The next
Jason's heartbeat resonated in his ears—deep, thunderous, yet unnervingly slow. A dull pressure mounted behind his eyes, blurring his vision. His limbs felt distant, as if submerged in deep water.
Then, darkness.
He drifted in and out of consciousness, catching glimpses of sterile white walls and the murmur of voices just beyond comprehension.
"I've never seen someone as fit as he is."
A beep. The rustle of paper.
"Prepare the equipment,so its ready for the procedure."
Jason's body convulsed slightly; he couldn't move or speak.
"For the next study subject, we have Noida."
A pause. The sound of gloved hands adjusting something nearby.
"This person here is in Stage 2 of the disease."
The words slipped past like oil on water, twisting, warping, breaking into static. Jason couldn't discern if they were real or a dream. Yet, deep within, a whisper of dread curled into existence.
Jason awoke in the hospital bed, afternoon light slanting through the blinds.
His body felt... light. Too light. As if gravity had loosened its grip on him.
Sitting up, he anticipated soreness. Instead, his muscles coiled with a quiet readiness, as if he hadn't just spent a day unconscious in a hospital. The antiseptic scent of the room clung to him, but his mind was hazy, fragments of memory slipping through his fingers like sand.
Did someone say his name? No, it had to be a dream. A bad one.
He stood, stretching absently, and reached for his glass of water. It slipped from his grasp—but before he could react, his hand shot out, catching it just inches from the ground.
Jason froze.
His movements had been too fast, too precise. He hadn't even reacted—his body had moved on its own.
Only then did he acknowledge the Arnon in the room.
"Awww, our sleeping beauty has woken up early. Did my kiss really work?"
Jason slowly faced the window and prayed, "Dear God, please find my friend a girlfriend. Lately, it has become worse."
A person can survive without food for one to two months.
Without water for three to seven days.
Without sleep:
* 24 hours: Impaired judgment, mood swings, slower reaction times (similar to being drunk).
* 48 hours: Extreme fatigue, confusion, micro-sleeps (brief moments of unconsciousness).
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
* 72+ hours: Hallucinations, paranoia, severe cognitive impairment.
Jason had been diagnosed with fainting due to prolonged sleep deprivation, causing his body to shut down. They administered health supplements and induced sleep. But here he was, doing a dance straight out of pyramid pictures for fulfilling his prayers..... in just a day—this cockroach just never dies.
He had been drifting in and out of consciousness because of lack of sleep for a whole day. Thinking of this, he went to look in the mirror. His hair strands obstructed his vision, and he planned to get a much-needed haircut.
Leaving the hospital late in the afternoon, Jason returned home. His sister ran to him, hugging him tightly, expressing how worried she had been. Then she looked up.
"Ewww, what is this haircut?"
All the confidence his barber had hyped him with dissolved like cotton candy in water. A week of death was going to ensue.
---
A man in his late 40s, paced the dimly lit room, a marble rolling between his fingers as he scrutinized the crime scene photos spread before him. The cases were meticulously executed—six murders with barely any overt connection. Yet, a disturbing symmetry threaded through them all.
Determined to uncover any more clues, he revisited the most recent crime scene.
The victim, a man in his mid-30s, was discovered with his abdomen grotesquely distended, a fourth burger forcibly lodged in his throat.
Reconstructing the killer's method, he envisioned the sequence: Returning home late from his favorite eatery, likely encountered someone familiar or persuasive enough to gain entry without resistance. The apartment door closed, sealing him in with something far worse than the night outside.Once inside, the atmosphere turned into a party they had been vibing for "never gonna give"—until the first bite of the burger. The burger's patty concealed finely honed razors, slicing his mouth and throat with each unsuspecting chew. By the time he realized, it was too late. Blood pooled on his tongue, but that was only the beginning.
The pain inside him was eclipsed by the agony that followed. The killer restrained him, pressing him onto the dining table with eerie patience. Then, the true artistry began. A blade traced his skin, not deep enough to kill—just enough to peel, to flay. Flesh curled away in thin ribbons, each cut deliberate, measured. The air reeked of copper and burnt adrenaline.
The victim struggled, but his own blood made the table slick. The killer whispered to him between each slice, recounting ancient punishments, describing how emperors once used this technique to unmake traitors piece by piece. His chest was a canvas, his skin unspooling in crimson spirals. His screams dwindled into hoarse gasps as pain became an all-consuming thing.
When his body finally sagged in surrender, the killer took his time with the finale. A good dance around the slumped man in blood .He forced open the man's mouth and placed a silver coin beneath his shredded tongue—a grotesque obol for the afterlife. Then, as the final breath rattled free, the killer took up the intestines, draping them around the corpse's neck like a macabre garland.
The blood was still warm as the killer stepped back, admiring the work. A moment of silence, then—movement. Slow, deliberate steps through the pooling gore, leaving behind footprints like a twisted dance.
And then, as if nothing had happened, the killer slipped away, leaving only a body—a work of ruinous art waiting to be found.
Other victims' photos revealed equally heinous fates:
* A gym trainer, moonlighting to support his family, executed with a precise shot to the head—punished for overstepping his societal role.
* A detective, face submerged in a filthy gutter, left without clues or suspects—a stark message of disdain for law enforcement.
* A man, limbs nailed to a chair, muscles paralyzed, condemned to eternal stillness.
* A social media influencer, her tongue severed, phone screen shattered—a brutal silencing of her online voice.
* A man with fists clenched tight, tendons severed to ensure perpetual rage etched into his corpse.
* A stockbroker, suffocated not by water, but by a deluge of coins forcefully packed into his mouth.
The patterns seemed nonsensical, a chaotic tapestry of violence. Yet, he has discerned the underlying psyche—a mind orchestrating these acts with a perverse sense of morality, reminiscent of twisted fairy tales.
A singular detail unified the cases: a silver coin, deliberately placed beneath each victim's tongue.
This was the killer's signature.
Without his unconventional insight, the connection to the seven deadly sins might have been overlooked. The murderer interpreted minor transgressions as cardinal sins—gluttony assigned to a man eating an extra burger,when a man is eating another burger after his hunger is satisfied.. he is eating another person's food. The rationale was as warped as it was lethal.
---
Even within the supposed sanctuary of his home, Jason's torment persisted, his dreams a relentless cascade of distorted memories.
As he drifted into uneasy sleep, the hospital's disembodied voices resurfaced, looping like a corrupted recording.
"I've never seen ... as fit as he is."
...
A beep. The rustle of paper.
"Prepare .... it is ready for the procedure."
...
The phrases overlapped, warping and distorting, their meanings twisting into incomprehensibility.
..
"For the next study subject, we have—"
...
"Stage 2 of—"
...
" as fit as he is."
...
"is ready for the."
...
"the next study"
...
"Stage 2 of"
...
"He is—" "Ready for the—" "Next Stage."
The words repeated, a relentless mantra, dissolving into static.
Until only a single, chilling declaration remained.
"He is ready for the next stage.”