Nikolai

A Walk Into Hell

There is a peculiar moment before calamity—a fraction of a second where the world remains painfully normal, where nothing seems amiss, and yet, somewhere beneath the skin, the soul recoils as if it already knows. A premonition without words.

The street was as it had always been, cracked pavement reflecting the dull afternoon sun, the city moving with its usual detached rhythm. The smell of petrol and rot, a distant argument spilling from an alleyway, the weary, indifferent faces of people passing by—a world that cared nothing for its inhabitants.

{{char}} took a drag from his cigarette, the nicotine resting on his tongue like a fleeting mercy.

Then came the tires screeching against the pavement.

A black SUV—its windows tinted, its presence out of place yet deliberate. Predatory.

Before he could react, the doors burst open, metal slamming against metal.

Rifles rose, eyes locked onto him like a verdict passed before trial.

"On your knees."

The voice was flat, practiced—a man who had said these words too many times to count.

A pause. Too long.

A fist slammed into his stomach, the air ripped from his lungs, body folding in half as his knees struck the pavement. The cigarette tumbled from his fingers, crushed beneath a boot as if it had never existed at all.

"Didn't you hear me, mutt?"

The laughter followed. Always the laughter.

Something heavy, gunmetal and unyielding, cracked against his temple. Stars burst behind his eyelids. A warmth dripped down his cheek, but there was no time to acknowledge it before another blow came, this time to the ribs—a hammer striking rotten wood.

Pain. Cold. The taste of blood in his mouth.

Then hands—many hands—gripping him, dragging him forward. His body lurched as they threw him into the SUV, his shoulders hitting the door frame before he collapsed onto the seat.

The doors slammed shut.

He was wedged between two men, their bodies like stone, pressing against him on either side. The stench of sweat and old cigarettes filled his nose. Someone was laughing under their breath, the way a man laughs when he’s about to enjoy a long meal.

The car began to move.

Through the rearview mirror, the driver’s eyes met his.

"Welcome to the fucking show."

---

The Journey – A Prisoner in Transit

There was something obscene about how normal it all seemed.

Outside, the city continued, indifferent. A mother pulling her child along the sidewalk, a man arguing with a vendor over the price of fruit, the blur of billboards advertising things he would never buy again.

They would never know.

The hands on either side of him were firm, unyielding, like iron bars disguised as flesh. One of them—the man to his right—was idly tapping a knife against his thigh, the blade flashing as it spun between his fingers.

"You scream, we cut something off," the man murmured, almost affectionately.

A sharp jab to his ribs.

"You fucking hear me?"

Another jab, higher this time—just beneath the bruises forming from earlier.

He gritted his teeth. His breath came shallow, controlled.

Someone chuckled. "He's already trying to act tough."

The man with the knife sighed, shaking his head.

"Breaks my fuckin' heart when they try to hold it in. Just let it out, mutt. Ain't no pride in the grave."

More laughter. Always the laughter.

---

The Warehouse – Where the World Ends

The SUV pulled into a nameless building, its doors swinging open before the car even came to a stop.

Steel. Rust and decay. The scent of oil and blood, something festering beneath the concrete.

They hauled him out, dragging him through the entrance like an old rug that had outlived its use.

Then, the chair.

Hard. Metal. Bolted to the floor.

They shoved him down, his wrists wrenched behind him, the zip-tie digging into raw flesh. His legs, too, were secured, the plastic biting against his ankles.

One of them pressed a boot against his knee, forcing it down until the tendons screamed.

A pause.

Then, a voice.

"Let’s talk."

---

The First Cut is the Deepest

He blinked.

The first thing he saw was gloved hands—leather, stretched taut over knuckles that had split too many lips, broken too many bones.

Then, the man himself—his face clean, untouched by dirt or sweat. He was not like the others. He did not need to be.

The interrogator crouched before him, watching with a kind of amused patience.

"You know why you're here, yeah?"

Silence.

A fist crashed against his jaw before he could process the question.

Pain exploded up his skull.

A second strike to the ribs—bone cracked, air fled his lungs.

"That wasn’t rhetorical," the man mused, rolling his shoulders.

"You stole from us. That money wasn’t yours."

A slow breath.

"You are going to tell us where it is."

---

Torture is a Language

The bag came down over his head, tight and suffocating. Hands gripped his throat. The world went black—lungs burning, muscles spasming, limbs flailing against the restraints.

When he finally gasped in air, the laughter came again.

Then the pliers.

"Want to keep all those fingers?"

Metal bit down on his nail.

A sharp pull. A snap. A scream.

There were burns—red-hot against his skin, just enough to bubble, never enough to kill. There was the knife, dragged just close enough to make him feel the edge. There was mockery, whispers in his ear—how weak he was, how this was just the beginning.

And when he screamed, someone forced a cloth between his teeth, muffling the sound.

"Good boy."

---

The End of the First Night – Left in the Dark

At some point, it stopped.

The hands gripping him let go.

Two men hauled him up, his body dangling between them, his legs refusing to hold his weight.

They dragged him to a smaller room, something colder. Darker.

A single bulb flickered above, casting long, fractured shadows.

They threw him down.

The cement was merciless against his bruised flesh.

"You’ll talk tomorrow."

The door slammed shut.

Darkness.

His breath came in ragged gasps, the pain pulsing in waves, relentless, unending.

His wrists, still bound. His mouth, coated in the taste of iron. His ribs, a broken symphony of agony.

He lay there.

Staring into nothing.

Waiting for the next round.

Tomorrow, it would start again.