[AN - Enjoy reading (o˘◡˘o) ]
Evening. Abandoned warehouse.
The warehouse stood deep inside the industrial zone—an island of silence among rusty containers, old pipes, and metal structures covered with frost. During the day, almost no one came here. At night—no one at all.
From the outside—dark brick, peeling paint, boarded-up windows. But inside… order. Order created by John.
He moved silently, checking every link of the chain. The electromechanical door lock. The autonomous battery. The mechanical bolts. No electronics that could be traced. Only mechanics. Physics. Reliability.
Right by the entrance—a neatly concealed platform. A pressure sensor built into the floor. The door activator was calibrated to a human weight ± 40 kg: neither an animal nor debris would trigger a false activation.
John pressed the platform with his fingers—no reaction. Stepped on it—soft click. It worked.
The door closed smoothly, silently, but with no chance for anyone trapped inside. He ran his hand along the cold metal, as if stroking a predator before it strikes, and whispered almost tenderly:
"Work well."
He turned off the overhead lights. Only the focused lamps above the chair in the center of the room remained—like above a surgical table. The light carved the shiny metal surfaces out of the darkness: the sharp angles of the restraints, the shadow cast by the armrests.
The work was finished.
Now—wait.
John moved to the far wall, where tools and spare parts lay on a makeshift shelf. He took out a notebook in a leather cover and wrote methodically: "System checked."
He closed the notebook, ran his hand across the cover as if calming himself with the touch, then sat on an old crate, crossed his arms, and stared into the darkness. The dim lamp reflected in his eyes, giving the illusion of glowing embers.
Somewhere in the distance, a car drove by. The sound faded into the cold night air. John didn't move. He knew how to wait.
23:41.
Michael Rogers' truck stopped near the industrial zone, exhaling a cloud of steam into the frosty air. The door creaked, and he climbed out, stretching, his joints cracking loudly.
"Another damn shift…" he muttered, pulling out a pack of cigarettes.
His hands trembled from exhaustion. He flicked the lighter, shielding the flame from the wind with his palm. The first inhale made him cough. Michael cursed, spat, and tossed the cigarette butt onto the asphalt.
He was angry. Always angry.
The butt hit the ground; its ember almost touched a passing girl. She flinched and instinctively quickened her pace.
"Watch where you're going," Michael hissed without looking back.
He walked, shoving anyone who accidentally crossed his path. Not noticing the icy puddles beneath his feet, nor the dim streetlights, nor the fact that he was being watched.
At a distance, in the dark, nearly dissolved into it, John followed. Without making a sound. His face calm as glass. His eyes studying, scanning every step, every twitch of Michael's expression.
He didn't rush. He never rushed.
Michael stopped at a fast-food kiosk. Bought a coffee in a paper cup, took a sip, and immediately grimaced.
"Cold," he snapped at the vendor, not waiting for a response.
He walked on, leaving a faint trail of spilled coffee. Thoughts churned in his head about debts, about his wife who had left two weeks ago, about his boss who kept nagging, and the endless complaints at work. All of it blurred into a constant hum of irritation.
"I hate this dump," he muttered, kicking a stone.
It bounced off a rusty container and disappeared into the darkness. Michael didn't even look where it landed.
He stopped at the warehouse door. A sheet of paper was taped to the metal:
WAREHOUSE SYSTEM CHECK.DRIVERS — ENTER TO CONFIRM DELIVERY.
Stamp. Signature.
It all looked official.
He snorted.
"Yeah, sure… a check…"
He didn't tear the paper down. Just pushed the door.
It opened easily, with a soft creak of old hinges. Inside, a gentle light turned on—just bright enough to walk, but not bright enough to see details.
"Let's get this over with…" he grumbled, stepping inside.
One step. Another.
His boot pressed the platform.
CLICK.
Behind him, the door closed quietly. Not a slam—just a smooth, deliberate lock, as if that was its natural state.
Michael turned around.
"Hey! What the—?"
He pulled the handle. Harder. Slammed his shoulder into the door. Nothing.
"HEY! OPEN UP!!" his voice echoed through the empty warehouse.
No answer.
Michael took a few more steps inside—carefully, nervously, glancing around. His breathing grew louder, bouncing off the metal walls. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and tried to see what was hiding in the darkness to his left.
And then—click!
A lamp flared to life in one of the shadowed corners, bright, sharp, almost surgical. The light struck him directly in the eyes, and he instinctively shielded himself with his hand.
When his eyes adjusted, he saw a table. A simple metal table, like in a cheap cafeteria or a butcher shop. On the table lay a kitchen knife—large, wide, heavy, with a blunt tip and a thick handle.
And beside it—scales. Old mechanical scales with two pans, rusty needles, and metal weights.
On the right pan were several weights—neat cylinders with numbers stamped into them. They already pulled the pan downward so far that the needle touched the edge of the scale.
Michael frowned.
"What the hell…?" he muttered, stepping closer.
He didn't notice that each weight had an engraving.
Not just words—names.
His wife's name, the one who left after his latest explosion of rage. The teenager with the dog—the one he grabbed by the hood for making noise near his house.
The one he shoved in a fit of rage, whose head hit the metal. The boy he panicked over, then—terrified, furious—strangled…And drove the body to an abandoned warehouse outside the city.
Michael didn't notice any of that.
He exhaled harshly.
"HEY! HEAR ME?! This isn't funny! Let me out!"
But the only answer was silence. Thick, heavy, concrete-like.
He jerked back toward the door—just as a sharp electrical crack echoed through the room.
In the dark corner, an old TV flickered to life.
Static washed across the screen. Shapes dissolved, black-and-white noise crawling over the glass like swarms of insects. Michael froze, staring at the chaotic flickering.
After a few seconds, the image sharpened into a clear figure.
A puppet. White smooth face. Red spirals on its cheeks. Round eyes staring straight into the soul.
The puppet's head slowly turned toward Michael, and the speaker emitted a distorted metallic voice:
"Hello, Michael. You have spent your life causing pain to others. Today, it is time to answer for everything."
The screen flickered, and the image zoomed in—filling almost the entire display. The voice deepened, harsher, as though spoken from within a metal pipe.
"You lied. You humiliated. You beat those who couldn't fight back. You destroyed the life of your wife, who tried to escape your rage. You made her fear coming home. Fear you."
Michael screamed:
"NO! She left on her own! I didn't—"
But the voice cut him off:
"You took the life of a teenager. You killed him simply because he inconvenienced you. You buried him in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts. You thought no one would ever find out."
Michael's face drained of color. His mouth hung open. He tried to speak—but no words came.
The screen switched back to the table with the knife and scales—close-up.
"Before you are the scales. On one side—the weight of your sins. The names of those you hurt. The weight of the lives you ruined."
The camera moved to the empty pan.
"Your task is simple, Michael. Balance the scales."
The screen zoomed in on the knife. The blade gleamed in the harsh light.
"You must pay for your sins with your own flesh. Cut. Place it on the scales. As much as needed to level the needle."
Michael shook his head violently.
"NO! NO! I WON'T DO IT! COME OUT! WHO'S THERE?! SHOW YOURSELF, YOU SICK BASTARD!"
The voice did not rise. Did not grow angry. And that made it even more terrifying.
"You have ten minutes. At this moment, lethal gas is filling the room. When the timer ends… you will die."
Michael froze.
Somewhere above, a soft hiss began.
Thin white clouds formed in the air. Dry ice—but Michael didn't know that. He only saw white fog swelling near the ceiling, slowly settling downward.
He screamed.
"NO! NO! I DON'T WANT TO DIE! I DIDN'T KILL ANYONE! IT WASN'T ME! HELP!!!"
The TV puppet tilted its head.
"Lies are part of your nature. But truth always has weight."
Tick-tock.Tick-tock.A timer began somewhere inside the wall.
Michael screamed, lunged forward—and ran to the table. His movements were frantic, panicked, his whole body trembling.
"I WON'T DIE HERE!" he roared, grabbing the knife.
He glanced at the scales.The needle pointed to nearly seven kilograms.
"SEVEN?!" he cried. "THAT'S IMPOSSIBLE!"
The timer kept counting.
Tick-tock.08:43.08:42.08:41…
Michael pressed the knife to his thigh.
"Shit… shit… shit… I won't die… I won't die…"
He bit his lip until it bled, inhaled sharply—and slashed the blade across his skin.
Blood erupted. He screamed until his voice broke, collapsing to his knees, shaking with shock. A chunk of flesh—uneven, trembling—he threw onto the scale. The pan barely moved.
"NO!!! MORE!!!"
He cut again. And again. His fingers slipped on the wet handle, blood pooling on the floor, mixing with melted frost. He shook violently, sobbing, cursing, begging, damning everything.
Minutes later, he could barely stand at all—collapsed to the floor, clinging to the edge of the table. His body convulsed.
"Please… please… enough…" he exhaled, yet he continued cutting. Weakly. Blindly. No longer understanding where the knife ended and flesh began.
The timer approached zero.
00:49…00:48…00:47…
The scales began to rise. Barely. Microscopic.
But it wasn't enough. And he knew it.
"Please… I don't want… I…"
He lost balance and fell, shoulder striking the floor. The knife slipped from his hand. Michael tried to lift himself, but his fingers no longer responded.
The last thing he saw—was the scale's needle.
Equilibrium was still far away.
Far too far.
He tried to inhale—the air suddenly thick, sticky. His vision blurred. He collapsed face-down on the cold concrete, trembling, gasping, but already feeling nothing.
The timer counted the final seconds.
00:0300:0200:0100:00
The TV flickered.The puppet tilted its head.
"Game over."