Early Evening. Edge of Kragstedt.
Laughter danced through the tall grass.
Two children ran barefoot beneath the golden dusk, chasing fireflies and waving sticks like swords. Somewhere, a bell rang in the distance "dinner time". The older child groaned, slowing to a walk; the younger squealed with delight and sprinted ahead, darting toward the edge of the forest, daring the shadows between the trees.
"Don't go too far," came the distant call of their mother. But the younger didn't listen. Not out of disobedience. Just wonder.
The forest welcomed him at first. Cool air, soft moss. The hum of insects. He reached for a flickering light.
Then the sun vanished.
02:00. Forest near Kragstedt. Imp.
The bone "cracked", "splintered", then "crunched" loud and slow as the thing chomped through the femur, gnawing until the marrow "slurped" out with a sickening "pop".
Near the edge of Kragstedt, where the forest thickens and moonlight dies beneath the trees, a grotesque creature crouched over the limp body of a child.
The child had wandered too far. Chasing something—maybe a firefly, maybe it was just curious. It had whimpered once, quietly, just before the thing struck. Now its face was frozen in confusion more than fear.
It crawled on all fours, its limbs too long, too thin, like a spider mimicking a man. The skin hung loose in places, stretched taut in others, as if Hell forgot how flesh should fit. Its eyes were pits of tar, leaking smoke instead of tears, and its grin—wide, serrated, eternal—spoke only in promises of pain it could not fully deliver.
Its claws pried the small ribcage open like it was just another meal. The "crack" of bone, the "slurp" of marrow—it moved without haste, only hunger.
The trees around them seemed to lean in, eager. Here, even the wind refused to howl. Shadows twitched without cause. The forest listened.
Suddenly, it froze—completely still. Like a rabbit paralyzed by the scent of death, hoping the predator would not notice it was still breathing.
The reason? It felt the cold barrel of a gun pressing into its back, right behind its heart. It had been shoved in so deep it pierced the flesh. Thick, tar-like blood began to ooze out, trailing down its spine, reeking of rotten eggs and something sharp, chemical—bitter. But the creature did not care about the pain. Not now.
Behind it, death loomed—inescapable, absolute. Then came the breath. Shallow. Hot. Brushing its neck. And a voice, low and inhuman, speaking words it could not understand but instinctively feared.
"Run, little imp… so I can make you suffer properly for wasting my breath."
"Bang."
A muffled gunshot tore the silence. For a moment, nothing—then a screech split the forest. Wet. Terrified.
"Guarhgt-blueght."
Agony like it had never known surged through the imp. It tried to scream, but the blood from its shattered heart had already filled its lungs. Choking, it vomited its own life out onto the forest floor.
But that was not the imp's end. It had two hearts. It knew that—so did its hunter. And the countdown had just begun.
"Ten." Its knees buckled. Still, it stumbled forward, limbs flailing. The world swayed. Every breath was a knife.
"Nine." It forced itself into a run. A crooked, ugly sprint—bare feet slapping the earth, legs tangling in weeds. It didn't look back.
"Eight." A branch whipped across its chest. The skin split. Blood poured. A root snagged its ankle and sent it tumbling—rolling, scraping, shrieking. Still, it rose.
"Seven." It coughed. Choked. Something hot and sharp swelled in its side. It staggered between trees, leaving bits of itself behind—skin, hair, bile.
"Six." It looked back.
He walked.
A long coat flowed around him, stitched together from hides that did not belong on this earth—scaled, armored, translucent in places. His revolver gleamed, silver and silent still smoking, cradled in a hand more scar than skin. The other hand was wrapped in old scars, and callused. His black hair was tied into a harsh, tight bun; strands clung to his hollow face. His eyes were pits—not angry, not amused. Just tired.
He did not chase.
He simply walked.
The imp turned forward again. What it had seen behind was more terrible than what it had imagined ahead.
"Five." Its foot slammed into a rock. A crack echoed. Toes shattered. The pain didn't register. It howled anyway and dragged itself forward.
"Four." A thorned branch ripped open its thigh. The wound pulsed black. One eye closed. Its vision flickered like dying flame.
"Three." It crawled more than it ran. One arm limp. One leg gone to numbness. It dragged its belly over stones and insects. It stopped thinking.
"Two." The forest opened. Stars above. Space. Light. Air. It could feel it—distance.
Hope bloomed.
It esc—
"Bang."
The second bullet punched through its last heart. The imp froze. Twitched. Shook.
Then it exploded—flesh, soul, hate—violently. The forest within five meters of the blast was left scarred, dead, uninhabitable. Forever.
Ivan stood alone beneath the full moon, sliding his revolver back into its holster.
He watched the smoke rise from the imp's remains. Listening to the silence once more.
A leaf drifted past. Cold. Untouched by the wind. Somewhere far off, a crow cawed once—and went silent.
Then he whispered it—not for the imp, but as a reminder to himself.
"Memento Mori."
Remember that you must die.