The corridor lay buried deep beneath the arid outskirts of Pakistan, a throat of concrete choking on stale air. Overhead, dying halogen bulbs buzzed like trapped insects, casting sickly, flickering shadows against walls sweating with damp rot. The air tasted of wet rust and ancient fear.
Into this silence, a sound intruded. Not the chaotic shuffle of a guard, but a rhythm. Heavy. Measured. Inevitable.
A figure emerged from the gloom. He wore black—a rugged t-shirt clinging to a frame built for violence, and jeans worn pale at the knees. A tactical half-mask obliterated his identity, leaving only his eyes exposed. They were void of anger, void of mercy. They were the eyes of a surgeon about to make an incision.
He stopped at a heavy iron door. A sliver of light bled through the corroded jamb.
His hand moved. The knob turned. The latch clicked—a sound like a breaking bone in the quiet.
He stepped inside.
The violence that followed was terrifying in its efficiency. It was a whisper of death.
Phut. Phut.
Two suppressed rounds coughed into the room. The men at the table didn't scream; they simply ceased to exist. Their heads snapped back, cards fluttering from their hands like dead leaves as they slumped over their poker game.
The third man scrambled, chair clattering, lunging for a rifle.
Phut. Phut.
One bullet shattered his clavicle; the second tore through his thigh muscle. He hit the floor with a wet thud, gasping, drowning in shock.
Before the guard could crawl, the Masked Man was there. He didn't run; he simply occupied the space. He grabbed the guard by a handful of greasy hair, hauled him to his knees, and pressed the cold muzzle of his weapon against the man's kneecap.
"Listen closely," the Masked Man said. His voice was a low, gravelly rumble, devoid of human warmth. "This bullet will enter your patella, shatter the tibial plateau, and split the medial condyle before your brain even registers the sound."
He tilted the guard's weeping face up to the light.
"Where is Abhur al-Issar?"
The guard hesitated. His eyes darted to the left. A micro-second of loyalty.
Phut.
The shot was muffled, but the scream was primal. The guard's leg disintegrated. He shrieked, a high-pitched, animalistic sound that bounced off the concrete walls.
"I'll talk! I'll talk! East Wing! The old munitions storage! Sector Two! He's there! Just him and the elite guard!"
The Masked Man nodded, a gesture of terrifying politeness.
"Thank you."
Crack.
A single round to the forehead ended the scream instantly. The body collapsed, blood pooling beneath it like a dark, expanding oil slick. The Masked Man stepped over the corpse without looking down and vanished back into the corridor.
Sector Two. The Munitions Storage
Abhur al-Issar sat at a polished steel table, dismantling a sniper rifle with the care of a lover. Around him, six of his best men lounged, cleaning sidearms, laughing softly, safe in their underground fortress.
Then, the world ended.
The generator cut out. The hum of electricity died, plunging the room into absolute, suffocating darkness.
"What the—" someone started.
Then came the muzzle flashes.
TAT-TAT-TAT.
Stroboscopic bursts of light illuminated the room in horrific, disjointed snapshots.
A guard falling backward.
A spray of blood mid-air.
A look of confusion turning to oblivion.
The darkness returned, heavy and silent.
"Is... is he down?" a guard whispered into the black.
The answer came not in words, but in bodies hitting the floor.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Abhur scrambled backward, his hands slick with sweat, grasping for his weapon. Something struck him—three impacts in rapid succession. Fire erupted in his leg, his hand, his shoulder.
He fell, weapons clattering away into the dark. He clawed at the floor, dragging his broken body backward, gasping, sobbing.
Buzz.
The emergency lights flickered on—a dim, blood-red wash of light.
And there he stood.
The Masked Man. Center of the room. Surrounded by corpses.
He wasn't panting. He wasn't shaking. He stood with his gun lowered, watching Abhur crawl like an insect under a microscope.
Abhur's back hit the cold concrete wall. He looked up, and recognition hit him like a physical blow. The air left his lungs.
"You..." Abhur whispered. The word carried the weight of a death sentence.
A memory flashed through his mind—sharp, jagged, terrifying.
A week ago. A grainy video file. A shadowed figure in a half-mask speaking in a distorted voice: "Abhur al-Issar. You are the target. When I find you, pain will be the only language you understand."
He had laughed then. He wasn't laughing now.
"Wait!" Abhur stammered, his hands raised in a futile shield. "Don't... listen to me! I have accounts in the Caymans! Millions! I can give you power! I can make you a king! You don't have to be a killer!"
The Masked Man tilted his head slightly. Beneath the mask, lips curled into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. It was the smile of a reaper who had already dug the grave.
He holstered his gun and drew two combat knives from his boots. The steel gleamed red in the emergency light.
THUNK.
The first blade flew, burying itself deep into Abhur's shoulder, pinning him to the drywall.
Abhur screamed, his body arching.
THUNK.
The second blade drove through his healthy hand, nailing it to the floor.
Now, Abhur was a specimen on a board.
The Masked Man knelt before him. He produced a pair of rusted, heavy-duty pliers.
"No..." Abhur's voice cracked, dissolving into a whimper. "No, please... I'm not a believer! I'm just a businessman! I'll quit! I swear to God, I'll quit!"
"You aren't a businessman," the Masked Man said softly. "You are a disease."
He gripped Abhur's thumb with the cold steel of the pliers.
CRUNCH. RIP.
The scream that tore from Abhur's throat was not human. It was raw, shredded, a sound of absolute soul-breaking agony.
Then the index finger.
Then the middle.
One by one. Systematically. Without anger. The Masked Man worked with the patience of a mechanic. Abhur convulsed, his vision blurring with tears and shock, begging for death, begging for silence.
When the hand was a ruin, the Masked Man reached into his belt and produced a final blade. This one was different. The edge shimmered with a faint, iridescent purple coating.
Abhur's eyes rolled back in terror. "What... what is that?"
"Neurotoxin," the Masked Man answered, his voice steady. "It stimulates the pain receptors while simultaneously paralyzing the motor functions."
He drove the purple blade deep into Abhur's shattered knee.
Abhur tried to scream, but his throat seized. His mouth opened in a silent, horrific gasp. Veins bulged on his neck.
The Masked Man stood up, wiping his gloves on his jeans.
"You will die," he said, looking down at the paralyzed, agonized figure. "But not yet. It takes thirty minutes. Your lungs will fail slowly. You will feel every second of it. You will feel your heart struggle to beat."
He turned his back.
Abhur watched him go, trapped in his own body, a prisoner of his own pain. He tried to call out, to beg for a bullet, but only a wet gurgle escaped his lips.
The Masked Man walked into the corridor, his boots echoing rhythmically on the concrete. He didn't look back. The job was done.
Behind him, in the red glow of the basement, the silence was heavier than the grave.