𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄: 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐋
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THE COLD EMBRACE306Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQsfZV5rOdV
of night settled over New York City like a heavy blanket, suffocating the life out of the bustling metropolis. It was a Wednesday, just past midnight, when the streets began to empty, the usual hum of traffic and distant sirens falling silent. Only the faint whispers of the wind seemed to disturb the uneasy stillness, carrying with it an air of foreboding that lingered in the darkened alleyways.
In a secluded corner of Brooklyn, hidden from the prying eyes of the public, an abandoned church stood in decay. Its once-majestic façade was now a crumbling relic, its stained glass shattered, and its wooden doors hanging off their hinges. The structure exuded an eerie stillness, as if the very walls absorbed the silence, holding their breath, waiting.
Inside, a figure moved through the shadows with an unsettling grace. The person, cloaked in black, their face hidden beneath a dark hood, moved swiftly, their steps deliberate, purposeful. The beam of a flashlight cut through the darkness, illuminating the dilapidated pews and crumbling altar, where dust swirled in the stale air. The figure’s movements were fluid, almost ritualistic, as they approached the center of the chapel where an old, tarnished baptismal font stood.
Beside the font, a man knelt, bound and gagged, his eyes wide with terror. His muffled cries barely pierced the silence, choked by the rag stuffed deep into his mouth. Sweat glistened on his brow, a stark contrast to the cold air that filled the room. He trembled uncontrollably, his body wracked with fear. He had been blindfolded when he was taken, the hood pulled roughly from his head only moments ago. He hadn’t seen his captor’s face; he hadn’t seen anything but darkness until now. His mind raced with frantic thoughts, each more terrifying than the last.
The figure in black circled him slowly, almost methodically, whispering something inaudible, a soft chant that seemed to reverberate off the stone walls. The sound was hypnotic, a low, rhythmic hum that crawled under the skin and settled into the very bones of the victim. His heart pounded in his chest, a wild drumbeat of panic. He wanted to scream, to beg for his life, but his voice was trapped, swallowed by the terror that had taken hold of him.
The figure stopped and reached into a leather satchel slung over their shoulder, withdrawing a small vial filled with a thick, crimson liquid. The liquid caught the light of the flashlight, glinting ominously. The figure uncorked the vial with a slow, deliberate motion, pouring the contents into the baptismal font. The blood splashed into the water with a sickening hiss, steam rising as the two liquids mingled, creating an otherworldly mist that hung low in the air.
Then, the figure reached into the satchel once more and pulled out a jagged dagger, its blade glistening in the dim light, covered with strange, cryptic symbols etched into the metal. The victim’s eyes widened even further, tears streaming down his cheeks as he thrashed against his bonds, his muffled cries growing more frantic. But the figure was unmoved, their focus entirely on the task at hand.
They began to chant louder now, their voice deep and resonant, filling the chapel with a sound that seemed to vibrate through the very stones themselves. The chant was in a language the man didn’t understand—something ancient, something primal. The air grew thick with a sense of dread, an invisible weight pressing down on the room, as if something unseen was watching, waiting.
With a sudden, swift movement, the figure raised the dagger high, the chant reaching a fever pitch. And then, in a single, fluid motion, they brought the blade down, slicing across the man’s throat. His body jerked violently, his screams dying in his throat as blood poured from the wound, splattering onto the stone floor, mixing with the mist that hung in the air. The man gurgled, his eyes wide with shock and agony, before his body went limp, slumping forward, his life draining away.
The figure stood over him, their breath steady, their eyes fixed on the body as if watching for something, waiting. And then, almost imperceptibly, the figure nodded, as if satisfied. They knelt beside the body, dipping a finger into the pool of blood that had formed around the man’s head, and began to draw on the floor—more symbols, intricate and precise, each stroke purposeful, deliberate.
When they finished, the figure stood, taking a step back to admire their work. The chapel was deathly silent now, the only sound the soft drip of blood onto stone. The figure reached into their satchel one final time, pulling out a small object—a feather, pure white, almost glowing in the darkness. They placed the feather gently on the body’s chest, just above the wound, and then, without a word, they turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving the body behind in the cold, unforgiving dark.
Outside, the wind picked up, howling through the broken windows of the abandoned church, carrying with it the scent of blood and death. The city, unaware of the horror that had just unfolded, continued to sleep. But in the shadows, something had awakened, something old, something hungry. And this was just the beginning.
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