into laughter.

  — "You’re not wrong," he admitted.

  He reached out for another mug, but the farmer grabbed his wrist, stopping him.

  — "Those are for workers," he declared.

  Armyr withdrew his hand, the faint smile still lingering on his lips. He fixed his gaze on the farmer.

  — "Then maybe I should work," Armyr murmured, his smile widening. He stood up.

  He drew the stake from its hiding place. The tip, dark and gleaming under the flickering light of the flame, pulsed like a waiting heart.

  The farmer’s eyes widened in a mix of confusion and terror as he stared at the weapon. He instinctively stepped back, his trembling hands fumbling for the edge of the table.

  — "What the hell are you doing, you idiot?" he asked, his voice breaking with panic. His breathing quickened.

  Armyr stepped closer.

  — "You have nothing to fear," Armyr murmured.

  But his icy smile betrayed the confidence of a man who already knew how this scene would end.

  The farmer tried to retreat. His legs hit a chair, which toppled over noisily.

  — "Don’t do this… I can give you anything you want!" he stammered, his trembling hands raised in a desperate gesture of supplication.

  Armyr tilted his head. For a brief moment, he seemed to weigh the man’s words.

  — "Anything I want?" he repeated.

  — "Yes, anything you want," the farmer replied.

  His words faded into the oppressive silence of the room. Armyr didn’t move, his cold expression unchanged. His piercing, steady eyes seemed to probe the man’s soul, as if assessing every word, every breath.

  Then, without another word, he struck with the stake.

  The wood pierced the farmer’s chest with a sickening sound—a visceral mix of tearing flesh and splintering bone.

  The farmer’s eyes widened, and his breath caught in a strangled gasp. An expression of disbelief and pain twisted his features.

  A guttural, harsh, inhuman groan escaped his throat as his body arched violently. Blood spurted from his lips, splattering the table and the floor.

  The farmer’s hands grasped at the stake in a final reflex, his bloodied fingers fumbling to pull out the weapon embedded in his heart. But his strength quickly failed him. His hands fell limply, striking the table with a dull thud.

  His head tilted back, his eyes now vacant and unseeing, as a final breath escaped his parted lips.

  At last, he collapsed to the floor.

  Armyr gazed at the lifeless body. His eyes scanned every detail: the stake lodged deep in the heart, the blood that continued to flow, and the man’s frozen features, twisted in a fear etched into eternity.

  A cold satisfaction glimmered in his eyes, devoid of any trace of remorse.

  With a gesture almost ceremonial, he wiped a splash of blood from his sleeve. His movements, slow and meticulous, carried no sense of urgency, as though time itself had frozen in the room.

  — "Promise kept," he murmured.

  A cold draft swept through the room. Armyr turned his gaze away, letting it drift into the darkness beyond the window. The night stretched out before him, vast and unfathomable—a sea of ink from which he drew a strange comfort.

  He inhaled deeply, savoring the air thick with the metallic scent of blood and damp wood.

  — "Life… full of contradictions," he murmured.

  This calm was but a fleeting illusion.

  The farmer’s skin began to twist, his muscles contracting as if trying to escape something unseen. A blackish hue spread beneath his flesh, snaking through his swollen veins, while a sinister cracking sound filled the air.

  His joints, bent at impossible angles, moved with a grotesque slowness.

  His fingers clenched, his nails digging into the wooden floor, leaving deep gouges behind. His eye sockets, once clouded and dulled by alcohol, were swallowed by total darkness. Two unfathomable abysses replaced his eyes—black voids devoid of any humanity.

  Then, his body rose. Each movement seemed pulled by invisible strings.

  Armyr stepped back, not out of fear, but to better admire his creation. A cold gleam passed through his eyes as he took in every detail of the transformation.

  — "Perfect," he murmured.

  He extended the blood-stained stake to the man, now emptied of all humanity.

  — "Take it," he ordered. "Go. Find the farmers. Killing is your only purpose. Every living being you encounter must be eliminated."

  The possessed farmer grasped the weapon, his rigid fingers closing around the handle as if responding to an invisible force. He slowly turned his head toward the door.

  Moments later, the stillness of the night shattered under the weight of a scream—a visceral, terror-filled howl. It was followed by another, shorter and muffled, as if strangled by the night itself.

  Outside, under the pallid glow of the moon, the puppet moved with stiff, disjointed steps. Each motion seemed accompanied by a creak, as though his bones—or what remained of them—protested against this unholy animation. His face, contorted into a fixed rictus, was nothing more than a grotesque mask devoid of humanity. The stake he held was his scepter, and with it, he proclaimed a reign of death.

  The first victim emerged from the shadows, a young man with an uncertain gait, his features drawn by sleep. He had wandered out from his farm. He had no time to scream, nor even to understand. The stake sliced through the air with a whistle and plunged into his chest.

  His eyes widened, filled with shock, as a guttural rasp escaped his throat. He tried, with a trembling hand, to grasp the dark wood that impaled his torso, but his fingers faltered before reaching it. His pain was only the grim prelude to a deeper horror.

  His body convulsed, wracked by uncontrollable spasms. Beneath his skin, his veins turned ink-black, forming a tortured network that snaked across his limbs. A dry, metallic crack echoed in the air as his bones broke and rearranged themselves. His shoulders dislocated, then snapped back into place with a sharp, jerky movement.

  When he finally rose, he was no longer a man. Though his silhouette remained human in appearance, there was something deeply unsettling about it.

  The woman stood there, huddled against the tree, her child pressed tightly to her chest. She wanted to make herself small, invisible. But her eyes couldn’t look away from the scene unfolding before her.

  She had seen it all. The farmer—or what he had become—had charged at their neighbor. She had watched the stake rise, then fall with cruel precision, piercing his chest. The man’s scream had died as quickly as it had been born, smothered by the death that claimed him within seconds.

  But it wasn’t over. She had seen the man convulse on the ground, his veins writhing beneath his skin, his body rising again—grotesque and disfigured. Nothing human remained in him. That was the moment fear overcame her. She screamed, a desperate cry that tore through the air.

  The two puppets lifted their heads in unison. Their black, empty eyes turned toward her. For a brief moment, she hoped they might hesitate, might retreat. But no. They began to run, moving with an inhuman speed and coordination.

  She clutched her child tighter and began to run, her bare feet sinking into the cold mud.

  Each step slowed her further. Her legs trembled, her breath came in ragged gasps, but she refused to give up. Behind her, the heavy, uneven footsteps of the puppets grew closer. Their growls, mingled with clicking and creaking sounds, filled the air.

  The farmer was the first to catch her. She felt a freezing grip seize her arm. Turning, her gaze met the creature’s. That once-familiar face, now frozen in a grotesque expression, seemed to judge her for a moment before the stake struck.

  It plunged into her chest with a dull thud, and a searing heat spread through her body.

  She fell backward, her scream fading into a gurgle. She released her child, who dropped to his knees in the mud, his eyes wide with terror. He watched his mother collapse, her fingers weakly clawing at the ground. Then her body began to twist. Her veins turned ink-black, and her face contorted into something monstrous.

  The boy sobbed, his small frame wracked with tremors. He tried to scream, but a rough growl behind him shattered his courage. The second puppet grabbed him roughly. Its claws sank into his frail shoulders, and the stake, relentless, found its mark.

  A burning pain shot through his body, and he gasped, his eyes meeting his mother’s one last time.

  He collapsed. But no sooner had his body hit the ground than it began to move again. His silhouette, so fragile a moment earlier, became another abomination. He rose smoothly.

  The quartet turned in unison toward the village. The stake, glistening with a mixture of fresh and clotted blood, passed slowly from hand to hand. With each transfer, a guttural murmur rose from their throats—a sound that resembled laughter, a morbid mockery aimed at the living.

  In a nearby barn, an old man was huddled among the bales of hay, his body trembling with fear. He covered his mouth with his gnarled hands to muffle his sobs, but his rapid, ragged breaths seemed determined to betray his hiding place. His heart pounded furiously, and he barely dared to breathe. They can’t find me. Not here.

  Through a gap between two misaligned planks, he watched in horror as the scene outside unfolded. The distorted silhouettes of the puppets moved through the courtyard, hunting the remaining villagers.

  He squinted, and his throat tightened. Among them was a child, a frail boy.

  The old man stifled a scream of terror when he saw the child stop. The boy’s head slowly pivoted—too slowly—at a grotesque angle that should not have been possible. His black, empty eyes fixed directly on the barn.

  No... He can’t have seen me... He can’t have seen me! he thought, curling further into the hay.

  The silence that followed was even worse. Then came the first creak—the distinct sound of a plank giving way. Then another. And another. The footsteps drew closer, each one echoing like a hammer striking the old man’s heart. His clenched fingers gripped the damp hay, while cold sweat trickled down his forehead.

  He closed his eyes, whispering a silent prayer. Please, let them pass by.

  But a new sound shattered his fragile hope—a louder, sharper noise: a wooden blade splintered. A dark, blood-soaked tip suddenly burst through the wall just inches from his face.

  The old man stifled a scream, pressing his hand against his mouth. The stake withdrew, then came back, this time slightly lower. He knew it was the end. His thoughts raced chaotically.

  One final crack echoed, followed by a blinding pain. The stake pierced his chest with a dull, sickening thud, and a searing heat spread through his torso. His eyes widened as he toppled forward, his fingers releasing the hay. He tried to draw a breath, but it caught in his throat with a choking gurgle.

  Everything around him seemed to slow, each second stretching into an eternity.

  His blurry gaze lifted one last time. Through the gap in the planks, he saw the child. The puppet was staring at him.

  The hay beneath him soaked up his blood, and his strength faded away.

  Armyr stepped toward the table. He pulled out a chair, the creak of the wood briefly cutting through the distant tumult, and sank into it. His fingers brushed against a bottle of beer resting on the table. He removed the cap, the metallic clink falling to the floor.

  He brought the bottle to his lips and savored a long sip. The bitterness of the drink resonated within him. His eyes drifted to the window. Beyond the grimy glass, the shadows of the night seemed to vibrate, as if imbued with a life of their own, dancing to the rhythm of the distant cries. They were no longer mere absences of light: they rippled, twisted, stretched, creeping insidiously toward the edges of the room.

  Armyr reached for another bottle of beer. He uncorked it and tilted it to pour more into his half-filled mug. But the liquid froze in place. The beer hung suspended, caught mid-pour between the neck of the bottle and the mug.

  Around him, everything became still. The silence, absolute, weighed on the room like a heavy shroud. Yet the air vibrated with a muffled, oppressive tension. The shadows, lurking in the corners, stirred. They detached themselves from the walls and ceiling, gliding toward Armyr.

  One pressed against his sleeve. Armyr furrowed his brow. Still here, aren’t you? he thought, his mind weighed down by their presence. He set the bottle down on the table, as if to signal he wasn’t intimidated. Yet a cold glint flickered through his eyes.

  The shadows were not his allies. He could feel their oppressive attention, like an invisible hand brushing the back of his neck. They murmured without words, as if trying to read him or waiting for him to falter. But Armyr would not falter. Not before them.

  A smile stretched across his lips. It wasn’t satisfaction, but a challenge—a way of showing he would not yield, even under their gaze. He briefly closed his eyes, and his voice rose:

  — "The mission will be accomplished."

  The shadows stirred at this declaration, quivering slightly as if carrying his words elsewhere, far beyond. Their movement was almost imperceptible, but their presence grew even more oppressive, their attention more intense. They rippled one last time before retreating.

  Armyr reopened his eyes. His gaze drifted to the window, where the shadows of the night outside vibrated to the rhythm of distant screams. Each howl, each desperate gasp formed a symphony he no longer truly listened to. It was all already behind him.

  His footsteps echoed in the still room, each sound stretching as if to mark his passage. Before leaving, he placed a hand on the door and murmured:

  — "This is only the beginning."

  As he stepped through the doorway, the bottle of beer, which had hung suspended in the air, finally obeyed the laws of the world. It slid off the edge of the table, spinning gently before crashing to the floor. The glass shattered, scattering glinting fragments and amber droplets everywhere. The liquid spread across the wooden planks, seeping into their crevices.