2025-02-07 00:39:13Walker was in a trance. The world around him blurred, fading into something nightmarish. He stood frozen, watching in horror as Dr. Graham, the esteemed surgeon, cut into his wife’s belly. The scalpel gleamed under the surgical light, slicing through skin with eerie precision. Then—something unnatural happened. The doctor reached inside and pulled out a grotesque, pulsing mass, slipping it into a small, black box.
Walker tried to scream. Tried to move. But he was locked behind a door, the small 15 by 15 centimeter window his only view into this twisted reality. He pounded on the glass, his breath fogging it up, but no one turned. No one heard him. The air reeked of antiseptic, but underneath, something foul seeped in—a scent he couldn’t name, something rotting beneath the surface of this hospital. Then— the vision shattered. Walker gasped, jolting awake, drenched in sweat. His pulse pounded against his skull like a hammer. It was just a trance. A nightmare. But it felt too real. His hand flew to his watch. 5:30 AM. His heart lurched. Elizabeth. He shot up from the uncomfortable chair, his legs stiff from hours of stillness. The hospital’s sterile white walls seemed too pristine, too unnatural—like a stage set to mask something unspeakable. He moved cautiously, his footsteps light on the cold tiles as he made his way to the female ward. As he approached, voices whispered from behind a curtain. Urgent. Hushed. Almost desperate. He tiptoed closer, pressing himself against the wall. His breath hitched. Then— silence. The curtain fluttered. Three nurses stepped out, their gazes sharp as scalpels. “Sir, you are not supposed to be here,” one of them said, her voice clipped. “Please leave immediately.” Walker swallowed hard. He wanted to argue. To demand answers. To tell them about the vision. But the weight of their stares pinned him in place. His fingers curled into fists. Not now. He turned away, but his mind burned with a single thought—What were they hiding? As he sat back in the dimly lit waiting area, he felt the eyes of other patients on him. Someone lowered a newspaper, watching him closely. Another shifted uncomfortably in their chair. To them, he was a man unraveling. A nuisance. A ticking bomb. But his instincts screamed that something was wrong. Outside the Hospital The faint wail of sirens broke the stillness. Two ambulances pulled up at the rear of the hospital. The doors swung open, and two tall men stepped out—dressed head to toe in black overalls with hooded caps. They moved with purpose. Efficiency. Precision. A hospital worker met them, exchanging a few hushed words before leading them through a rear entrance. Walker, hidden behind a pillar, watched it all unfold. His pulse quickened. He followed. When they reached a machine-card reader door, the men swiped their access cards and disappeared inside. Walker had no card. No way in. He clenched his jaw. He would wait. He found cover in the garage, crouching behind an old parked car. Minutes crawled by. Then—footsteps. His breath caught. Six men emerged from the hospital, carrying large white bags. They moved with caution. Deliberate. Checking their surroundings. Walker’s stomach twisted. They opened the ambulance’s rear doors and loaded the bags inside. He squinted. The bags weren’t transparent. But something inside them shifted. Then—disaster. His foot brushed against an empty bottle container. Crack! The noise shattered the silence like a gunshot. The men froze. One of them turned sharply, eyes narrowing. "Did you hear that?" Another man cursed, rushing the loading process. A torchlight clicked on. Walker’s pulse hammered in his ears as one of the men approached his hiding spot. The light cut through the shadows, sweeping in a slow, deliberate zigzag. Walker’s muscles screamed to move. To run. But how far could he get before they caught him? Could he fight? No chance. They would rip him apart in seconds. Then—the man bent down, reaching under the car. Walker’s heartbeat stopped. Suddenly— A stray cat darted out from beneath the vehicle. The man stumbled backward, cursing. "Goddamn it!" "Relax," another chuckled. "It’s just a cat." Walker didn’t breathe. He didn’t dare. The men hurriedly shut the van’s doors and climbed in. The engines roared to life, and within seconds, the ambulances vanished into the night. Walker’s lungs sucked in air like a drowning man. His hands trembled as he crept forward. The area was too clean. Too perfect. Then—something. A glove. Discarded. Blood-stained. He knelt down, picking it up. His fingers ran over the fabric, the sticky warmth still fresh. Before he could process it, a noise snapped him to attention. He ducked. A figure emerged from a side door. A nurse. Walker recognized her. He had seen her before—whispering to the others. The ones hiding something. She scanned the area, her face hardening. Then—her eyes locked onto the untied trash bag. Walker’s blood turned to ice. He had forgotten to retie it. The nurse’s face twisted. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a phone, and made a call. Within five minutes, a garbage truck rumbled into the hospital compound. They emptied the entire trash bin. Walker watched, sick to his stomach. All evidence—gone. He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. What now? How much worse could this get? Then—his breath hitched. A tiny red light flickered above him. His gaze lifted, following the soft glow to its source. There—nestled inside the glare of the hospital’s overhead light—a CCTV camera. Watching. Recording. Walker’s body went rigid. His mind screamed—They had seen him.
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Meet me at the Cave
Walker stood by the cracked window, his silhouette half swallowed in the shadows of the room. The light outside was still, but his insides churned like a distant storm.“Svet…” he began, voice low but firm, “…I don’t want to involve you in what you don’t fully understand.”Svet leaned forward on the edge of the couch, hands clasped tightly. His expression had shifted from curious to cautious.Walker stepped away, slowly, almost like retreating. His boots made faint creaks on the wooden floor.“I’ve pulled others into this before,” Walker continued, eyes not meeting Svet’s, “and now… they blame me for everything.”His voice cracked slightly on that last word, as if regret was a bruise he hadn’t stopped pressing.He was about to say more—“involving” was halfway out of his mouth—when his phone buzzed in his palm. A sharp vibration.No name. Just a blank number.Walker stared at it for a beat too long.Then he answered.“Hello,” he said, slowly, cautiously.A silence. Then a voice. Famili
"I'll stay till you figure it out"
The clock ticked past midnight.Walker hadn’t moved far from the window. The lights inside were off. Only the pale glow of the fridge lit the room, casting long shadows across the kitchen floor.Outside, the night sat heavy. The air was thick. Quiet.Then headlights cut through the silence — low, cautious beams. A single car.Walker flinched. His fingers curled tighter around the pistol in his hand. Safety off. Just in case.The sedan crept to a stop across the street. Engine idled. No one stepped out immediately.He stood to the side of the window, one eye just barely peeking through the blinds.Svet.It looked like him. Slouched behind the wheel, shoulders hunched like always. His signature gray hoodie up over his buzz-cut head. No sudden movements.Walker watched for another full minute.Nothing. No second car. No shadows moving behind.Still, he waited.Another thirty seconds.Then he crossed the room silently, reached the door, and unlocked it — click. He kept it half-open, letti
Svet Arrives New York
Walker’s burner phone vibrated against the kitchen counter — a deep buzz that rattled the empty glass beside it.He turned slowly, eyes narrowing. His body stiffened, just slightly, like prey sensing a predator from miles away.The screen flashed: Unknown Caller.He hesitated. His thumb hovered. Then, a quiet sigh.He answered."Walker," a voice said — sharp, urgent, trembling at the edges. "Hello? Am I speaking to Walker?"Walker’s heartbeat skipped. The voice was familiar. Too familiar.He cleared his throat, dropped his tone, and added a rasp. “No. Who’s asking?”The line held its breath."You bastards," the voice snapped, fury laced beneath the words. "You kidnapped Walker, didn’t you? I swear to God — I’ll make sure all of you suffer. I’ll make your lives a living hell."Walker said nothing. He let the silence hang, his jaw clenched, eyes locked on the fridge door’s faint reflection.The voice cracked again, this time with disappointment and confusion. “If you're not Walker, then
Clash
Walker wasn’t in a rush. He moved with the ease of someone who’d done this before.The sun was soft against the hospital roof as he stepped out of the black cab across the street, a brown paper bag in one hand and his eyes doing what they always did—scanning.He’d parked two blocks away and walked the rest. Not out of habit—out of necessity.Private hospital. Minimal foot traffic. Neutral colors. A blue logo painted on a cream wall that looked like it hadn’t seen graffiti in twenty years. Classy. Quiet. Too quiet.He adjusted the paper bag in his grip, the warm sandwich scent from the deli still rising out. Not that he planned to eat. He just needed the visit to look normal.That was the game—make things look normal. Even when they weren’t.Before he crossed the street, he slowed. His left eye twitched.There. The guy across the florist van. Pretending to be on a phone call.Another one—bent at a vending machine too long.Something in the air shifted. Not loud. Just a scent. But Walke
Walker is found again
Dax stood still—frozen, like a man watching his own shadow stretch under a dying sun.His breath dragged out longer than usual. A pulse ticked under his jaw. Slowly, he lifted his wrist and glanced at the time—a black-faced Rolex Sea-Dweller, thick-strapped, gifted by Montoya himself during a silent night of blood and loyalty.The hands on the watch ticked without mercy.Time… slipping.Only twenty-two hours remained out of the thirty-six he’d been given. If Walker wasn’t caught before the clock bled out, Dax wouldn’t just lose his rank—he’d lose his head.And the Stone-Faced Man?That man didn’t make empty threats.Already, Dax had dispatched his crew across the boroughs—Brooklyn to Bronx, from the belly of Queens to the upper glass towers of Manhattan. His men were hunting, and their phones stayed hot. Walker or Riven—he didn’t care which one showed up first. One would lead to the other.He slid his tongue across dry lips and tried to swallow, but the air tasted metallic.The gangs
Left To Die
The warehouse reeked of silence.A heavy, moldy silence—thick like spoiled milk left too long in summer heat.In the center of the dim, rust-stained space stood a single metal pole, its base corroded into the cracked concrete floor.Wrapped around it, bound like an offering to some unseen god, was a girl.Anita.Her frame—once lively and laced in neon lights—now slumped. Her wrists bore deep red rings where the thin, silver chains had bitten into her flesh. Her ankles? Worse. Skin peeled in flaky strips. Swollen. Bruised. One foot twitched every few minutes, not from strength—no, that was long gone—but from involuntary nerves fighting hunger’s grip.Her black leather miniskirt was soiled. Her crop top clung to her skin like a second, sweat-drenched hide.She hadn’t eaten in days.Her hair, once slick and shining under the club's violet strobes, now hung in tangled mats, clumped with sweat, dust, and the dried scent of old urine.And the stench...Even rats stayed away.Three days ago,
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