William's room was a place of solitude and quiet. The only source of light came from a faint streetlamp outside his window, casting long shadows on the walls. It was here, in this cold, empty space, where he allowed himself to feel something—something he had long tried to bury.
He reached under his bed and pulled out a small, worn plushie—a memento from a time before the killing, before the darkness consumed him. He sat on the edge of the bed and hugged it tightly, feeling the soft fabric against his chest. For a brief moment, the weight of his violent, blood-soaked past seemed to lessen. The plushie was a relic of innocence, of something untouched by the horrors he had become.
But as he held it, the memories came rushing back—the years of pain, abuse, and loneliness. His father's harsh words, the years of neglect, the brutal beatings that had turned him into a monster. The violent life he had built was his only escape, but it also meant carrying the burden of a past that would never leave him.
He clenched the plushie in his hand, feeling the weight of his pain pressing down on him. His breath hitched as the feelings he had fought so hard to suppress began to overwhelm him. He wasn't strong. He wasn't the unfeeling assassin he pretended to be. He was weak, vulnerable. And he hated himself for it.
Why did he even need this? Why did he need something to cling to, something to make him feel safe when he knew, deep down, that no one would ever truly love him? No one could. Not after everything he had done. The thoughts flooded his mind, and in a fit of frustration, he threw the plushie to the ground, watching it land with a soft thud.
William lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts racing. He didn't need this—he didn't need to rely on anything. But deep down, he knew he was lying to himself. He was hollow, alone, and his heart ached in a way that no amount of killing or missions could numb.
He closed his eyes, but the words of Officers Gala Marian and Wayne Jackson echoed in his mind. Their concern, their desire to help him, had been genuine. They had tried to reach him, to show him that there was more to life than violence and bloodshed. But their words felt like distant echoes, fleeting and hollow. No one could fix him. He was beyond saving.
Tears began to well in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He couldn't afford to be weak. But despite his best efforts, they came. He cried for the loss of innocence, for the man he could have been, for the love he would never know. He cried for the child who had been abandoned, the person who had never truly belonged anywhere.
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The tears soaked into his pillow as he drifted into an uneasy sleep. The pain, the guilt, the loneliness—it all followed him into his dreams.
Nightmares. The same nightmares that haunted him every night—of his past, of the people he had killed, of the endless cycle of violence. But tonight, he didn't fight them. He didn't scream or thrash around in terror. Instead, he lay still, accepting the torment. He knew, deep down, that no one would ever comfort him. No one would ever pull him from this abyss.
He closed his eyes, letting the darkness consume him. And for a brief, fleeting moment, he allowed himself to feel small, to feel human, to feel broken.
And then, he fell asleep.
The night dragged on in a restless haze, and William was trapped in the grip of nightmares. They were the same ones that always haunted him—visions of his victims, their faces twisted in agony, blood pooling at his feet. The screams echoed in his ears, a cacophony of all the lives he had taken. Each one, a reminder of his own darkness, each one carving deeper into his soul.
He was back in the alleyways where his first kill had occurred, the rush of adrenaline still fresh in his veins. The blade had sunk into the man's chest so easily, so cleanly. And then there were the others—countless faces, all merging into one grotesque blur of death and blood. The weight of his actions felt suffocating, as if the very air he breathed was tainted by his past.
In the midst of these visions, an overwhelming urge consumed him—a suffocating desire to end it all. The pain, the loneliness, the constant war within himself—it all felt like too much to bear. For the first time in years, he considered the thought of ending it. His own existence had become a burden, a cycle of destruction that only led to more bloodshed and emptiness. He was trapped in his own mind, and nothing could release him from this torment.
But just as quickly as the thought came, it was smothered by something else. Anger. Raw, seething anger at himself. He was the one who had chosen this path. He was the one who had pushed everyone away, built walls so high that no one could ever reach him. Relationships? They had never been an option. He didn't deserve them, not after everything he had done.
He woke with a jolt, his heart pounding, his body slick with sweat. The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a cold, sterile glow across the room. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. The anger was still there, gnawing at him like a hunger that would never be satisfied.
How could he expect to have anything—anything worth living for—when he had built his life on the corpses of others? His thoughts spiraled, and once again, the bitterness of his reality became overwhelming. He had pushed everyone away, pushed every opportunity for connection, and now, he was paying the price. The isolation that had once been a comfort had now become his prison.
With a growl of frustration, William threw the blankets off his body, pacing around the room. His reflection in the mirror was a man he didn't recognize—a cold, broken killer who had given up on life before it had even truly begun. He wasn't just angry at the world anymore; he was angry at himself, at the choices he had made, and at the person he had allowed himself to become.
But anger, in all its forms, was the only thing that kept him going.