Mike's life had been shattered, torn apart by the mysterious disappearances and the cold, calculated manipulation of the High Rise Devil. But in the aftermath of his suffering, a new resolve had taken root deep within him—a desire not just for answers, but for vengeance. He wouldn't sit idly by while his world was destroyed, piece by piece. The path to retribution was unclear, but one thing was certain: he needed power.
His search for answers brought him back to the Black Angel, the man who had once been a shadow in his life, now a symbol of something greater. Mike found him again in the hidden corners of the city, where power and secrets intertwined. The Black Angel was everything Mike needed—a ruthless mentor, a man whose skill and intelligence far surpassed any that Mike had ever encountered.
Under the Black Angel's tutelage, Mike's training was grueling and unforgiving. He learned how to wield firearms with precision, his hands steady as he learned to use guns in ways he never thought possible. Knives became an extension of his arm, each blade thrown with deadly accuracy, each move calculated. His endurance training pushed him to his limits, his body breaking down before being rebuilt stronger, faster, and more capable. Pain became a companion, a reminder that the price of vengeance was steep, but Mike was willing to pay it.
His mind, too, was reshaped under the Black Angel's tutelage. Mental clarity, focus, and the ability to anticipate his enemy's next move became second nature to him. He immersed himself in the depths of strategy and manipulation, becoming a master of psychological warfare. His once-ordinary life, defined by the simplicity of routine, had transformed into a brutal, relentless pursuit of power and vengeance. He was no longer the boy who had sat idly by—he was becoming something far darker.
But what Mike didn't know, what the Black Angel had carefully concealed, was the true connection between him and the High Rise Devil. The two men weren't just distant figures in a grand scheme; they were collaborators. They had been working together, manipulating Mike's every move. The Black Angel's role in his transformation was part of a larger plan, a plan that Mike was still blind to. But revenge clouded his mind, and he focused solely on the present, on the task at hand.
The Black Angel had a mission for Mike. A test, one that would solidify his place in the underworld and prove his worth. They were going after a gang member—a lowly criminal, a pawn in a larger game. Mike's blood ran cold as he followed the Black Angel's orders, tracking down the target, capturing him, and bringing him to an abandoned warehouse. There, the true nature of the mission revealed itself.
The gang member was bound, his eyes wide with terror as he realized the fate that awaited him. Mike, his hands steady from the hours of training, stepped forward, the gleam of a sharpened knife in his hand. The Black Angel stood in the background, watching with a cold, detached gaze. Mike didn't hesitate. The blade sliced through flesh, skinning the man alive with the precision of a professional. The screams echoed in the room, the sound of suffering mixing with the harsh metallic scent of blood. Mike's heart raced, the adrenaline coursing through his veins as the Black Angel nodded, approving of his progress.
But as Mike carried out the gruesome task, a sense of unease began to settle within him. The Black Angel was cold, emotionless. This wasn't just a mission—it was a lesson in cruelty. Mike had done what was required, but in the back of his mind, something gnawed at him. The Black Angel's indifference was unsettling, and it was beginning to feel like he wasn't just being trained; he was being used.
It was then that the truth began to dawn on Mike. He had been a pawn in someone else's game. The Black Angel's approval, the harsh lessons, the bloodshed—it had all been part of a larger plan. A plan he hadn't fully understood until now. He had been manipulated into becoming a weapon, a tool for someone else's agenda. And as the realization hit him, something inside him snapped. The burning desire for vengeance that had once consumed him now felt like a hollow, meaningless pursuit. The Devil was still out there, pulling the strings, watching everything unfold.
Unbeknownst to Mike, the High Rise Devil had been watching the entire operation unfold. From the shadows, he saw every move, every decision made, and every stroke of the blade. He was calculating, always ten steps ahead. The High Rise Devil had seen Mike's potential, and while he was entertained by the chaos that had unfolded so far, he was already preparing for what would come next.
The Devil had known that Mike would seek revenge, that the boy would want to take down those responsible for his suffering. What the Devil hadn’t anticipated, however, was that Mike would start to see through the web of manipulation. Mike's thirst for vengeance would be his undoing, but not before the Devil enjoyed watching the chaos spread. The Devil had orchestrated every step of Mike's descent, turning him into a weapon to be wielded at will. He had watched as Mike grew stronger, more deadly, more consumed by anger. And now, he would watch as Mike's pursuit of vengeance consumed him entirely.
For now, Mike had a new mission, a new purpose. But the High Rise Devil knew the boy wouldn't remain in the shadows forever. And when the time came, he would make sure Mike's revenge would be his final mistake. The pieces were set. The game was in motion. The Devil smiled, knowing that Mike's journey was far from over—and the worst was yet to come.
As Mike trained, as he honed his skills, he was unaware of the true depth of the trap that had been laid for him. His every action, every decision, was being carefully watched, manipulated, and controlled. He was a weapon, yes, but he was also a puppet, and the Devil was the one pulling the strings.
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The final confrontation between Mike and the High Rise Devil was inevitable, but it was far from simple. Mike’s power, his rage, and his thirst for revenge would drive him toward the Devil, but in doing so, he would fall into the very trap he had been trying to escape from. The Devil, always watching, always calculating, was ready to reap the fruits of his work. And Mike, for all his strength, for all his newfound power, was about to learn the hard truth—that revenge would never set him free.
THE BLACK ANGEL’S JUDGMENT
The house exuded the comforting glow of domesticity—a veneer of tranquility masking the turmoil lurking beneath its polished surface. Family photos lined the walls, capturing moments of laughter and love. A dog-eared book rested on a coffee table, and the faint scent of lavender air freshener mingled with the aroma of a recently baked casserole. It was a portrait of idyllic family life—a fragile illusion that the Black Angel was determined to shatter. Tonight, this house would be a cathedral of suffering, a canvas for vengeance painted in blood and despair.
The Black Angel moved like a wraith, his steps imperceptible on the plush carpet. The air grew heavier with his presence, a suffocating shroud of malice that snuffed out the warmth of the home. He wasn’t here by chance. This was judgment. The woman had betrayed love itself, obliterating the life of the man who had once adored her. Her happiness, her family, her carefully constructed facade—they were grotesque mockeries of justice. The Black Angel would destroy them all.
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THE BEGINNING OF TERROR
He entered the master bedroom first. The woman lay nestled in a cocoon of soft blankets, her face serene in the embrace of sleep. Her husband snored beside her, the rise and fall of his chest a rhythm of blissful ignorance. The Black Angel stood over them, his shadow stretching across the room like the harbinger of doom.
His gloved hand hovered over her face for a moment, his expression as cold and unyielding as the blade he gripped. The questions churned in his mind: Did she think of the man she had betrayed? Did guilt haunt her, or had she buried it beneath the comforts of her new life?
The answer didn’t matter. Tonight, she would face her sins.
The first cut was deliberate and precise. The blade sliced through her throat, severing her windpipe in a single, fluid motion. Her eyes snapped open, wide with terror and incomprehension. Blood gushed from the wound, soaking the sheets in crimson. She thrashed weakly, her hands clawing at him in a futile attempt to fight. The Black Angel watched her struggle, detached and unflinching, as her life drained away in sputtering gasps.
Her husband stirred, groaning groggily as the commotion disrupted his slumber. “Sarah?” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. Then his eyes focused, and realization struck like a thunderbolt. “Sarah!” he screamed, lunging toward her.
But the Black Angel was faster. A vicious kick to the chest sent the man sprawling to the floor. His head struck the edge of the nightstand with a sickening crack, leaving him dazed and bleeding.
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A HOUSE OF NIGHTMARES
The Black Angel moved with unrelenting efficiency. Barbed wire emerged from his bag, its jagged edges glinting malevolently in the dim light. He bound the man’s wrists and ankles, the wire biting into flesh and tearing through skin with every movement. Blood oozed from the lacerations, pooling beneath him.
The Black Angel turned back to the wife’s lifeless body. Her glazed eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling, her blood-matted hair clinging to her face. He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her upright, her limp frame jerking grotesquely. With inhuman strength, he plunged his hands into the gaping wound in her abdomen, pulling her intestines free in slick, coiled lengths.
The husband screamed, his voice raw with anguish. “Stop! Please, for the love of God, stop!”
The Black Angel ignored him. He tied the intestines to the ceiling fan, their weight causing the blades to creak as they spun lazily. Blood splattered the walls in a macabre display, painting the room in streaks of crimson.
“Why are you doing this?” the husband sobbed, his voice breaking. “What did we do to deserve this?”
The Black Angel crouched beside him, his voice low and cold. “She destroyed a man’s life,” he hissed. “Tonight, you’ll understand what it feels like to lose everything.”
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THE CHILDREN’S FATE
The Black Angel turned his attention to the children’s rooms. The eldest, a boy of six, woke to the sound of his door creaking open. He blinked groggily, his confusion giving way to fear as the shadowy figure loomed over him.
“Who... who are you?” the boy stammered.
The Black Angel didn’t answer. He seized the child by the wrist, dragging him from his bed despite the boy’s desperate resistance. Tiny fists pummeled his chest, but they were no more than whispers against an immovable force.
In the kitchen, a pot of oil bubbled furiously on the stove. The Black Angel hoisted the boy by his ankles and held him over the scalding liquid.
“No! Please, no!” the boy shrieked, tears streaming down his face.
The Black Angel lowered him slowly, the oil hissing and popping as it made contact with his skin. The boy’s screams turned into guttural shrieks, his body convulsing as the blistering liquid consumed him. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, a nauseating reminder of the horror unfolding.
The youngest child, a girl of three, cowered in her crib, her wide eyes brimming with tears. The Black Angel approached her with deliberate steps, his shadow engulfing her tiny frame. He lifted her gently, cradling her as though offering a moment of solace. Then, with a swift motion, he swung her against the wall. Her skull shattered with a wet, sickening crunch, the blood splattering in a grotesque arc.
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THE FINAL JUDGMENT
When the Black Angel returned to the husband, the man was a husk of his former self. Blood loss and shock had drained him of strength, leaving him trembling and incoherent.
The Black Angel loomed over him, his voice a venomous whisper. “Truth demands a price,” he said, carving the words into the man’s chest with a scalpel. Each letter was an act of calculated cruelty, the blade sinking deep into flesh, the blood flowing freely.
Satisfied, he stepped back to admire his work. The house was silent now, save for the dripping of blood and the faint hum of the ceiling fan. The warmth that had once filled the home was extinguished, replaced by a chilling void.
The Black Angel turned and vanished into the night, leaving behind a house transformed into a monument to vengeance.
When dawn broke, sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating the carnage. Bloodstains marred the walls, and the words carved into the husband’s chest stood as a haunting epitaph:
“Truth demands a price.”