In a world devoid of mercy, he was cast into a place fit only for the scum of the earth, thrown away like a forgotten piece of scrap. The walls were crumbling, the ground neglected, and the sky had lost its color—saturated with the gloom of despair. Amid the ruins and desolation lived criminals, outcasts, and the broken—stripped of their humanity. In this unforgiving place, he became nothing more than a number on a list of the forgotten.
No hope. No escape. Only endless misery and the looming shadow of death. The soul had decayed, and with it, any thought of a better tomorrow vanished. The entire world seemed like a never-ending series of suffering—no beginning, no end—just an inevitable void devouring everything.
In the deepest part of this place, there was a dark alley. Not much different from the rest, except it was even more isolated and bleak. Trash piled on both sides, the air heavy with a suffocating stench of rot. It was so desolate that even starving cats avoided it.
In the middle of this scene sat a small boy, no older than ten. His thin body leaned against a crumbling wall. He looked like a forgotten piece of time—just remnants of a person no longer meant to exist in this world.
His short white hair was tangled and filthy, as if care had never touched his life. His blue eyes were beautiful for a brief moment, but utterly lifeless—devoid of any spark, only a terrifying void.
Despite his ragged clothes barely covering his body, and his bare feet caked with mud and scars, he looked like a beautiful doll at first glance.
But with a closer look, one would realize he was more like a portrait of misery.
His hands told a story his tongue could not speak. His fingernails had been carefully torn off, leaving deep wounds. Rope marks around his neck whispered of a desperate attempt to escape death, while the bruises scattered across his body spoke of countless battles against a merciless world.
He sat in that alley as if he were part of it. His head tilted back against the cracked wall, arms limp at his sides. His body didn't move, only slow, barely audible breaths revealed he was still alive.
His eyes stared at the pale sky, but they saw nothing—there was no purpose in his gaze, just total surrender. He looked like a withered flower, cast into the ruins by the wind.
The alley was silent. No sound but the light tapping of rain as it began to fall. Even the rain could not wash away the filth that cloaked everything.
The drops fell on the boy, but he didn't react. He didn't lift his head, didn't wipe his face—as if the rain meant nothing to him.
Now and then, a shadow would pass the entrance to the alley. Maybe someone searching for shelter, maybe an animal hunting for food. But no one dared approach. There was something about the boy that terrified even the bravest of creatures.
An old woman passed by, dragging a heavy bag in her hand. She paused for a moment, looked at the boy, then quickly turned her face away. It wasn't just indifference—it was an irrational fear. His face mirrored a pain she had tried to forget her entire life.
Silence returned, swallowing the place again. The boy remained there—a discarded piece of wreckage in a broken world.
But this child was not just another victim of misery. He was the misery itself—a living embodiment of endless suffering. In his dead eyes and broken body, he carried the story of a world that had forsaken mercy and drowned in its own darkness.
In these alleys of despair, where ruin reigned and hopelessness was the rule, the boy with white hair and extinguished eyes sat like a shadow. When the sound of footsteps reached his ears, his body shivered. He curled into himself, as if trying to vanish into his own skin. Though fear consumed every inch of him, he didn't run.
The man appeared. Nightmarish in appearance—half of his face burned, scars covering his body. His eyes burned with sadism, as if he fed on pain—his own and others'. He approached the boy with heavy steps, his voice sharp and cruel:
"Oh, so here you are."
At the sound of his voice, the boy trembled even more. He didn't speak, didn't move—just shook as if death itself stood before him.
Without mercy, the man grabbed him by the neck and dragged him like a sack of garbage. The boy didn't resist, didn't scream, didn't try to run—he only
kept trembling.
The man laughed with a hollow, brutal voice:
"Ha ha ha... Get ready! Today is a special day. I brought new tools. I hope you can endure long enough to please me."
He dragged the boy into an old house, slightly better than the ruins around it—but still nothing more than a death trap. Inside was a scene straight from hell. A single room, empty except for a rotten chair in the middle, a table filled with rusty knives and a massive pair of pliers, and bloodstains—both old and fresh—splattered everywhere.
The moment the boy saw the chair, tears began streaming down his trembling cheeks. He whispered in a broken voice:
"N-no... please... not again... I'll do anything you want... just don't make me live this nightmare again."
The man laughed with sick delight, as if his joy grew with the boy's begging:
"Ha ha ha... Don't worry. I've been waiting for this day for two weeks!"
He forced the boy onto the chair, tying him with bloodstained ropes. He
ignored the boy's pleas, smiling wickedly like he was giving him a gift.
"Well then, I'll be generous today. What should we start with? I'll let you choose."
But the boy couldn't answer. His body was convulsing from fear, repeating his shattered pleas again and again.
The man sighed with fake boredom.
"Alright, if you won't choose, then I will."
He turned to the table, picked up the pliers, and turned back with a devilish grin.
"Let's begin."
A scream shattered the silence of the house—a scream filled with the scent of fear and despair. A scream from the depths of hell. But no one came to check. Everyone in that filthy district knew the madman was indulging his favorite hobby, and no one dared interfere.
"Ha ha ha! Louder! I want to hear more!"
The pliers moved from finger to finger, ripping out nails like flowers being plucked one by one. The boy screamed and begged—but that only made the man happier.
"Wonderful! That's what I love about you. All the other kids die after one session. But you, my little one, you've lasted two whole years. Incredible!"
Time passed like centuries. The boy's blood soaked the floor, and his pain reached indescribable levels. And yet, he did not die.
When the man finally finished, he stood in front of the boy, sneering:
"Well, that's all for this week's session. I look forward to the next."
But the boy didn't move. His head hung low, like a lifeless corpse. The man frowned with disappointment and leaned in, muttering:
"Did you finally die? After all that endurance? What a pity—you were a perfect doll."
But before he could touch the boy's head, a deep, horrifying voice came from the child—a voice that wasn't his. A voice straight from the depths of hell:
"Remove your filthy hand… you wretch."
The man froze. For the first time, a shiver ran down his spine. The boy slowly lifted his head, and those once-dead blue eyes now burned with a strange light.
"What…?!"
Before the man could finish his sentence, the boy raised his hand—snapping the ropes as if they were threads. The air filled with a strange energy—cold, dark, yet full of power.
The boy rose from the chair. His once trembling body now stood firm, his voice no longer begging, but deep and terrifying:
"It seems I am destined… to bring an end to another world."