The night had already sunk deep into the city's bones.
Streetlights flickered like dying stars, and a heavy silence—something that felt like the prelude to an unspeakable event—hung in the air. From the depths of a narrow alley came a muffled scream—one that no one cared to notice.
The assailant moved with calm precision.
There was no rush, no guilt—just a cold, mechanical focus, like he was calmly checking off a list.
The victim, a man, sobbed on the cold concrete floor. But his cries never reached beyond the walls.
When it was done, the assailant slowly stood up—as if rising from prayer.
He straightened his sleeves, took out a syringe, and with a single injection, sent everything inside the man into darkness.
Jim—the beggar who had merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time—woke up tied to a metal chair, bolted to the ground.
The air was freezing. His body trembled, but his mouth would not move. His mind screamed, but his muscles refused to respond.
The room was spotless. That was the strangest part.
As clean as a laboratory—white tiles glowing under fluorescent light.
The only sound was the faint hum from above.
On a tray nearby: a straight razor, a cup of hot (not boiling, but almost) water, and a folded surgical cloth.
The assailant—Wand—wore gloves.
And then, the blade was drawn.
It wasn't fast, nor was it brutal.
It was meticulous.
He sliced open the scalp layer by layer, exposing the skull beneath.
Jim wanted to scream—tried to—but Wand had anticipated everything.
The drugs suppressed movement and dulled sensation just enough to keep him awake, aware, and paralyzed.
The skull was slightly opened—to pour the hot water inside.
It burned like hellfire, yet was cold enough not to kill.
Jim drifted in and out of consciousness.
Each time he woke, Wand was there—calm, patient, watching.
It wasn't anger.
Nor revenge.
Nor curiosity.
It was research.
A pursuit of something pure.
And until dawn, it continued.
---
Wand released Jim as delicately as one might unwrap a gift.
He helped him stand, helped him eat.
Jim's body still worked—his legs, arms, throat—but his mind had shattered.
There were no words, no thoughts, no self.
He breathed, he slept, he moved—but inside, no one remained.
Wand gazed at him with what could only be called affection.
And then, he left.
---
In doer, the world kept spinning.
People laughed in hotels.
People were laughing, enjoying there lives.
Somewhere, a birthday was being celebrated.
But Somewhere else, a woman was being raped.
Wand stood quietly at the road,maybe he was looking for a new toy, his hand covering his injured left eye.
Dried blood clung beneath his fingers, but he ignored the pain.
Before him, in the shadows, were three men.
They dragged a girl—barely nineteen—into an alley.
Her scream rang out for a moment, then was swallowed by the night.
The city didn't stop. The world didn't care.
Wand didn't intervene.
He simply watched.
One of the men noticed him and approached.
"Hey, you okay?" the man asked.
"I– I can't see," Wand stammered. "I'm blind."
The man narrowed his eyes, then smirked.
"Then you won't need these."
And stabbed Wand in the left already injured eye.
Blood flowed warm and thick. Wand flinched—but didn't fight back.
He smiled.
The man returned to the girl.
And Wand? He stayed there, clutching his face, trembling from the pain—yet his heart was alive.
A strange joy spread across his expression.
Not from what he saw. Not from the girl.
But from pain—his, theirs, the world's.
He whispered to no one in particular:
> "I'm not blind, well atleast from one eye, I can still hear. I'm not afraid. I'm… happy."
And he meant it.
---
Later that night, he returned.
Moving like smoke.
The three men—drunk on cruelty and arrogance—never saw it coming.
The first man lost his eyes.
The second, his ears, hands, and voice.
The third was still laughing—until the drug silenced him.
The girl, barely conscious, whispered, "Help me…"
Wand, smiling softly, called emergency services.
Then vanished—along with the three men.
---
The next thing unfolded in an abandoned slaughterhouse.
Hooks hung from the ceiling.
The floor was stained with old, rusted blood.
The three men awoke screaming—naked, tied, and bleeding.
One of them choked out, "Why? Are you some kind of hero?"
Wand stood in the shadows.
He stepped forward—and cut out the man's tongue.
Then, in a calm tone, replied:
> "Hero? What did you just say?"
He laughed—then shouted:
> "Hero?! I don't save anyone! I don't rescue anyone! When I saw that woman suffer, I enjoyed it. I've never felt that kind of joy before. And now? Now it's your turn."
He walked slowly around them.
> "Now you'll suffer—for my pleasure."
And after that, only screams remained.
---
After That, Wand was never stopped.
Never caught.
He simply vanished.
Some say he died.
Others say he never existed at all.
But if, one night, when you're alone, dark thoughts creep into your mind—thoughts you can't explain—
Then you'll realize:
> "The Peak of Cruelty" was never human.
It was a mirror.
And it's looking back at you.
"Grandmother," Rui said, closing the book on his lap. "You've told me many stories since I was a child, but this one… it feels different. Why always this one?"
The old woman smiled faintly. Her wrinkled hands trembled as she poured him tea.
"You see my face, Rui? My bent back, my shaking fingers?"
"Yes," Rui replied softly. "It means you've grown old."
"That's true," she said. "And it also means I will die soon. So listen, my child—remember this while I'm still here. 'The Peak of Cruelty' was never human. It was a mirror. And it looks back at those it chooses."
Rui frowned. "So you mean—"
"I mean," she whispered, "there is no forgiveness for a sin you haven't yet committed."
A silence followed.
Then the sound of dawn—birds faintly singing beyond the mist.
"Now get up," she said suddenly. "You'll be late for Koha."
"Y-yeah… sorry," Rui said, standing and brushing dust off his cloak. "I'm leaving, grandmother. I love you."
Her trembling hand touched his arm.
"And my love is with you too, my dear Rui."
"Grandma, before I go," Rui said, turning at the door, "tell me—was it true?"
"What?" she asked softly.
"The story. Was there really someone like that?"
"No, no, of course not," she said quickly, forcing a smile. "I told you—it's just a story. N–nothing more."
"Yeah, of course." Rui tapped his temple and grinned. "I'm sure it's just a story."
"Yes, yes, now go," she urged. "You'll be late."
"Oh—right. Bye, Grandma. Take care."
"B–bye," she called after him, her voice trembling slightly. "And come home safely!"
"Will do!"
The door closed behind him.
Grandma sat on the bed. Slowly, she lay down on her left side, eyes closing.
Her voice trembled as she whispered to herself, "I don't want to remember…"
Then, she opened her eyes.
And in front of her—sitting beside the bed—was a man.
His smile stretched unnaturally wide. One eye was torn, the other brown and hollow.
Her breath caught. Tears welled.
"I don't want to remember you," she sobbed. "You… you…"
The man only smiled wider.