[Who the fuck are you?]
Franz sighed, still riding. "Oh great, another voice in my head. Just what I needed."
<>Worry not, Host. I merely oversee fate. Your first quest is already in motion.<>
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Main Quest: Eradicate the Warehouse Threat
Objective: Eliminate Orion Kane’s enemies
Penalty: Probability of Orion Kane’s death increases.
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Franz barely had time to process the words flashing in his vision before they arrived at the warehouse. The rusted building loomed over them, its dull exterior hiding the bloodbath to come.
He lazily waved his hand and said " Whatever, will deal with you later "
Both got off their bikes. Franz stretched his shoulders, then turned to Orion.
"Just stay behind me and follow my lead."
Orion nodded hesitantly.
Two men stood guard at the entrance, eyeing them with suspicion. Franz limped forward, clutching his side like he was injured.
"Oi, what’s this? Lost, buddy?" One chuckled. "Think you walked into the wrong neighborhood."
Franz staggered closer, mumbling something incoherent.
"What? Speak the fuck up—"
His fist shot up in a brutal uppercut, snapping the first man’s head back. A sickening crack rang out as his jaw shattered. Before the second could react, Franz slammed his knee into his skull. The man crumpled like a ragdoll.
Franz stood over them, breathing steady. Then, without hesitation, he stomped. Once. Twice. Again. The skulls caved with each wet crunch. Blood pooled around his boots.
Orion stiffened behind him, horror flooding his face.
Franz sighed " Haa ... Why did I do that? I would not do that again."
He crouched, searching the bodies. Two handguns. A few knives. He took everything, pocketing one pistol and tossing the other to Orion, who barely caught it with trembling hands.
Then Franz turned and smiled at him.
Orion wished he hadn’t.
Inside the warehouse, bodies dropped before they could scream.
A pistol round to the knee, a knife dragged across throats. One man gurgled, clutching at the widening slit in his neck. Another reached for a weapon, only for Franz to lodge a blade into his temple.
The rest tried to flee.
They didn’t make it far.
Franz moved like a phantom, precise and merciless. A gunshot snapped the silence. A man collapsed, clutching his thigh. Another bullet buried itself in his skull before he could scream.
Blood painted the floor. The smell of gunpowder mixed with iron.
Orion stayed frozen in the corner, gripping his pistol with white knuckles. The muffled ringing in his ears barely drowned out the wet sounds of knives plunging into flesh.
after some time the bloody masacare was over.
Only one man remained.
The night air was thick with the metallic scent of blood. Franz Kafka stood amidst the wreckage of mangled bodies, his hands drenched in crimson, cigarette lazily hanging between his lips. The flickering warehouse lights cast eerie shadows, dancing across his bloodstained figure like specters whispering tales of carnage.
Behind him, Orion Kane stood frozen, eyes locked onto the lifeless forms littering the concrete floor. His breath was shallow, heart hammering against his ribs as if desperate to flee his own body. The weight of the knife in his trembling hands felt foreign—heavy, suffocating. He had never taken a life before. Now, he was being told to carve one away in the most horrifying manner possible.
Franz exhaled a slow plume of smoke before gripping the bloodied gang leader by his hair, dragging him forward. The middle-aged man, Vince Morreno, a mid-tier gang boss, was reduced to nothing more than a sobbing wreck. His once-proud face was contorted in sheer terror, purple-dyed hair matted with sweat and blood. He clawed weakly at Franz’s wrist, but there was no mercy in those dead, black eyes staring down at him.
An old man with a thick white beard—Augustin Valroux, a respected underworld member the guy Franz called —had arrived moments earlier with a group of men. He had bowed deeply, greeting Franz with reverence, but the moment he witnessed the sheer brutality unfolding before him, his admiration curdled into fear. Now, he stood frozen, the recording phone in his shaking hands feeling like a cursed object documenting a ritual of madness.
Franz crouched beside Morreno, yanking his head up so their eyes met. The gang boss sobbed, snot and tears mixing with blood as he choked out pathetic pleas.
"P-Please... I have money—I can pay you! I-I have women, drugs, anything you want! Just don’t—don’t do this!"
Franz didn’t even blink. His voice was calm, measured.
Orion’s body refused to move, but the cold weight of Franz’s gaze shattered his hesitation. He stepped forward on unsteady legs, every fiber of his being screaming at him to run, to pretend he had never met this man. Yet he obeyed. Franz handed him the knife—its black blade wet, reflecting the horror in Orion’s wide eyes.
"Put the knife against his throat."
Orion’s fingers tightened around the hilt, knuckles turning white. Moreau thrashed weakly, gargling out another sobbing plea.
"P-Please! I have a family! A daughter! She—She needs me!"
Franz’s lips curled into a smirk. "How many fathers have you killed , Moreau?"
Moreau sobbed, unable to answer. Franz let out a slow, almost disappointed sigh. Then, he leaned in close, whispering into Orion’s ear.
Orion’s stomach lurched. His hands trembled as he pressed the knife to Moreau’s throat, the skin depressingly soft under the blade. The man wailed, thrashing like a dying animal.
Orion’s breathing grew ragged. His vision blurred with hot tears. He had killed before—in video games, in movies—but this... this was different. The pulse beneath the blade, the warmth of living flesh—it was real.
He clenched his jaw and dragged the knife.
Morreno’s scream curdled into a wet gurgle as blood gushed from the shallow wound. He thrashed violently, his body convulsing like a fish on dry land. Orion wanted to stop. His mind screamed at him to stop. But Franz’s hand was on his shoulder, grounding him in place.
The blade moved again. Morreno’s wails turned to choked gargles, his vocal cords severed. Blood poured in thick rivulets, coating Orion’s hands in its sticky warmth. The stench was suffocating—coppery, putrid, human.
Tears streamed down Orion’s face, but he kept sawing. The blade caught on bone, jerking in his grip. A high-pitched whimper escaped him. Morreno’s eyes were bulging, his mouth frothing with desperate, soundless cries. He was drowning in his own blood.
Finally, with a sickening crack, the spinal cord gave way. The head separated from the body with a wet squelch, rolling onto the concrete floor like a discarded doll. Orion’s stomach churned violently, and he doubled over, dry heaving. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Franz lifted the severed head by its hair, blood dripping in thick strands from the torn flesh. He turned it toward the camera, expression blank, almost bored.
"Orion Kane’s enemies are my enemies." His voice was steady, absolute. "And this is what happens to my enemies."
Augustin, still holding the phone, was trembling so violently the recording was unsteady. Every man in the room stood in horrified silence, many looking away, some barely containing their bile. Even seasoned killers felt their stomachs churn at the sight.
Franz tossed the head onto Moreau’s lifeless body and took another drag from his cigarette, exhaling smoke through the lingering scent of death.
"That’s enough," he muttered, flicking the cigarette away. "Spread the video to gangs of this country."
He turned, walking through the sea of terrified men. They parted for him like water, heads bowed, bodies stiff with fear. They weren’t looking at a man. They were looking at a Death Incarnate, something beyond comprehension. A demon draped in blood and smoke.
At the doorway, Franz paused, glancing back. He gestured at Orion, who was still on his knees, staring blankly at his bloodied hands.
Orion looked down at his hands. The blood was drying, but he knew it would never wash off. Not really.
"This guy," he said, voice casual. "He’s my brother now. Make sure he gets home safe. And whatever he tells you to do, you do it."
The men nodded wordlessly, their faces pale. None dared question him.
And with that, Franz Kafka walked out into the cold night, his body drenched in blood, his presence leaving behind nothing but horror and silence