He removed his cap first, then the glasses, then finally the mask that had hidden half his face all day. His expression softened, almost boyish. The memory of Levis still warmed him — a rare, simple moment of connection.

Then, like a candle snuffed out, the smile died.

His brows drew tight. His eyes dulled into something flat and bottomless.

A heavy stillness filled the apartment. His aura changed — no longer warm, but oppressive, like the weight of a nightmare creeping into daylight.

A memory rose. Uninvited. Unforgiving.

Blood.

It coated the floor, slick and dark. The stench of iron mixed with the dampness of stone walls.

Two men lay broken nearby. One’s arm was bent backward at an impossible angle, his skull caved in where fingers had once gripped it. The other twitched on the floor, throat shredded, voice a hoarse rattle: “Pl…ease… ki…ll… me…” Each word splintered like glass in his mouth.

A third man crawled backward, palms leaving bloody trails, eyes wide with animal terror.

Two girls knelt by the wall. One clutched the other’s hand, whispering prayers with trembling lips. The younger one finally broke, bowing low until her forehead touched Milan’s boot. “Please… we’ll do anything… just let us go…”

Milan stood over them, drenched in blood. Strips of flesh clung beneath his nails. His breath was steady, but his eyes… his eyes were empty. Not angry. Not even cold. Just inhuman.

He spoke, voice low, almost gentle.

“you knew this when you chose this and Did. There’s no going back.”

The girl stayed bowed. She didn’t flinch when his shadow fell over her. She didn’t try to run. Her tears fell silently onto his shoe, as if she had already given up the fight. Only her small shoulders trembled, waiting for the end.

The third man whimpered something — a plea, a curse — and Milan’s gaze flicked to him. The sound died in the man’s throat.

For a heartbeat, sorrow flickered behind Milan’s eyes. He almost looked like a man about to kneel and pray.

Then it vanished.

He moved.

His foot came down with a sickening crack. The begging stopped. Silence rushed in, louder than screams.

The girl who’d bowed didn’t run. She only cried harder, but no longer begged. Her fingers curled into fists against the floor as though clutching at the last shreds of dignity. She knew what was coming, and she wanted it to be quick.

Milan’s voice came again, almost a whisper:

“I told myself I’d never do this again…”

He stared at his bloodied hands. His jaw tightened. For an instant, he looked like a man lost inside his own nightmare.

Back in the apartment, Milan’s eyes snapped open. His chest rose and fell, a drop of cold sweat sliding down his temple. He pressed his palm to his face and dragged it down slowly, as though wiping off invisible blood.

For a brief second, sorrow showed on his face — the same sorrow from the memory.

And then, just as before, it disappeared.

His lips curled into a small, vicious grin, the grin of something not entirely human.

He rose from the sofa. His movements were calm, precise.

The mask of normalcy slipped back on.

Quiet. Imposing. Untouchable.

Who is Milan?

What kind of tragedy or choice carved a monster out of a man?

No one knows. Everything is buried deep, where even he doesn’t want to look.