As I slowly regained consciousness, a heavy sense of confusion enveloped me. I blinked several times, trying to make sense of my surroundings. Everything felt disoriented and hazy. My head throbbed with pain, and I reached up to touch my face, only to find my hand coming away with streaks of blood.

"What the...?" I muttered.

Staring at my bloodied hand, the memories of the chaotic events on the mountain road rushed back to me. The ambush, the gunfire, and the van careening off the cliffside all flooded my mind in a disorienting whirlwind.

With a groan, I shook off the haze in my mind and forced myself to sit up. I realized I was in the back of the van. Ignoring the pain in my head, I managed to stand, swaying unsteadily as I moved toward the front of the van.

I reached the driver's seat. Andry slumped over the steering wheel, fortunately unconscious but not dead. I called out his name, but there was no response. Panic surged through me as I realized that he wasn't waking up on his own.

I reached out and gave Andry a firm slap on the cheek, hoping to rouse him from his unconscious state. "Andry! Wake up!" I shouted.

Andry's eyes fluttered open as he groaned, his head spinning from the sudden awakening. "Huh? What happened?" he mumbled, disoriented.

I sighed with a mixture of relief and frustration. "How many times are you going to ask that question?" I scolded. But before he could react, I added, "We fell down the cliffside, and we survived, somehow."

Andry's expression shifted as he began to recall the events leading up to our current predicament. The urgency of our situation slowly dawned on him, and he struggled to regain his composure.

"We need to get out of this van," I urged him, my voice tinged with urgency. It took some effort, but Andry eventually managed to climb out of the van.

I followed suit, retrieving a handgun from the glove box and grabbing a grenade that had been lying around. We both stepped out to survey the wreckage of the van.

"I'm surprised we survived that," Andry remarked, his voice filled with disbelief.

"Yeah," I replied, my gaze fixed on the battered vehicle.

But before I could add, "Me too," a sudden burst of gunfire erupted, and we quickly realized that the men who had set up the roadblock were descending the cliffside, firing at us as they approached.

There were at least twenty heavily armed men, and without hesitation, I turned on my heel and started running. I glanced at Andry, urging him to follow, and together, we sprinted away from the van.

Andry's disheartened voice cut through the tension that hung heavily in the air. "I don't want to die, man," he admitted with a sense of resignation. It seemed he had a rough idea of what might be piloting the approaching helicopter, and I couldn't blame him for his fear. But hope never killed a man, right?

"Neither do I," I replied, my voice carrying a hint of desperation.

I reached into my pocket to make a call, hoping to get some help or guidance. However, my heart sank when I realized that there was no signal on my phone. "Shit, shit, shit!" I muttered, frustration bubbling up as I wracked my brain for our next course of action. No decent ideas came to mind, and the helicopter was getting closer and closer.

It was in that moment, as I exchanged a glance with the gloomy Andry, that I made a decision. I handed the handgun to him, and he looked at me with puppy eyes, silently asking, "What do we do?"

"We split up," I declared. Andry, dense as he tended to be, understood what I meant. With a gloomy and dreadful expression on his face, he nodded, accepting the gun.

"If I get killed, avenge me," I demanded, my voice filled with a sense of finality, only to realize I was acting as they were. “I guess I’m like them in that regard.” I muttered to myself.

Andry nodded solemnly. "If I get killed and you survive, take care of my family."

"Duly noted," I replied, taking his words as a farewell. At that moment, we didn't waste any time. We sprinted in opposite directions, hoping that by splitting up, we might have a better chance of surviving this deadly pursuit.

I ran and ran, without looking back, the sound of the approaching helicopter growing louder and more menacing with each passing second. But then, a noise made my heart skip a beat, and I couldn't ignore it any longer.

"Give me a break," I sighed, coming to a halt and reluctantly turning around. The shadow of the large helicopter loomed over me, casting a chilling presence.

"This isn't fair," I muttered under my breath, feeling a sense of hopelessness wash over me. I couldn't help but hope that the helicopter wouldn't be coming for Andry first. I had no desire to die.

As I turned to face the incoming threat, a hail of loud gunfire erupted around me. It felt like they were shooting at me as if I were vermin to be exterminated. I cursed under my breath, realizing that I should have kept the gun.

I continued to run for my life, the bullets whistling past me with deadly precision. But then, in an instant, one didn't just whistle past me—it struck me, severing my left arm. The searing pain was excruciating, and I let out a scream of agony as I stumbled and fell to the ground, clutching my bleeding stump.

I lay on the ground, my screams of agony filling the air, tears streaming down my face. Every movement sent jolts of searing pain through my severed arm, and I felt utterly helpless. I tried to get back to my feet, but the pain was too much, and I collapsed once more.

Somewhere in the depths of my misery, I found myself hoping that the helicopter would finish me off and end my suffering. But to my dismay, it didn't. It hovered above me, its deafening rotor blades cutting through the air as if it were savoring my torment.

"What the hell? Aren't you motherfuckers supposed to go after Andry? Or is it just me that you motherfuckers want to see dead?" I spat out in frustration, my words a mixture of pain and anger. But the helicopter remained overhead, its dark presence casting a long shadow over me, as if it had other plans in mind.

I considered ending it all so I reached for my pocket, from which I retrieved a pin—one that I threw aside, leaving the object it was attached to in my pocket.

I was dead anyway.

As I lay on the ground, in excruciating pain, I watched in horror as several Cadillacs arrived, surrounding me from all sides. The people inside the vehicles emerged, armed to the teeth, their weapons aimed directly at me. It was abundantly clear that I was utterly defenseless, and I felt a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach.

It was then that I realized that it wasn't just Blackcrowns who were after me. The Avian Vipers were here too, and they were all together, united in their goal to capture or eliminate me. My mind raced with confusion and disbelief.

"Weren't you motherfuckers enemies?" I cursed, my words laden with frustration and disbelief.

In my absolute low, a man emerged from one of the Cadillacs, his silhouette all too familiar. "Hassan," the man greeted with his usual smile.

"Sir?" I replied, my voice tinged with uncertainty, my mind reeling as I tried to make sense of the situation.

I couldn't accept the situation as it was, and despite the overwhelming odds stacked against me, I mustered the courage to speak up. "Sir, can you please explain to me what's going on?" I pleaded, desperately seeking some clarity in the midst of this chaos.

The man, the one whom I had tried to contact earlier, the one who had given me the mission, regarded me with a calm and calculated gaze. "Do I really have to?" he replied, his tone eerily composed.

"Did you sell me out?" I asked, my voice trembling with a mix of anger and betrayal. I had no choice but to confront him.

"Selling you out, huh?" he mused, his smile never wavering. "I don't really like that term. I didn't sell you out, you did."

"What?" I mumbled, thoroughly confused.

"You sold yourself out, son," he said, approaching me slowly. "You did the moment you signed up for this mission. No, actually, before that. You signed up the moment you suggested this mission."

I was left speechless, my mind racing to grasp the implications of his words.

"Don't get me wrong," he continued. "It was a brilliant idea, perhaps a little too brilliant for normally built people. You can't just expect people to react the way you do things. Some people, while they may see the logic behind it, can't bring themselves to quantify life, especially when it comes to loved ones. So they're bitter, like you are."

He crouched down beside me, his gaze unwavering. "You stepped forward to act as the equalizer for their conflict. But did you really think that these people would let their loved ones' killers live just because it somehow makes sense on paper?"

As I heard the words coming from his mouth, I realized the flaws in my logic.

"They can't," he continued, his voice soft but filled with a certain finality. "Which is when your back was turned, another deal was struck between our clients. Consider this an alliance against a greater evil."

“Greater evil… Me?”

“Yes. You.”

I was left stunned, unable to find any other words but utter, "You sold me out..."

To which he replied, "As I said, I don't really like that term."

"I don't care. I was loyal," I protested, my voice laced with bitterness.

"You sure were, to a fault, I would even say," he mused, his gaze distant. "I doubt anyone in the guild would be as loyal as you are. If only you had dedicated even a sliver of your loyalty to some religion, perhaps there would be a chance you'd be going to a better place after all of this."

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"I'm not..." I began to protest, but the man calmly raised an eyebrow.

"You're not?" he countered. "Aren't you the one pooling in your own blood? Do you not see it's happening, or is it simply that you don't believe in such things as hell?"

In that moment, a weak laugh escaped my lips, strained and filled with pain. "No, it isn’t that."

"What is it, then?" he inquired curiously.

"I'm dying, that's for sure," I admitted, my voice barely a whisper, "but not alone."

With what little strength I had left, I reached into my pocket, my trembling hand firmly grasping onto a small object. I tried to pull the palm-sized object out of my pocket, but as I did, I heard the sound of guns being fired, followed by... well, I wasn't even sure anymore. I couldn't even tell if I had managed to retrieve the unpinned grenade from my pocket.

"So long as I managed to do so, I would've taken him down with me," I muttered to myself, my voice trailing off. But at that point, I couldn't even confirm if I had succeeded in that last desperate act.

I sighed, and thought, if one could consider that thinking, "What an anticlimactic death. I guess, at least it ends here."

Unfortunately, it didn’t.

----------------------------------------

With a sigh, I added, "What an anticlimactic death. I guess, at least it ends here." My vision blurred, and I closed my eyes, preparing for whatever came next, whether it was oblivion or something else entirely.

My life slipping away, I couldn't help but reflect on the journey that had led me to this point.

***

If I had then the opportunity to, I would’ve prefaced everything with a weak voice. "I was born in... well, actually, I don't know where I was born," I would’ve admit, my words trailing off. "The first thing I remember, I was in the streets."

I then would pause, my mind melancholically drifting back to those early years of my life. "Sure, I do remember some “people,” if I could call them people, I lived with for a time, but I've been passed around so much that I wouldn't even be able to name their names or count the number of days I spent by their side."

I would take a deep breath, my thoughts returning to the streets that had been my home. "Most of my earliest memories were of me in the street, living off dumpsters, like a trash panda. Back then, while life wasn't particularly good, it was good enough for me. I even got a nickname—Hassan, Prince of the Streets."

I would then chuckle weakly, my voice filled with a bitter irony. "Well, I did understand that I was nicknamed that sarcastically. I was too lonely to be a prince of anything, too asocial to have goons or retainers of my own, like a prince should. But yeah, I was holding pretty well on my own. I wasn't particularly respected, but I was feared, and that was enough for me."

I would then continue to share my life's story, memories of my journey unfolding like the bittersweet tapestry of ambition, survival, and transformation that it was.

"I don't specifically remember what caused ambition to sprout within me," I would admit, my voice wavering slightly. "But I had ambitions, not particularly great ones, but quite reasonable ones, in my account. I wanted to leave those slums I grew up in. I wanted to have a house of my own, a car of my own, and nice clothes for me to dress in. That's what I wanted."

Next, I would recall the moment when ambition had ignited within me. "I was roughly 12 when I manifested that ambition, and from then on, I began working toward it. I started working on my antisocial behaviors. I became people's goon, for that was actually one of the most logical ways. I climbed through ranks, changed gangs, changed alliances. I didn't develop much of a concept of loyalty because I knew these people I allied wouldn't really take my dreams any further. They were steps, and I treated them as such—steps for me to walk on."

My voice would then grow more reflective as I would went on telling my story. "I'm not even sure how many times I did that, but I was roughly 15 when I had a fortunate encounter with something that brought me really close to my dream. I was picked up—an underground organization specializing in all kinds of shady businesses, that organization was led by none other than him."

In that moment I believe his face should flash in my mind.

"I'm not really sure what struck his attention about me," I would then muse. "It's mostly how perfectionist and dedicated I am. What else could it be? Under them, in no time, I achieved my dream. No, actually, I even surpassed it. Luxurious cars, several mansions, classy and stylish outfits of my own—the organization made it possible for me, and Sir made it possible for me."

I would then speak with a sense of gratitude, adding, "Sure, people call me cold and unfeeling, but I was not an ungrateful asshole. I knew I owed them everything. Sure, I was doing the 'ugly' and ‘disgusting’ part of the job, but let's be honest, what's the difference between breaking the skull of an idiot leader of a group wanting to sack your spot in the slums with a brick and drowning an old retired mafia boss in his pool? The answer is none. If anything, The difference would just be the value attached to it—the price."

I would then pause, my eyes reflecting the complexity of my moral reasoning. "I've heard people calling me a monster. I'm not. I'm very much human, just like anyone else. I don't decide the price; it's them. I'm just acting upon the price attached to it," I would say, trying to shoo away the full responsibility from me.

"It was through the organization that the price was available to me," I would continue, having my voice growing increasingly strained. "So yeah, I sure respected the hell out of it. I dedicated myself to it, gave it and the one leading my utmost loyalty—something I didn't even know I had. Yet here I am."

***

At that moment, I wouldn't help but question the fairness of my current situation, a sense of injustice bubbling up within me. "Did I deserve this? Sure, I perhaps did, but shouldn't there at least be a judgment going on where I advocate my case to a higher sentience? I would've told them about my tragic backstory, my poor upbringing that led me to this life of sins and murder like I just did. Why am I just being thrown here without a chance of explaining myself? This... this is absolutely unfair!"

My words hung in the air, deafened by the sound of my own loud, bitter screams and lamentations. "It burns... It burns so much... It hurts so much..."

I was lost in a state of agony and confusion. I couldn't comprehend where I was, or if this was indeed the afterlife.

I believed I was laying down, but I couldn't be sure. I couldn't see anything except for a blinding, overwhelming light. The color was indistinguishable, and I couldn't even tell if I was seeing anything at all. It was as if the sheer presence of this radiance was enough to scorch me, to consume me.

I had no awareness of my body, my flesh, or my limbs. Yet, I could feel the distinct sensation of being engulfed by an intense, fire-like radiance. It was an excruciating experience beyond anything I had ever known.

I couldn't hear the screams of others, nor could I see them, but their presence was palpable. But amidst all of that there was this noise—no, calling that a noise was incorrect, yet something else than a noise, but the closest thing I could do to accurately describe it was: the sound of someone faintly crying. And it wasn’t me. While the noise at least made me feel like I wasn’t alone, here in my agony I was alone, trapped in place, surrounded by an ominous and unsettling atmosphere. The feeling I had was that I had indeed arrived in the place I had been been so many time to fuck off to—hell.

As I writhed in the midst of this unbearable agony, time itself seemed to warp and distort. There were no discernible moments, no relief from the relentless torment. Each passing second felt like an eternity, and yet, I couldn't escape the ceaseless pain.

Memories of my past life, if that's indeed what this was, flashed before my mind's eye like fragments of shattered glass.

Shouldn’t this be the part where the faces of loved ones, long-forgotten moments of joy, and the warmth of human connection would be resurfaced by the brain in an attempt to make me cope with this reality? Instead, all that I got were the distorted faces of all the people I had killed. Where are my mansions, where are my bugattis, and where are my expensive suits? This is exactly where I need you to show me that this was all worth it.

It didn’t take me long, well actually it felt like it did, to finally understand: It wasn’t.

In that moment, I began to think, "I should've gotten married, taken a nice 1m75 blon—actually, even if she wasn't blonde, it would've been fine; we would've had some babies—one boy, one girl, two boys, two girls, or all boys or all girls—it would've just been fine; everything would've just been better than this sight. Seriously, why was I so picky?"

Having come to that understanding, I longed for release, for respite from this excruciating existence, but there was seemingly no escape. It was as if the very concept of hope had been scorched away, leaving behind only the stark reality of unending agony.

In this hellish realm, there was no solace, no redemption, only an unrelenting and merciless fire that consumed not just the body, but the very essence of one's being. The screams and lamentations of others, which I could neither see nor hear clearly, served as a constant reminder that I was not alone in this wretched place, that countless souls were trapped in this eternal suffering.

As the indistinguishable light, which at that point began to consider an existence similar to that of a cold and unfeeling god, just as I always believed they should be as the higher existence they are supposed to be, continued to sear my existence, I couldn't help but wonder if there was any way out, any chance of redemption, or if this torment was to be my eternal fate.

The uncertainty and fear gnawed at what remained of my consciousness, leaving me to contemplate the unimaginable horror of an existence without end, without hope, and without respite.

In the midst of this unending torment, I desperately searched for any glimmer of meaning or understanding to all of this. Is there an end to this? What could I do to put an end to his dreadful fate? Was there any possibility of redemption, or was this truly the end of the line, an eternity of just this?

But the answers, if they existed at all, remained elusive. It was as if the very fabric of reality had been torn asunder, and I was left adrift in a formless void of suffering, devoid of hope.

In this nightmarish existence, time was both my enemy and my companion. It dragged on endlessly, a cruel reminder of the eternity of suffering that lay ahead. Yet, it also allowed for moments of introspection, moments when I delved into the darkest recesses of my soul, searching for some semblance of understanding.

The memories of my past sins, mistakes, and regrets haunted me relentlessly. Each one played out before me like a twisted, malevolent theater. I relived the pain I had caused others, the opportunities I had squandered, and the moments of cruelty or indifference that had marked my journey through life.

Amidst the ceaseless torment and introspection, a realization began to creep in—a stark understanding of the depths of my transgressions. "I get it now," I whispered, though my voice was a mere echo in this desolate void, barely reaching my own ears. The weight of my actions and their consequences pressed down on me like a crushing force.

In this crucible of torment, I was forced to confront the full weight of my actions, to acknowledge the consequences of my choices. There was no escape from the remorse that washed over me, no hiding from the harsh truth that I had contributed to my own damnation.

As time, or what passed for it, dragged on, desperation clawed at my consciousness. "Please," I begged, each syllable torn from my parched lips. "End... suffering... end... existence..." The words were fragmented, the plea filled with a raw, primal urgency.

The echoes of my plea reverberated through the formless expanse, mingling with the distant, haunting cries of others who shared this abyss. In the interminable silence that followed, I clung to the flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, someone or something would heed my desperate entreaty and grant me release from this eternal nightmare.

And as the endless ages stretched before me, I began to wonder if this suffering was not just a punishment but also a chance for redemption. A chance to confront the darkness within and, through the purifying fire of suffering, to find a path towards forgiveness and atonement.

I think I was starting to lose my mind. Yeah, that’s most likely what was happening. Yet for a time, I’d been thinking that with somewhat loose belief and desperate hope. It was better than thinking that this would be without an end, right?

But that road to said “redemption”, if it existed, would be long and treacherous, and I knew that the journey through this hellish landscape was far from over. The silent screams of the lost souls around me served as a constant reminder that the battle for salvation was just beginning, and the question that gnawed at my very core was whether I had the strength to endure, to find a way out of this infernal abyss, or whether I would be forever consumed by the unrelenting flames of despair.

In that timeless expanse where seconds and eternities merged into an indistinguishable flow, it happened—whether it was then, before, or after, the concept of time itself had lost its meaning. From the same overwhelming radiance that had relentlessly consumed me, the very source I had started to perceive as a manifestation of divinity, or perhaps a higher power beyond comprehension, came forth a burst of light.

It erupted like a colossal pillar of blinding brilliance, extending from the very heart of that radiant presence. It surrounded me, swallowed me whole, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, there was no pain, no torment. The all-consuming light became my sanctuary and my deliverance.

As I bathed in the purity of that divine radiance, a profound sense of peace washed over me. It was a peace beyond words, beyond understanding. The agony that had defined my existence for so long dissolved, leaving behind only a profound stillness.

In that moment, I no longer begged for an end to my suffering or existence. Instead, I surrendered to the infinite embrace of that transcendent light. I became one with it, my consciousness merging with the boundless essence of whatever lay beyond.

Whether it was salvation or obliteration, I could not say, for words had lost their meaning. All that I knew was that I was finally free.