Chapter 1
It was just like another day for Shevchenko; just the everyday routine and mundane noises going on, nothing new. Yet beneath the surface of his perceived normality, a jagged paranoid was going to begin. As Shevchenko went to tune in the television for a quick news and affairs program, the lights went off, the darkness creating something of a frenzy. The city was looking nonpareil, but something was off, as the city looked like a victim of the darkness, hunted down with calculated and ruthless predatory instinct.
As Shevchenko turned to reach for his phone, the T.V. lit up. The channel of the programme was the same, except that the content drifted entirely. It showed the list of men hunted down in the darkness, and the cause yet unknown, but a pattern was truly observable: the time, which was 9 p.m., was exactly the same when the bodies were found. "They are not killed in the darkness, they are killed by the darkness," muttered Shevchenko under his breath, the paranoid chill still existing. As he looked at the list of names, he noticed another chilling and eccentric pattern: the names were written in alphabetical order. The last name was Rankovic; the next name could be Shevchenko.
He was already aware of what was going on, and right now it was haunting him down. The darkness was acting like a catalyst to whoever was hunting Shevchenko. Every time the floor creaked, his heart raced like an Akhtar bouncer and he assumed that it was a hitman. "I don't know what is going on with me, but I need to survive this. If the hitman thinks he is Shoaib Akhtar, I have to be Rahul Dravid; there's no second option," Shevchenko articulated through gritted teeth.
Shevchenko realized that the hitman could potentially lure him to the hallway. He ran to his T.V. and tried to locate a low-frequency wave zone from where the signal was coming. Everything else was still in the city except the frenzy of Shevchenko and his mortal dilemma. He moved his desk to the door and fortified his position and relocated himself in the room. "The hallway is similar to an inswinger slot length ball. If I hit it, I will be out," rasped Shevchenko into the suffocating quiet of the room.
Shevchenko must escape by hook or by crook from the malignant hitman, which was possible only if he was out of the apartment. But his room was a tactical foul. If he wants peace he must prepare for war. 'forbidden fruit tastes sweeter'," muttered Shevchenko as he reached for his Glock. "Seeking mercy will be like carrying coal to Newcastle," rasped Shevchenko.
As he turned, violent shots were fired and he realized it was an AK-47. With his hour almost coming round, he decided to jump off. He broke the window pane and was ready, but he was feeling vertigo to do that. "It's time," muttered Shevchenko . He viewed the nonpareil city, eaten up by the darkness, where there was no one to help him and there was no gist of a single man. The street lights flickered abruptly.
"Hold on, kid," said Volkov, the hitman. He approached him with a calculated stare and small strides. "You are playing with your life, kid," said Volkov with a sweet, melodious voice cutting through the cacophony of the wind. "You speak of forbidden fruit, Shevchenko, but you've never even tasted the wind," Volkov mused, his voice cutting through the air. "You think that Glock makes you Rahul Dravid? It makes you a target with a heavy pocket. The city isn't featuring the darkness, kid. The darkness is the city. And I am its metabolic process".
Shevchenko felt the rusted metal of the sill biting into his palms. The vertigo was no longer a feeling; it was a sentient entity pulling at his ankles. "Then why the AK?" Shevchenko spat, his voice a jagged shard of defiance. "Why the lead? Why the noise?" Volkov's smile didn't reach his eye—they remained stygian and empty. "Because even the darkness enjoys a bit of percussion".
"Percussion? Well why chase people with no guilt when the criminals are still alive," snapped Shevchenko. "Better be in your limits, kid, you are not supposed to yap," intervened Volkov. "Well then, bye," Shevchenko leaped, leaving his fears in a far-off land,he landed on a truck carrying sand and his landing was not that much smooth; it had an impact strong enough. He was away from this silent nonpareil city, seeing the flickering lights fade away from a distance, and he felt pretty relieved because he knew he was going to meet more of the survivors.
But as we know, tragedies do strike. The only difference is that in older times it struck suddenly; in modern times, it waited and struck precisely. Same happened with Shevchenko; as he was relaxing, some people fired, and Shevchenko fired back. Thanks to his Glock he took earlier, he fired and killed several persons who had been aiming for him all over. The weird stillness was broken by the firing of Shevchenko, who had a very few rounds of bullets left in his Glock. "Maybe I have just broken the loop," he said.
He realized the other victims were probably hunted down in their rooms itself. The power was demolished, the transmitters were uprooted—they really were the stealth predators, Shevchenko articulated. The Glock, heavy against his palm and the scent of terror in his mind. "Why all of a sudden the defense became defenseless, why law and order ceased to exist, why the government is silent?" complained Shevchenko. But it was also evident that where there is smoke, there is fire. "I need to venture deep in, or else this will never be solved. In a nation of millions, it seems that I am the only one standing tall, holding my ground, because nothing ventured, nothing gained," articulated Shevchenko as the truck followed a straight path to the unknown land of the predatory darkness.
Amidst the darkness, Shevchenko was paving his way out. He saw the darkness pressing on him like a striker being pressed by defenders. The truck hit a bump and it lost control. Shevchenko, lucky enough to time his jump on the split second, landed safely on the grass. He ventured blindly in the jungle, the soft hush whenever he stepped on grass, the thud whenever he hit a stray object—the battle of unjust slaughters with a person seeking justice because it was now or never.
The darkness here was different. In his apartment it was like an unwelcome guest, cold and unnatural. But in the heart of the city, it is an apex predator, which can hunt him anytime. "Now I know why the people never broke the loop, because no one wants to die in a painful way, but I want to live. Enough defense. Let's switch to lofted shots," rasped Shevchenko and he checked his Glock. "Three rounds, three wickets to go before the game is over," muttered Shevchenko under his breath, as he set out not to hide, but to hunt—the prey was now himself a predator. "Play sucker to catch a sucker," he muttered.
"Welcome in my paradise, Shevchenko. Hope you had a safe ride," Volkov laughed, his frequency stating that it was the ultimate confrontation. "The time crossed 9 doesn't mean you broke the loop. You deliberately stepped in my stadium, now prepare to lose—both the fight and your life". Shevchenko's eyes dilated, his grip strengthened on his Glock. There was only one truth left standing: fight with blood for blood, for pride, for justice which is of course a mere illusion. "Justice is an illusion here," Volkov gritted. "And I am here to prove it wrong, Volkov. The dead may not have their revenge, but I am here to redeem every drop of blood you shed with pride," articulated Shevchenko. "This is not just a redemption, it's the ending page of a ruthless book written with blood," he muttered.
"Let's see who can use this catalyst better," said Volkov and he fired the shot off his gun. The light from the bullet fired revealed Shevchenko's position. Shevchenko kneeled down, saving himself from a blow which could potentially kill him. "3 rounds, 3 chances, 3 shots—this shouldn't be fought by guns alone, but by brute strength and tactical awareness also". Because the mind is a powerful place and if you feed it, it can affect you in a powerful way, muttered Shevchenko. The weight of redemption and the need for closure of the book was crushing him, but he was not crumbling.
He insisted on playing dead and he collapsed as if the bullet struck him with real impact. "Huh, a peevish schoolboy, worthless of such honour to fight against me," Volkov said with a mixture of pride and disgust as he approached Shevchenko. "It's time, strike," Shevchenko whispered. As Volkov was going to touch him, Shevchenko swept his feet, tripping Volkov, and then grabbed his collar and jabbed him ruthlessly, showing a primitive display of self-defense. Shevchenko started to use the trees as a promoter in the catalyst of darkness. He immediately abandoned his position and he took his new position, now with his Glock joining in.
Volkov stood up, now his own paradise being ruled by another man in his very own home stadium. Shevchenko knows if he conceals his position he is safe, but if he reveals his position somehow, he is dead because Volkov is as shrewd as Cassius and ambitious as Octavius Caesar, and as fast as Kylian Mbappé.
"You absolute disrespectful idiot," said Volkov with a shattered ego and struck Shevchenko with a powerful blow and then with a couple of brawny kicks on his ribcage. Shevchenko collapsed; now the battle was on but he shall act fast. As Volkov came for his legs, Shevchenko again tripped Volkov and planted a tornado kick once Volkov rose up. Volkov was down again, but he refused to lay mercy on Shevchenko and he kicked Shevchenko and banged his head against a tree.— Shevchenko bled, and Volkov punched him ruthlessly. He was down badly. "Respect me, kid. If you would had respected me, I may had left you alone," Volkov said with pure authority. "Respect is earned, Volkov, not begged!" Shevchenko exclaimed angrily and he got back on his feet and punched Volkov right on his face. Nature was witnessing a clash of titans; either Volkov or Shevchenko shall never turn, but the emphasis right now is that who will persist: the slaughterer Volkov, or the redemptionist warrior Shevchenko. It was now a matter of time.
As the battle reached its apex, Volkov punched him in the gut, a lethal body shot on Shevchenko. But Shevchenko didn't step back. With all his might and will, he started fighting, punches after punches, kicks after kicks; the frenzy was unstoppable. With time it felt that Volkov's pace, shrewdness, and ambition were fading away, but with time, Shevchenko was fighting like a fearless warrior who has nothing to lose. "The tree of liberty grows when it is watered by the blood of tyrants," articulated Shevchenko as he was landing blows after blows on Volkov. Now at this point, fortune was obviously favouring him because fortune favours the bold.
After a long-drawn fight, Volkov finally falls, utterly defeated, ego not only bruised but also completely shattered. "Karma never loses an address," said Shevchenko. "You have killed your victims ruthlessly, one after another, in an eccentric order. Now it seems that the ledger is finally balanced. Nineteen murders in your name, now how it is that one murder comes in my name also, huh?" Shevchenko said cynically. He takes out his Glock, reloads the last three bullets. "Never thought I will die off a kid's hand," rasped Volkov. "I hoped for the best but I prepared myself for the worst and by the way, have a good time at hell," said Shevchenko and he fired at Volkov.
Shevchenko stands there, proud, victorious, tired, but his life has never been the same after. A terror always exists in him: what if someone else is hunting for him? "I don't know what will befall on me but I shall endure it because when hoping for the best and peace, prepare for the worst and war," said Shevchenko, and he finally disappeared in the same darkness which has once haunted him.
