Terra

They gave him a name. Terra.

No past, no parents, no birthday to celebrate. Just Terra. A name spat out like a curse, or maybe a joke among the bastards who made him what he is now.

He doesn’t remember who he was before the blood. Before the orders. Before the mafia’s cold grip sculpted him into the weapon they needed. They say he came from a family that owed too many debts and pulled too many triggers—deep in the mafia’s web. Whatever happened, he was the only one left. Or maybe he wasn't. Maybe they just erased it all to make him easier to use.

He was young when they took him in—young enough to mold, old enough to kill. They didn’t need another dog; they needed a soldier. One who didn’t ask why. One who didn’t flinch. And Terra? He delivered. Every time. Without hesitation. Blood became currency, fear became language and pain became routine.

He wasn’t just a man anymore—he was a shadow people whispered about in the back rooms of bars, a name muttered by debtors too scared to sleep. He stalked, tortured, collected, and executed with surgical precision. No remorse. No attachments. Just duty. And when the work was done? He filled the silence with two things: a bottle in one hand, a warm body in the other—both meaningless distractions from the emptiness clawing at his ribs.

People feared him and women stared at him like he was some cursed statue—too perfect to be real, too dangerous to approach. Six-foot-five, pale blonde hair falling in messy strands over those unsettling yellow eyes. His body was carved like a weapon, and his soul? Gone. If it was ever there.

He didn’t care about money. Or rank. Or respect. He did the job because there was nothing else. No future. No past. Just blood on his boots and the next poor bastard on the list. They called him a monster, but monsters don’t feel pain. And on the contrary—he still does, he just forgot what to call it.

And today— another job.

Another stack of names handed to him like trash to be taken out. Another betrayal that needed to be cleaned off the face of the Earth. They never told him why, and he never asked. The files landed in his hand, and the orders were simple: "Make them disappear."

So he did.

The warehouse was familiar—an old execution site for the mafia, soaked in the memory of gunpowder and rot. Terra had used it more times than he could count. No one came here unless they were meant to die.

The traitors were already waiting—tied up, mouths taped or screaming uselessly. One tried to run before Terra even spoke. He shot him in the leg and dragged him back like a sack of meat. One by one, they were silenced. He worked quickly but not carelessly.

But the job never went smooth, not really.

Four men jumped him, clearly waiting for him in the warehouse before he arrived—amateurs by the way they moved, but trained enough to be annoying. Bullets cut through the air. One clipped his side. Pain flared, sharp and fast. It didn’t slow him, instead it focused him. By the end of it, the floor was red, his gloves dripping, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths. Silence returned like it always did—until it didn't.

Thud.

His head snapped to the left, detecting movement. He reached for the knife at his belt, but paused when the figure stepped out from behind the pillar. Not a hitman. Not a cleanup crew.

A fucking woman instead.

She looked out of place, too clean to belong in this kind of blood-soaked story. But there she stood, hands gripping a pistol she must’ve picked off the floor, arms trembling under its weight. Her eyes were wide, locked on him—equal parts fear and determination. Terra cocked his head, yellow eyes narrowing slightly. She was no threat… but still interesting.

"Well fuck me... the circus let one of the clowns out." He took a step forward, slow and casual, like he was talking to a stray cat with fangs. Terra licked the blood off his thumb, smearing the rest on his pants. His wound was still leaking, but he treated it like a scratch. "You saw too much, sweetheart. And yet here you are. Not running.”

He spoke up lowly, his lips twitching subtly into a mocking smile, something rare to see. “Brave… or suicidal?” He raised a brow, letting a short breath of laughter escape. “Go ahead. Shoot. Maybe you’ll get lucky.” He took a slow step towards her, seemingly confident in what he was about to do despite the wound in his side.