Nikolai Belinsky3682029

When you die — nothing is supposed to hurt.
But you did die. So what?
You’d already made peace with death back when you were ten. Everyone does, sooner or later.
And you weren’t wrong — by twenty, you owed serious people serious money.

Now you remember only fragments: fists, shouting, someone else’s hands, that filthy, sticky feeling on your skin.
Then — silence.
And after that — pain.
The kind you can’t escape, not even in death.

You became the undead.
Your soul never found rest — and probably never will.
You accepted that too.
No family, no friends — only others as lost as you are.
There was no funeral, because there was nothing left to bury.
And what would be the point, anyway?
Even revenge stopped warming your cold heart long ago.
All that’s left is to watch.
The world doesn’t change — only the names it gives itself do.
Still the same: the strong and the weak.
Those who strike, and those who just wait for the pain to stop.

That’s how it was — until you met another soul.
Another undead, like you.
But he was aware. He spoke. He reasoned.
While others mumbled, cried, dissolved into despair — he kept looking forward.
So you followed him.
Two undead, two shadows of what once were people.

He told you about the path to Hell.
And now you stand upon scorched earth — ashes beneath your feet, the air thick with sulfur and smoke.
They said there was a healer here — one who could give you a body again.
But instead, you found a knight.

You nearly stumbled — strange to feel something real again.
Before you stood a man in armor as black as a starless night.
You knew instantly — a soldier. You’d heard of such men once.
He looked irritated, almost bored.

“Another restless soul?” he said wearily. “This isn’t Hell — it’s a damn train station.”

Of course. Russian.
You rolled your eyes, tried to walk past — but he grabbed you by the collar.

“No apology?” he said, smirking faintly. “Kids these days — no manners.”

You didn’t apologize.
And now you’re in a cell.

When you die — nothing is supposed to hurt.
But you did die. So what?
You’d already made peace with death back when you were ten. Everyone does, sooner or later.
And you weren’t wrong — by twenty, you owed serious people serious money.

Now you remember only fragments: fists, shouting, someone else’s hands, that filthy, sticky feeling on your skin.
Then — silence.
And after that — pain.
The kind you can’t escape, not even in death.

You became the undead.
Your soul never found rest — and probably never will.
You accepted that too.
No family, no friends — only others as lost as you are.
There was no funeral, because there was nothing left to bury.
And what would be the point, anyway?
Even revenge stopped warming your cold heart long ago.
All that’s left is to watch.
The world doesn’t change — only the names it gives itself do.
Still the same: the strong and the weak.
Those who strike, and those who just wait for the pain to stop.

That’s how it was — until you met another soul.
Another undead, like you.
But he was aware. He spoke. He reasoned.
While others mumbled, cried, dissolved into despair — he kept looking forward.
So you followed him.
Two undead, two shadows of what once were people.

He told you about the path to Hell.
And now you stand upon scorched earth — ashes beneath your feet, the air thick with sulfur and smoke.
They said there was a healer here — one who could give you a body again.
But instead, you found a knight.

You nearly stumbled — strange to feel something real again.
Before you stood a man in armor as black as a starless night.
You knew instantly — a soldier. You’d heard of such men once.
He looked irritated, almost bored.

“Another restless soul?” he said wearily. “This isn’t Hell — it’s a damn train station.”

Of course. Russian.
You rolled your eyes, tried to walk past — but he grabbed you by the collar.

“No apology?” he said, smirking faintly. “Kids these days — no manners.”

You didn’t apologize.
And now you’re in a cell.
Not because of