The pawnshop owner's warehouse was filled with various expensive items that had been pawned to him by people in need of quick financial aid. Vehicles, gadgets, and jewelry are all safely stored within his warehouse. In a secluded corner, the men argue about how small the bounty that they got from Cecilia's grandfather was. "Two! Two ounces of gold! Is that it?"
"We turned that house upside down, boss, and all we found were these bars; you were there. You even killed that old man," One of his henchmen replied.
The boss slammed his hand on the table. "I didn't want to kill him. I was startled. He popped out of nowhere! I aimed the gun at him, and he died of a heart attack!" He turned to another of his henchmen, "Are you sure the police were at that old man's house?"
In a mousy voice, the man replied, "Yes, boss, I was there. The police cordoned off the entire area. But you don't need to worry, I heard the one in charge is one of your drinking buddies."
"Robles?" The boss chuckled, "Looks like we have a fallback in case something goes wrong."
"It is your lucky day indeed," someone called out. The boss and his goons were startled, their heads whipped left and right, looking for who had spoken.
From out of the shadows, two figures emerged…Chris and Bustamante. Startled, the human whipped out their guns and aimed them at the two intruders. "Who are you? Better answer fast, or I will riddle your bodies with bullets."
Chris snickered as he raised his hands, showing he was not holding any weapons. "Relax, like I said, this is your lucky day, I am here bearing gifts of gold and riches."
"The men lowered their weapons when they heard the prospect of gold. "So what, do you need our help to steal?"
"Oh no, nothing so crude," Chris shook his head. "I am here to give you gold, so much gold your head would spin." The pawnshop owner and his men started to cheer. "One thing, though," the cheering halted and the place was filled with silence, "I want to know who killed the old man."
The pawnshop owner raised his gun again, this time pointed at Chris's head. "I did," he then pointed the gun at Bustamante, who seemed indifferent to the danger. "Do you have a problem with that? Are you a cop? Do the two of you want to join him?"
Chris reached into the man's mind, his touch extending beyond his hands; it was colder than the grave itself. The man's senses betrayed him instantly — his eyes snapped open, but the familiar opulence was gone. Instead, he was submerged in an infinite sea of gold coins, each one glowing with a sickly, unnatural light that seemed to pulse with malevolent life.
The gold pressed against his skin like a living weight, burning and biting, as if forged in the fires of his own greed. The coins multiplied endlessly, drowning him in a suffocating tide that crushed his chest and rattled his ribs. The air around him thickened with the fetid stench of molten metal mixed with the coppery tang of fresh blood. Whispered voices slithered through the darkness — cold, accusing, and filled with venomous hatred. They spoke in the tongues of the dead, naming his sins, recounting the betrayal, the murder of Cecilia's grandfather for two measly ounces of gold.
Then, the gold began to melt, oozing like blackened tar, sticky and foul, dripping through his fingers and pooling at his feet. It burned his flesh as it slid down, leaving trails of blistered skin and raw nerve endings. The temperature plunged, and the shadows around him writhed and twisted into grotesque forms — spectral entities with hollow, burning eyes that pierced his soul. Their mouths opened wide in silent screams, revealing rows of jagged teeth that seemed to gnash the very fabric of his sanity.
These revenants clawed at him with icy fingers, their touch freezing his blood and slowing his heartbeat to a torturous crawl. The man tasted despair itself — bitter, metallic, and thick like poison on his tongue. His skin crawled as invisible insects burrowed beneath it, gnawing relentlessly at his nerves, unraveling his grip on reality.
The voices swelled into a deafening chorus — the anguished souls of all who had aided in the murder of Cecilia's grandfather. Each accomplice was caught in their hell, their screams echoing through his mind like a funeral dirge. They, too, were drowning in their seas of molten gold, melting away into nothingness, their souls twisted and broken beyond repair.
The man's heart pounded in terror as the gold turned to dust, slipping through his fingers like the last fragments of his shattered life. His mind splintered under the relentless onslaught, fracturing into a thousand shards of madness and despair. His body convulsed violently before collapsing into a catatonic husk, eyes wide and unseeing, trapped forever in the nightmare conjured by Chris's wrath.
In the suffocating silence that followed, Chris's voice echoed — cold, merciless, and final: "For every ounce of blood spilled for gold, your souls are forever claimed. No treasure, no plea, no mercy can save you now. I will never allow it!"
Chris watched as the writhing and twisting bodies of the henchmen littered the warehouse, their cries and pleas of mercy echoed throughout the hallowed walls. This horror was not just punishment but a curse, a darkness that would seep into dreams, shatter peace, and haunt the living and the dead alike, etched in terror by the merciless captain of the Barge of the Dead. "This is not enough!"
Bustamante noticed, the captain's fingertips turned to sharp claws, and his eyes became hollow voids. He stepped between Chris and his prey. "Captain, get a hold of yourself, remember the consequences if you do this!"
But Chris pushed Bustamante aside, saying, "Do not interfere, I am going to set loose hell."