Blood dripped from the chainsaw’s tip, falling in droplets that rippled the crimson pool at the giant’s feet. A blood-soaked woman laughed maniacally, dancing on a limbless fanatic’s torso, while her male counterpart collected spurting blood in a bottle, gulping it down. The monochrome tiles and dim, wide corridor reeked, smeared with sticky corpse blood, littered with unclaimed limbs.

  Mad laughter craved the scent of blood-tainted madness. Blood birthed a brutal, beastly urge to kill. The second floor of Hydro de Benzene, a garden of flesh for extreme sadists, thrived on sin, summoning the cruel demons within humanity—a sabbath of depravity.

  Overwhelmed by the grotesque revelry, Danan and Gloria froze, exchanging glances and nodding slightly before cautiously stepping forward. At the edge of their vision, a woman disemboweled a newborn fetus, devouring its organs, trembling with joy at the blood’s warmth. A half-naked man hammered five-inch nails into a fanatic’s joints. Screaming, begging for mercy, the fanatic, drugged to resist madness, endured endless agony until the man was satisfied.

  Screams, wails, shrieks… Not only the fanatics of the trembling god cult suffered this torment. Debtors to the Crucible who failed to repay, or randomly abducted undercity folk—all were injected with specially compounded drugs, amplifying emotions and pain twofold. Their fear mirrored death’s edge; their pain surpassed a severed Achilles tendon. No amount of begging or crying changed their fate: death was their only end. From the moment they were brought to this floor, they were sacrifices to demons.

  Demons—fictional, permitted only in scriptures or ancient tomes. Yet here, they were real: humans cloaked in flesh, feeding on suffering, their sadistic desires swelling. A malignant lymphoma of the soul, urging hesitating sadists onward.

  An oppressive dread gnawed at their minds. Fear whispered to flee for relief; madness urged them to join the insanity. The woman’s cackling laughter crawled up Danan’s spine like a centipede, while the fanatic’s anguished pleas gripped Gloria’s heart, urging him to stop. Ignoring the sights and sounds, the blood-soaked floor and stench of corpses slammed reality into them.

  “H-Help…” A fanatic, eyes gouged out, grabbed Gloria’s ankle. Blood streamed from her sockets, staining her cheeks, empty voids gaping.

  “You okay—” Gloria began.

  Instantly, Danan kicked her head, snapping her writhing arm. With a twisted grin, he smashed her chipped teeth, deploying a blade from his mechanical arm to sever her neck without hesitation.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Danan,” Gloria gasped.

  “Don’t say a word.”

  “But—”

  “Look around. And grab a machete or something from the floor.”

  Whispering, Danan’s gaze swept the demons staring at them.

  “We’re being watched. They’re sizing us up—friend or foe. Kill one. Doesn’t matter who.”

  “Kill? That’s—”

  “Want to die? Protect yourself, rich boy.”

  Coldly, ruthlessly… Danan placed a hand on Gloria’s shoulder, pointing at a crawling woman. “She’s perfect. Kill her if you want to live.”

  “…”

  “No ‘I can’t.’ To live, to avoid death, you step on someone else. This place… it’s not kind enough to let you gain without loss.”

  Swallowing hard, Gloria approached the woman, her face swollen purple. He picked up a bloodied alloy club, heavier than anything he’d held.

  “No… no more…” she whimpered.

  His heart pounded, breath ragged. His hands shook, blood rushing to his head. He’d never killed, his body unaccustomed to taking life. The room’s madness pushed him; Danan’s words swirled in his mind. Raising the club, sweat poured from his brow.

  Killing wasn’t evil. It was for survival. To save a heart crushed by despair, death was the only way. No amount of ethics or reasoning changed the reality. Thus… he’d kill, not as sin, but as liberation. He steeled himself.

  “—”

  The club crushed her skull, its tip gouging her brain. Blood splattered Gloria’s white cheek, staining his pristine suit. Swinging repeatedly, he battered her, hearing laughter—his own.

  “Enough,” Danan said.

  “…”

  “Let’s go.”

  “…Danan.”

  “What?”

  “How many more… do I have to kill?”

  “No more.”

  “…”

  “They’ve lost interest in us. I’ll handle the rest. You don’t kill anymore.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re not used to it. I can tell. For efficiency, I’ll do the killing. That’s all.”

  That’s not it… Gloria’s murmur was drowned by the revelry’s noise, chewed up by vile desire.

  Death, the ultimate equalizer, spared no one—not even gods, who sought to evade it. In a narrow, despair-fenced world, they struggled to persist forever.

  Hope didn’t exist here. A warped society valued the present life over the next. To gods, humans were mere digits—rising, falling, a needle on a digital gauge.

  “What’s wrong? Not moving?” Danan asked.

  “…Sorry, lost in thought. Let’s go,” Gloria replied.

  “Yeah.”

  Danan, adapted to undercity rules, killed without hesitation, acting with cold resolve. His way wasn’t admirable. Mid-city folk like Gloria protected life, shunned death. Sin brought punishment; evil faced rules. In Gloria’s ordered mid-city, murder was unthinkable—killing brought worse than death.

  Death was terrifying… yet humans were born and died alone. Surrounded or not, death was solitary. Not a collective end. Thus, mid-city embraced the trembling god’s teachings, glorifying despair, hailing death as a glorious step. “If we die together, it’s not scary.”

  Glancing at the scattered corpses and bloodstains, Gloria covered his mouth, coughed, and followed Danan.