I sit in my chair, back straight, hands resting on the arms like I’m still some kind of king. The fire cracks in front of me, but I barely feel its warmth. The flicker glints off the untouched scotch in my glass. It’s been sitting there too long. I haven’t touched it.
The clock ticks behind me. Soft. Precise. Almost smug.
Even the fire sounds cautious. Like it doesn’t want to be noticed.
I reach for the drawer. Slow. My hand is steady, but my gut isn’t.
The pistol waits for me like an old friend I hoped never to need again. Polished. Loaded.
I wrap my fingers around it.
I stand. My steps sound too loud against the carpet as I walk toward the door. This room is soundproof—no noise ever comes in, or out.
But as soon as I open the door—
he flinches from the smell.
Copper and cordite. Gunpowder and meat. .
"What the fuck is happening in this house"
I kept walking to see where the smell was coming from.
Slumped against walls. Torn apart mid-motion. Some faces I recognized. Others were missing half their skulls.
And at the far end of the hallway—
At the far end of the corridor—just standing there.
Blood clung to his clothes like war paint. His shirt hung loose, torn at the shoulder, soaked dark red and sticking to muscle.
There were scars—faint, layered over each other.
Jet black hair fell wild over his forehead, wet with blood and sweat.
But his eyes—blue, clear as winter sky—cut through the hallway like blades.
All that red, and yet those eyes burned bright.
He looked divine. If death and chaos had a face... it would be his.
A devil’s grin. Wide. Almost playful.
I had seen that face once before. I could never forget it . That same bloody grin. That same dead calm.
I had a deal. There was still time. He wasn’t supposed to be here .
He turned the corner and there he was.
Right in front of him.
"Oh good," he muttered, blood-slick hand flexing around the grip of his gun. "I don’t have to go look."
Their eyes met—Franz, painted in crimson, shirt torn and clinging to his bruised frame. Scars along his collar, cuts lining his forearms. A walking corpse of rage and purpose.
Elliot dove sideways, narrowly missing a bullet to the throat. Glass shattered behind him.
Another shot. Elliot ducked behind the archway, boots skidding across the blood-slicked marble floor.
Franz stalked forward, boots clicking through blood.
"Come on out," he called, voice half-laughing. "I just wanna talk!"
A shots cracked past his head, just narrowly missing.
Franz’s grin widened as he ducked behind a pillar. "Rude."
He leaned out, voice echoing off the blood-slick marble walls.
"Now you only have four bullets left, Elliot," he called out, mocking. "three, if you still suck at aiming."
He ducked back in. Checked his own gun.
< And you have none.>
[ No pressure, but maybe don’t die here? That’d be great.]
Franz crouched beside a dead guard and rifled through his vest.
Empty holster. No mags. Just blood and broken ribs.
"Shit," Franz muttered. He moved to the next body. Same story.
"Okay. What is this, a no-loot zone? Do they carry blanks now?"
[ Want us to throw a rock? I feel like that’s all we’ve got left.]
Franz rolled his eyes, wiped blood from his cheek with his bare hand, and stood.
The hallway echoed with silence again.
With a very fast speed, he slid across the floor.
Elliot barely had time to react before Franz was there—in his face. Gun raised. Franz grabbed Elliot’s wrist, turned the muzzle sideways.
Their eyes locked. Both breathing heavy. Bloodied. Bruised.
Franz grinned. "Out of bullets, eh?"
Elliot threw a punch—Franz blocked. Elbowed him in the ribs.
Elliot kneed upward—caught Franz in the thigh. Franz stumbled.
A fireplace poker in reach—he grabbed it, swung.
Elliot blocked with a fallen stool, wood shattering on impact. He retaliated with a swift elbow to the jaw. Franz stumbled, spun, kicked the chair beside him into Elliot’s knees.
Elliot buckled—Franz was already moving.
He grabbed Elliot by the lapel and slammed him into a shelf. Leather-bound tomes tumbled like bricks.
Elliot elbowed him again, freeing himself.
Elliot grabbed a letter opener from the shelf.
Franz stepped back just enough—it sliced across his chest, shallow but clean.
Blood streamed down Franz’s chest. He grinned through it.
Franz retaliated with a knee to Elliot’s ribs—once, twice.
Elliot gasped. A sharp, wet sound spilled from his throat—then blood. It dripped from the corner of his mouth, red on white teeth. He tried to speak.
Franz didn’t let him finish.
He surged forward—grabbed Elliot by the collar, yanked him around, and ripped a silk curtain cord from the wall in one clean pull.
He looped it around Elliot’s neck.
The fight vanished from Elliot’s limbs in a heartbeat.
But instinct was louder than reason.
He thrashed. Kicked. Clawed at Franz’s arms. His fingers found Franz’s wounds, tore at the torn fabric, trying to gouge, push, something—but it didn’t matter.
Franz shoved him against the railing. The decorative beam overhead—polished, ornamental, thick enough to hold a body.
The cord pulled tight.
A grunt. A final twist.
Elliot’s feet left the floor.
His shoes kicked weakly at air.
His fingers scraped at his neck.
But the light dimmed fast.
It felt like floating.
Not the kind people described before death—peaceful, quiet.
This was drowning. A slow, choking spiral, the world flickering like a dying bulb.
He blinked. Eyes bulging. Limbs trembling. His vision narrowed. Black crept in.
Covered in blood, framed by smoke and ruin.
The first time he saw Franz Kafka.
And the moment he realized:
That was never just a stranger.