by Mr.Zishan
The abyss was not silent. It began with a low, rhythmic sound—the steady drip of life retreating into the cold pavement. At the center of the deserted crossroads, two figures lay broken under the flickering glow of the streetlights. One man was slumped against a vending machine, his body a map of jagged, mortal wounds. This was Haru. Despite the steel that had pierced him, his face bore no trace of agony. Instead, he looked like a man who had finally finished a long, dificult race. He died with the quiet, heavy stillness of a hero who had achieved his purpose—leaving the world without a single lingering regret. A few inches away, the other man lay sprawled across the asphalt. His fingers were still white-knuckled, frozen in a desperate grip around a necklace. A blade remained buried deep in his chest, a cruel reminder of the suddenness of the end. Unlike Haru, his face was a mask of pure, startled horror. He had been stolen from life before he was ready, his eyes wide with the realization that his time had run out. Two lives ended that night. One left in peace; the other left in pieces. But as their blood mingled on the dark street, the soul of the hero was already drifting toward a new beginning.
No streak history
