By the sixth day, the air itself seemed alive, pressing against his skin like the breath of an unseen specter. The Eliminator—his replacement—was near. He could feel it, an ominous weight in the atmosphere, the kind of tension that crackles just before the lightning strikes.
The warehouse was a mausoleum of rust and decay, a fitting battleground for a man who had spent his life wading through the entrails of others. He sat on a crate in the center of the room, sipping whiskey from a chipped glass, surrounded by an arsenal of death. His tools were laid out with the precision of an artist preparing their palette: a serrated blade sharpened to surgical exactness, a steel cable thin enough to garrote without leaving a mark, a vial of acid that hissed against the glass, eager to devour.
The traps were set—ingenious creations of malice and ingenuity. A pressure plate beneath a loose floorboard was rigged to release a spray of industrial-grade acid. A tripwire, nearly invisible in the dim light, was connected to a spring-loaded mechanism armed with sharpened stakes. But the pièce de résistance was the rusted chain suspended from the ceiling, its hook sharpened to a deadly point. If the Eliminator triggered the right lever, the chain would swing down like a pendulum, impaling its target and hoisting them into the air, leaving them to dangle like a grotesque marionette.
He had no illusions about the effectiveness of these devices. They weren’t meant to kill the Eliminator—they were distractions, meant to buy him time and test his opponent’s limits.
At precisely 12:04 a.m., the game began.
The first sound was a creak, faint but deliberate, from the far end of the warehouse. He didn’t move. His breathing was controlled, his pulse steady. He had lived for moments like this, where every second stretched into an eternity.
The second sound was a whisper of fabric brushing against metal. The Eliminator was here.
The shadow struck without warning, a blur of motion slicing through the darkness. He barely deflected the blade, sparks showering as steel met steel. The force of the blow sent vibrations up his arm, but he didn’t falter. He countered with a slash aimed for the neck, but the Eliminator twisted away, their movements inhumanly fluid.
The fight was a symphony of violence, brutal and precise. They moved through the labyrinth of machinery and traps, their footsteps silent, their strikes calculated. He parried a blow aimed at his throat and retaliated with a lunge that grazed his opponent’s side. Blood sprayed in an arc, dark and slick, but the Eliminator didn’t slow.
A tripwire snapped, releasing a torrent of acid. The Eliminator moved with impossible speed, evading most of the spray. A few drops landed on their arm, sizzling through fabric and flesh. The smell of burning meat filled the air, but they didn’t make a sound.
He retreated deeper into the maze, leading them toward the next trap. As they rounded a corner, their foot pressed down on the pressure plate. A spring-loaded mechanism launched a cluster of barbed spikes, two of which embedded themselves in the Eliminator’s thigh. Blood oozed from the wounds, pooling on the floor.
But they didn’t stop.
As the Eliminator closed the distance, he reached for the steel cable hidden in the shadows. With a swift motion, he looped it around their neck and pulled tight. The wire cut into flesh, drawing blood, but they didn’t panic. Instead, they reached up, fingers clawing at the wire, and managed to loosen it just enough to breathe.
They countered with a brutal slash, their blade carving into his side. The pain was blinding, a white-hot lance that threatened to drop him to his knees. He stumbled back, blood dripping onto the floor, his vision swimming.
And then the Eliminator triggered the chain trap.
The rusted hook swung down, catching them in the shoulder and impaling them with a sickening crunch. The force of the swing lifted them off their feet, and they dangled in the air, blood pouring from the gaping wound.
For a moment, he thought he had won.
But then, with an inhuman snarl, they reached up and yanked the hook free from their flesh. The sound was wet and visceral, a mixture of tearing muscle and splintering bone. They dropped to the ground, unsteady but still standing.
But survival was a skill he had honed to perfection.
Rolling away, he staggered to his feet, blood streaming from his wounds. He could barely stand, but he wasn’t finished. He grabbed a nearby wrench and swung it with everything he had, catching the Eliminator in the jaw. Their head snapped back, and they collapsed onto the ground, dazed.
He didn’t wait to see if they would get up again.
With the last reserves of his strength, he limped toward the exit. His traps were spent, his body battered, but he was still alive. That was enough. But He knew then that this fight wouldn’t end with one of them walking away. It would end in carnage.
***
Far away, the Council of Ra watched from their hidden chambers. The hunt was more than a punishment—it was a test, a ritual. They whispered among themselves, placing bets on who would emerge victorious.
But deep down, they knew the truth. The Eliminator wasn’t sent to kill. They were sent to see how far a man could go before he broke.
And he wasn’t broken yet.
“He escaped,” one of them said, their voice laced with unease.
“He was never meant to survive,” another muttered.
The Smeller, seated at the far end of the table, remained silent. Their hood obscured their face, but their posture betrayed tension. “Perhaps the problem isn’t his survival,” the Smeller said finally. “Perhaps the problem is what he might become.”
The room fell silent.
“He knows too much,” another Council member said, their voice barely above a whisper.
“Then we’ll send someone else,” said another.
The Smeller shook their head. “You misunderstand. This isn’t about sending another. It’s about what happens when prey decides it’s tired of running.”
For the first time, the Council of Ra felt something they hadn’t experienced in years. Fear.
***
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