William's room was a place of solitude and quiet. The only source of light came from a faint streetlamp outside his window, casting long shadows on the walls. It was here, in this cold, empty space, where he allowed himself to feel something—something he had long tried to bury.
He reached under his bed and pulled out a small, worn plushie—a memento from a time before the killing, before the darkness consumed him. He sat on the edge of the bed and hugged it tightly, feeling the soft fabric against his chest. For a brief moment, the weight of his violent, blood-soaked past seemed to lessen. The plushie was a relic of innocence, of something untouched by the horrors he had become.
But as he held it, the memories came rushing back—the years of pain, abuse, and loneliness. His father's harsh words, the years of neglect, the brutal beatings that had turned him into a monster. The violent life he had built was his only escape, but it also meant carrying the burden of a past that would never leave him.
He clenched the plushie in his hand, feeling the weight of his pain pressing down on him. His breath hitched as the feelings he had fought so hard to suppress began to overwhelm him. He wasn't strong. He wasn't the unfeeling assassin he pretended to be. He was weak, vulnerable. And he hated himself for it.
Why did he even need this? Why did he need something to cling to, something to make him feel safe when he knew, deep down, that no one would ever truly love him? No one could. Not after everything he had done. The thoughts flooded his mind, and in a fit of frustration, he threw the plushie to the ground, watching it land with a soft thud.
William lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts racing. He didn't need this—he didn't need to rely on anything. But deep down, he knew he was lying to himself. He was hollow, alone, and his heart ached in a way that no amount of killing or missions could numb.
He closed his eyes, but the words of Officers Gala Marian and Wayne Jackson echoed in his mind. Their concern, their desire to help him, had been genuine. They had tried to reach him, to show him that there was more to life than violence and bloodshed. But their words felt like distant echoes, fleeting and hollow. No one could fix him. He was beyond saving.
Tears began to well in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He couldn't afford to be weak. But despite his best efforts, they came. He cried for the loss of innocence, for the man he could have been, for the love he would never know. He cried for the child who had been abandoned, the person who had never truly belonged anywhere.
The tears soaked into his pillow as he drifted into an uneasy sleep. The pain, the guilt, the loneliness—it all followed him into his dreams.
Nightmares. The same nightmares that haunted him every night—of his past, of the people he had killed, of the endless cycle of violence. But tonight, he didn't fight them. He didn't scream or thrash around in terror. Instead, he lay still, accepting the torment. He knew, deep down, that no one would ever comfort him. No one would ever pull him from this abyss.
He closed his eyes, letting the darkness consume him. And for a brief, fleeting moment, he allowed himself to feel small, to feel human, to feel broken.
And then, he fell asleep.
The night dragged on in a restless haze, and William was trapped in the grip of nightmares. They were the same ones that always haunted him—visions of his victims, their faces twisted in agony, blood pooling at his feet. The screams echoed in his ears, a cacophony of all the lives he had taken. Each one, a reminder of his own darkness, each one carving deeper into his soul.
He was back in the alleyways where his first kill had occurred, the rush of adrenaline still fresh in his veins. The blade had sunk into the man's chest so easily, so cleanly. And then there were the others—countless faces, all merging into one grotesque blur of death and blood. The weight of his actions felt suffocating, as if the very air he breathed was tainted by his past.
In the midst of these visions, an overwhelming urge consumed him—a suffocating desire to end it all. The pain, the loneliness, the constant war within himself—it all felt like too much to bear. For the first time in years, he considered the thought of ending it. His own existence had become a burden, a cycle of destruction that only led to more bloodshed and emptiness. He was trapped in his own mind, and nothing could release him from this torment.
But just as quickly as the thought came, it was smothered by something else. Anger. Raw, seething anger at himself. He was the one who had chosen this path. He was the one who had pushed everyone away, built walls so high that no one could ever reach him. Relationships? They had never been an option. He didn't deserve them, not after everything he had done.
He woke with a jolt, his heart pounding, his body slick with sweat. The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a cold, sterile glow across the room. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. The anger was still there, gnawing at him like a hunger that would never be satisfied.
How could he expect to have anything—anything worth living for—when he had built his life on the corpses of others? His thoughts spiraled, and once again, the bitterness of his reality became overwhelming. He had pushed everyone away, pushed every opportunity for connection, and now, he was paying the price. The isolation that had once been a comfort had now become his prison.
With a growl of frustration, William threw the blankets off his body, pacing around the room. His reflection in the mirror was a man he didn't recognize—a cold, broken killer who had given up on life before it had even truly begun. He wasn't just angry at the world anymore; he was angry at himself, at the choices he had made, and at the person he had allowed himself to become.
But anger, in all its forms, was the only thing that kept him going.
William stood still for a moment, his hands trembling, a silent battle waging within him. He could feel the anger surging through his veins, but it wasn’t enough to quell the emptiness that gnawed at his insides. It wasn’t enough to erase the crippling loneliness, the guilt that weighed down on him like a leaden shroud.
His eyes flicked to the plushie still lying on the floor, abandoned in the wake of his earlier outburst. It was a childish thing, an artifact of a life he could never return to. But as he gazed at it, something in him shifted—something that was too weak to fight, too human to suppress. He crossed the room and knelt down to pick it up, his fingers brushing against the soft fabric as he held it once again.
He sat back down on the bed, staring at the plushie in his hands, but this time, the feelings were different. It wasn’t a symbol of weakness. It wasn’t something to be ashamed of. It was the last reminder of a time when he wasn’t a killer, a time when he could have had a future, a chance at something else.
His fingers tightened around it, almost as if holding onto the fabric could hold him together. He wasn’t sure what he was hoping for—maybe a sliver of peace, maybe an answer. But nothing came. The silence in the room was deafening, and yet, it was all he could bear. It was the only comfort left to him.
He exhaled deeply, his breath shaky, and for the first time in years, he allowed himself to think about the person he used to be. He had been a child once, innocent, with hopes and dreams. But somewhere along the way, those dreams had been shattered. He had been broken by the world, shaped by the violence that had surrounded him. His path was set the moment he had taken his first life.
He squeezed his eyes shut, the memories flooding him in an unstoppable tide—his father’s cruel words, the endless beatings, the isolation. Those early years had forged him into something dark, something he no longer recognized. The assassin he had become wasn’t just a product of his training—it was a product of his past, of the wounds that had never healed.
But now, as he sat there, clutching the plushie to his chest, he realized something. He was tired. Tired of the endless cycle of violence. Tired of being consumed by rage, by guilt, by the constant need to push everyone away. For the first time in his life, William didn’t know what he was supposed to do next.
He was stuck in a loop—a loop of his own making. The mission, the kill, the emptiness after it. He was good at this. He had always been good at it. But it had never filled the hole inside him. And now, as the days passed, that hole had grown larger, deeper, more insatiable.
“Is this all I am?” William muttered to himself, his voice raw and broken. The question hung in the air, unanswered, as he stared at the plushie, his fingers still curled around it.
For a moment, the weight of his past felt unbearable, suffocating. The ghosts of his victims, the endless faces that haunted him, the anger that never ceased to boil under the surface—they all came rushing back, clashing with his fragile hope for something more.
But no matter how much he hated himself, no matter how much he wanted to escape, he knew there was no easy answer. There was no magic fix to undo the years of pain and destruction he had caused. He was trapped in a prison of his own making, a prison of blood and broken promises.
And yet, despite it all, something in him refused to give up completely. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the faintest glimmer of hope, or perhaps it was just the human part of him that couldn’t fully embrace the darkness. But whatever it was, it was enough to keep him going, even if only by a thread.
With a sigh, William placed the plushie back on the bed and stood up. He had to move. He couldn’t stay in this room forever, lost in his thoughts. There was always another mission, another job to do. The world outside was waiting, and he knew that he had to face it, no matter how hollow it felt.
He grabbed his coat, slipping it on with practiced ease, and walked toward the door. His reflection in the mirror caught his eye once more, and he paused. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw something different in his gaze—a flicker of something that wasn’t rage or apathy. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving behind only the familiar mask of a killer.
As the door closed behind him, the silence of the room was shattered. The plushie, forgotten once again, sat in the corner of the bed, its fabric stained by the weight of William’s past. The world outside waited, and William was ready to step back into it, no matter the cost. Because in the end, it was all he had left.
And as he walked away, a small part of him wondered—just wondered—if there was still a way out. A way to stop being defined by the darkness.
The city streets felt cold, even with the layers of clothing William wore. The air was thick with the smell of exhaust fumes and the distant hum of machinery. It was just another day in the life of a killer—a life he had resigned himself to long ago. But something was different today. There was a slight, nagging sense that he wasn’t entirely alone in this cold, indifferent world.
He walked through the alleyways, his mind fixed on the mission ahead. The target had made one fatal mistake—underestimating William. The criminal syndicate might have been vast, its tendrils stretching deep into the city's underworld, but they hadn’t anticipated someone like him.
William was methodical, calculated. He had spent years honing his craft, becoming the shadow in the dark, the nightmare that criminals feared. No one ever knew when their time had come until it was too late.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
His target, a high-ranking member of the syndicate, had been involved in numerous illicit operations. Human trafficking, weapons trade, extortion—his hands were stained with blood. But this was no ordinary criminal. This man had evaded every attempt to catch him, sliding through the cracks, always one step ahead. Until now.
William had been following his movements for weeks, tracking every trail, every piece of information. He knew where his target would be tonight. He knew the pattern. And he was ready.
The target had a safehouse in the outskirts of the city, a nondescript building guarded by a handful of hired muscle. William would make short work of them. He had done it before, and he would do it again.
He reached the building’s perimeter, slipping into the shadows with ease. His body moved fluidly, every step taken with precision, his mind focused solely on the task at hand. The familiar sense of calm washed over him. This was what he did best—taking lives without hesitation, without remorse.
But as he positioned himself to take down the first guard, something flickered in the back of his mind. He paused, his fingers hovering over the hilt of his knife. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t uncertainty. It was something else—something faint, almost imperceptible.
A voice echoed in his thoughts, soft but clear. This is who you are now, William. This is all you’ll ever be. A killer. A tool. Nothing more.
He shook his head, trying to push the thought away, but it lingered, gnawing at the edges of his resolve. He wasn’t sure if it was the haunting memory of the plushie or the deep well of regret that had begun to stir within him. The weight of his choices was starting to settle into the marrow of his bones.
He exhaled slowly, pushing the feelings back down. He couldn’t afford to think about it now. He couldn’t afford to be weak.
The first guard was dispatched quietly, the blade sinking into his neck with practiced ease. The second followed quickly, his scream muffled by the swift strike that ended his life. William didn’t flinch. He didn’t pause. It was all routine. It was all part of the plan.
But as he entered the building and made his way through the dimly lit hallways, the nagging feeling didn’t go away. The further he moved into the compound, the more it grew—a sense of something slipping through his fingers, like sand in the wind.
He reached the door to the inner office, where the target was likely holed up. He took a deep breath and readied his weapon, but just before he pushed open the door, something stopped him.
The thought hit him like a sudden wave crashing against the shore—What if this is all you have left? What if there’s no escape from this life?
The door swung open, and the target looked up in surprise, but the thought persisted, reverberating through his mind. The target tried to reach for his weapon, but William was faster. The blade found its mark, and the man’s life ended in an instant.
As William stood over the body, his mind was a storm of conflicting thoughts. He had done it. Another kill, another name to add to the list. The mission was complete. Yet, the weight of it all settled heavily on his chest, suffocating him. He had come here to kill a man, but in the silence that followed, he found himself confronting something far more unsettling—himself.
He stood in the middle of the room, the lifeless body at his feet, and realized with a jolt that he wasn’t sure what he was running from anymore. He had always known the pain, the darkness that clung to him, but now it felt like it was closing in, wrapping around him tighter than ever before.
He had pushed everyone away. He had convinced himself that he didn’t need anyone, that this was all he deserved. But as he stood there, he realized the truth—he didn’t just deserve the darkness. He had created it. And now, it was all-consuming.
With a quiet, defeated sigh, he wiped the blood from his blade and sheathed it. There was no turning back. There never had been.
As he left the building, the weight of the world still heavy on his shoulders, William couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. He had completed his mission, but the question still lingered, unanswered: Is this all I am?
The city stretched out before him, cold and indifferent. It was just another night in the life of an assassin. But tonight, for the first time, he wasn’t sure if the mission was enough to silence the questions that plagued him.
The streets were quieter now, the hum of the city fading into the background as William walked, his steps echoing in the emptiness. The cold bite of the night air seemed to match the emptiness that had settled deep within him. He had completed the job. He had fulfilled his purpose, but the usual sense of satisfaction, the adrenaline rush of the kill, was missing.
He didn’t know why, but the silence around him felt louder than ever before. Every breath he took seemed to amplify the feeling of hollowness that had been growing inside him. The city had always been a chaotic mess of noise and violence, but now, it felt suffocating—like the walls were closing in.
He stopped at a street corner, staring at the traffic that passed by without a care. Cars, people, the never-ending flow of life moving forward, all while he stood still, caught in the grip of his own thoughts. The world around him was moving, yet he felt like he was stuck in place, drowning in a sea of his own decisions.
Is this it? The thought echoed again, louder this time, until it drowned out the noise of the city. He had done everything that was asked of him. He had killed for years, earned his place among the shadows, and yet, here he was, questioning everything. There had been a time when the bloodshed had felt like a means of survival—a way to protect himself, to fight back against a world that had never shown him kindness. But now, it felt like an endless cycle, a prison with no way out.
William's eyes lingered on the bustling street before him. People laughed, talked, lived. And he—he was nothing more than a killer, a shadow among them. He envied their simplicity. He envied their ability to live without the weight of the world on their shoulders.
But envy, like everything else, was a fleeting feeling. It passed quickly, replaced by the cold, indifferent reality of who he was and what he had become. He had no place in that world. No one would ever look at him and see anything but the blood on his hands, the cold emptiness behind his eyes. He had lost that innocence long ago.
He clenched his fists at his sides, the familiar surge of anger bubbling up from within him. Anger at himself, at the choices he had made, at the person he had allowed himself to become. But the anger didn’t last long. It was always there, simmering just beneath the surface, ready to boil over at a moment’s notice. And what good was it? What was it all for?
Without thinking, he turned sharply and began walking away from the city lights, toward the outskirts, the forgotten parts of town that people rarely visited. The dark corners, the alleys where no one asked questions. It was the only place he felt at home anymore—the only place that accepted him, in all his brokenness.
But as he walked, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of the world pressing in on him, suffocating him with each step. The coldness of the night was no match for the chill that had settled in his chest. He wasn’t just running from the world. He was running from himself.
The darkness stretched before him, welcoming him, but also swallowing him whole. He didn’t have the answers. He didn’t have a plan. All he knew was that the path ahead of him was just as uncertain as the one behind him. But there was no turning back now. He had crossed a line, and there was no way to unwrite the story he had written with blood.
William found himself standing in front of a small, abandoned building. A place he had frequented in the past. The familiar walls, the broken windows, the scent of decay in the air—it was all a part of him now. A place that mirrored the state of his soul.
He stepped inside, the door creaking on its hinges as he pushed it open. The place was empty, save for the shadows that clung to every corner, as if the darkness itself had taken residence within the walls. It was fitting, really. This was his world now. The world of silence, shadows, and regret.
He leaned against the wall, sliding down to the floor. His head dropped into his hands as he closed his eyes, the weight of everything bearing down on him. The years of violence, the lives he had taken, the people he had pushed away—he had built a life out of destruction, and now there was nothing left but the ruins of who he used to be.
The world outside continued without him, but for William, it had stopped. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, lost in his thoughts, but eventually, he forced himself to stand. There was always another mission, another job to do. There was always something else to focus on. Because if he stopped, if he gave in to the darkness in his mind, there would be nothing left.
With a deep breath, he wiped the remnants of tears from his eyes. He couldn’t afford to be weak. He couldn’t afford to let the world see that he was struggling. He had to keep moving. Keep killing. Because it was the only thing he knew how to do.
And so, he stepped out of the building, back into the cold night, ready to embrace the only thing he had left: the mission.
But deep down, a part of him wondered, as it always did, if there was more to life than this.
William’s footsteps grew more erratic, as if his body was aware of the weight he carried. His mind spun in circles, grappling with thoughts he couldn't quite grasp. He had lived so long within the confines of anger and vengeance, each step in his journey a consequence of choices that had shaped him into something unrecognizable, even to himself. He was a killer, yes—but more than that, he was a man haunted by the ghosts of the life he had lived, unable to break free from the chains of his past.
The city around him seemed to stretch out infinitely, its tall buildings looming like silent sentinels, their windows reflecting the cold, indifferent stars. There was no escape. The streets were empty, but the memories, the regrets, they followed him. The sound of his breathing was the only thing keeping him grounded in this world.
He had been taught, in his years of training, to compartmentalize his emotions—to lock away any trace of humanity that could make him weak. His mentor had once said that emotions were a liability, and that the true warrior was one who could sever himself from the softness of compassion. William had taken those words to heart, believing that the more distant and detached he became, the less it would hurt. But now, in this moment, surrounded by the dark, suffocating silence, he felt that distance, that detachment, slipping away. It was as if the walls he had spent years building around his heart were crumbling, and for the first time in so long, he was forced to face the rawness of his own emotions.
He wondered if this was what it meant to be truly alive—this aching emptiness, this overwhelming loneliness. But even as the weight of it pressed down on him, he couldn’t help but feel a faint stir of something else, something buried deep within. Was it guilt? Regret? Or something else entirely?
The memories came flooding back, unbidden. Faces, names, the sound of screams—the things he had done in the name of survival, of duty, of a twisted sense of justice. There were times when he couldn’t even remember why he had killed, only that it was necessary, that it was a part of the mission. But now, with no mission to complete, no orders to follow, the faces of those he had taken from the world were like shadows that refused to leave him. They were always there, lurking in the corners of his mind, reminding him of his sins.
But even in this dark corner of the world, William couldn’t ignore the small voice in the back of his mind—What if you could change? What if, after everything, there was a chance for him to find peace? The thought was absurd, almost laughable. How could someone like him—someone so broken, so lost—ever find redemption? The idea seemed too far-fetched, too fragile to hold onto.
Still, a part of him held onto it, the way someone drowning might cling to a lifeline, not knowing if it would hold or snap in their hands. He didn’t know if he deserved redemption, didn’t know if he even wanted it. But he couldn’t stop himself from wishing, from hoping, that somehow, in some way, he could find a way out of this endless cycle.
He had walked this path alone for so long, but now, for the first time, he was painfully aware of the void that surrounded him. He had pushed everyone away—friends, family, even the faintest attempts at connection—because he believed that isolation was safer. That if he kept his distance, if he kept moving, nothing could touch him, nothing could hurt him. But now, as he trudged down the empty street, he realized the painful truth: it wasn’t safety he had found in his isolation, but a deep, suffocating loneliness.
There was no one left to blame for his situation but himself. He had chosen this path, had walked willingly into the darkness, thinking that it was the only way to survive. And yet, here he was, lost in that same darkness, searching for something—anything—that could offer him a glimpse of light.
The alleyways seemed to close in on him as he moved deeper into the city’s heart. The cold began to seep into his bones, but it wasn’t the chill of the night that made him shiver. It was the deep sense of regret that gripped him, that made his stomach twist in knots. He had long ago stopped questioning the reasons for his actions, had convinced himself that survival was all that mattered. But now, in the stillness of the night, the consequences of those actions loomed large, too heavy to ignore.
What did it all mean? All the bloodshed, the lives lost, the violence—what was it all for? He couldn’t answer that question, couldn’t find the words to explain the choices he had made. It was as if he had been a puppet, strung along by some unseen hand, doing the bidding of forces he didn’t understand. And now, as he wandered in the cold, aimless and alone, he couldn’t help but wonder if he had been wrong all along.
Maybe there was more to life than survival. Maybe there was more to him than the man he had become.
But the doubt was fleeting, a whisper against the roar of his inner turmoil. William knew, deep down, that he wasn’t ready to let go. Not yet. He wasn’t ready to embrace the vulnerability that came with seeking redemption, because to do so would be to admit that all the violence, all the anger, all the hatred had been a lie—a lie he had told himself to keep going, to keep moving forward.
The truth was, William didn’t know how to stop. Didn’t know how to break free from the cycle he had created for himself. The rage, the anger—it was all he had left. It was all he knew. And yet, even in the midst of that storm, he couldn’t help but feel the smallest flicker of hope—a hope that maybe, just maybe, there was something more waiting for him on the other side of all this.
For now, though, all he could do was walk. And keep walking. Because it was the only thing that felt real. And maybe, just maybe, somewhere along the way, he would find the answers he was searching for.
