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Classical music echoes through the space, powerful notes coating the place in something wicked, whispering about the upcoming doom that has no mercy or compassion for anyone.
Because darkness and monsters rule it, so there is only hopelessness bordering on insanity.
I step inside the arena, and a smile curves my mouth when thunder shakes the sky, mixing with loud whimpers rocking off the walls and making it reek of panic and fear so strong one might almost touch it.
Is there anything more beautiful than the fear permanently polluting the air and slowly turning into desperation and misery that results in the most painful death?
The anticipation of a fresh kill pumps my blood, spreading in my veins and filling me with a certain kind of energy that urges me to indulge in my hideous thirst until nothing but agony remains.
After all, I’m a hunter seeking to torture my victims and bring them the most pain because only in their pain do I have the ability to thrive and mute the horrible voices echoing in my head and ordering me to succumb to them.
If I do, my rage would be endless and absolute, turning me into a psychopath, although some might say I’m already there.
However, a true hunter always has one thing in abundance: patience that allows us to wait and hunt our prey until they are trapped and lost with no escape.
Then, and only then, we sink our claws into them and drag them to our dungeon, where we tear their flesh piece by piece, welcoming their terror as it sends pleasure through our system and keeps us alive like nothing else.
Snapping my fingers, I say, “Light.” As the command slips past my lips, one by one, the lights above me turn on, brightening the place around me and showing my dungeon in its magnificent glory.
A hell on earth that can never be mistaken for heaven despite its cold beauty because no one will have empathy for you here, and every detail surrounding the place is destined to turn you insane and cause you the worst amount of pain.
I’ve personally drawn the design and come up with each detail, needing my sanctuary to be exactly like I wanted as chaos soothes my dark and damaged soul.
A soul that turned rotten in time, leaving only an echo of a person I once was.
The rectangular-shaped arena spreads horizontally so far that it creates an illusion of infinity as the light is absent and gives a sense of doom and loneliness because it’s a prison with no way out.
My own kind of purgatory punishing them all with blood and torture so whenever they enter true hell, the devil will have nothing to do with them since they’ve been broken beyond repair.
Disgusting, soulless creatures who should have never lived won’t even find solace in hell, forever carrying my scars, thrashing in agony even in the afterlife.
Several spacious couches line the perimeter, and the bar in the right corner holds all the expensive alcohol so my guests could enjoy the show if the mood strikes them to watch.
Some of them might even join in if I allow it, although our dungeons are sacred to us, for we display our deepest vices in them, and as such, we rarely, if ever, poach on each other’s territory.
A glass ceiling allows for the moonlight or sun, depending on the time of day, to shine brightly on the victims so they can look up and stare at the endless sky, thinking about their deeds and praying for a god who’ll never hear them.
Some even gaze at the stars, making wishes between whimpers and cries, hoping for the impossible, which only adds to my amusement.
If you get caught by the monster, do not hope, but survive, for they are merciless and will exploit your weakness until nothing will be left.
I should know.
I lived in hell and managed to run away from it, except…running away from hell has its consequences.
As our mind forever bears our memories, some images are imprinted in my head so much it’s a wonder I can function on a daily basis.
What part of your body do we scar first, boy?
My fist clenches at the disgusting voice echoing in my ears, anger gliding through my veins and awakening every hunting instinct inside me, demanding blood and vengeance as if nothing else would ever be satisfying enough.
I turn my attention to the true stars of my dungeon—five tables holding countless weapons, from the most expensive guns gathered all over the world to chains and knives bought from secret markets, where only the richest of the rich have access. Connections are valuable resources that you have to know how to use wisely in order to get what you want.
However, my most proud possessions are poisons, each unique and different, but all of them deadly, promising only agony. I’ve spent years collecting them, exploring them, and watching what they can do to a human body, and among them all, I have favorites.
Some of them I even know how to make myself. There’s a certain kind of attraction to creating a weapon that has the ability to take away a life.
It’s a crime that I can’t make this my legacy. The true art of torture lies in how skillfully you can use the weapons in your arsenal and not your constant desire to kill someone.
