Sweat streamed down the scientists' faces, stinging their eyes, yet none dared lift a hand to wipe it away. Their fingers trembled over glass vials and steel instruments, the storm inside them louder than the hiss of furnaces and the clatter of apparatus.
The air was cold, unnaturally so, as though the lab itself recoiled from what was happening.
On the far wall, five computer screens glowed with a cruel broadcast: Macavania's soldiers pressing rifles to the heads of wives, children, parents. The sobbing of the families bled through the speakers, raw and unrelenting, their tears soaking clothes that clung to shaking bodies.
Near the lead scientist stood a figure — tall, broad, and immovable. He cracked his knuckles with deliberate slowness, then dragged the muzzle of his pistol across his temple as if scratching an itch. His eyes, an icy sky-blue, were devoid of warmth. The scar carved into his face, an X of violence, radiated a chill that sank into the spine of anyone who dared meet his gaze.
None of the scientists looked at him. To look was to invite despair. He was not a man but a shadow of damnation, the embodiment of Satan himself.
Then his voice thundered, filling every corner of the lab with command and inevitability:
"I need these pills completed now. Or else…" He paused, letting silence gnaw at their nerves. "…your beloved families shall meet Satan in hell."
The words struck the scientists like spears piercing their chests, each syllable stabbing at their breathing hearts. Saliva thickened into stone, impossible to swallow, as the lead scientist forced himself to speak — to offer assurance to the devil himself.
For the first time, he raised his eyes. His lips quivered, his whole body trembling as though every nerve had turned to glass. The dread lodged in his throat, sticky and immovable. He stammered, "Give us five more minutes. Your product will be ready, sir." His voice was hollow, drained of hope, a whisper dragged from the grave.
Two soldiers flanked Macavania, rifles gripped tight, their faces carved from stone. They did not blink, did not breathe — statues of death, angels awaiting the signal to strike.
Macavania's mouth curled open, his voice a blade slicing through the air:
"My patience is running out. Time I do not have to spare."
The lead scientist's breath faltered. "Three more minutes, sir… and the product is yours." He clutched his timer watch, desperate to anchor his words in truth. Inside, he cursed himself for ever bargaining with this devil. But what choice had he?
His gaze locked on the massive clock above the furnace, its hands crawling with cruel indifference. Each second dragged like an eternity. Three minutes stretched into six hours. The boiling pot hissed and roared, mocking him with its endless delay. The completion process was a torment — forever trapped in the jaws of time.
The golden pills gleamed under the furnace light, their shine almost holy against the shadows of the lab. For a heartbeat, the scientists felt relief — a fragile smile breaking through the lead scientist's trembling lips. But the moment was short-lived.
Macavania's icy eyes locked onto the pills, their spark reflected in his gaze like fire trapped in ice. "How many did you make?" His voice was sharp, demanding.
"Five hundred and one," the lead scientist whispered, each syllable dragged out by fear.
Macavania turned, his expression unreadable. "Bring me the bastard the doctor experimented on."
The soldiers saluted, their first movement breaking the suffocating stillness. Silence reclaimed the lab as they left, the scientists frozen in dread, unsure of what horror awaited.
Minutes later, the soldiers returned, dragging a man whose body seemed carved from suffering. Salvador — pale, skeletal, his skin clinging to bone — collapsed to his knees before Macavania. His breath rattled like broken glass, his eyes hollow, as though death had already claimed half of him.
Macavania's lips curled into a smile, but it was a smile without warmth, a predator's grin. He bit his bottom lip, cracked his knuckles, and leaned forward.
"Salvador…" His voice dripped mockery. "Two days, and you look like an old man."
He raised a pill between his fingers, golden light dancing across the scar on his face. "Today," he said, his tone swelling with cruel triumph, "I will show you that I hold the power to give life… and to take it away."
The scientists watched, their hearts pounding, knowing they were about to witness something that would scar their souls forever.
Macavania tilted his head, the cold steel of his pistol brushing against his temple as if it were an idle thought. His sneer stretched into a death‑mocking smile.
"Beg for your life… perhaps I'll extend it. The choice is yours." His voice was strong, stripped of emotion, yet saturated with menace.
Salvador's body was a map of agony—sores covered him, even lining his mouth. He summoned every shred of strength to form a word, but his throat betrayed him.
"Louder," Macavania taunted, his tone sharp as a blade. "I can't hear you."
The torment was visible in Salvador's trembling frame. At last, a whisper broke free. "Mercy…"
Macavania's grin widened. He gestured to the lead scientist. "Give him the pill."
The golden capsule gleamed as it was forced between Salvador's lips, followed by a glass of water. Within moments, the sores melted away, his throat cleared, and breath returned to him. Relief washed over his face as he drained the glass.
"How do you feel?" Macavania asked, pistol raised like a conductor's baton.
Salvador lowered his head, voice shaking. "Fine… perfect, sir. Thank you."
"Good." Macavania's smile hardened into cruelty. "Now let me take you out of your misery forever."
The gunshot cracked through the air. The bullet found Salvador's forehead, freezing his gratitude into a mask of shock. Silence followed, heavy and absolute.
A shockwave rippled across the faces of the scientists, their breath stolen by grave fear. Salvador's skull split with a sickening crack, blood erupting like a grotesque fountain. His body sagged, collapsing to the floor with a heavy thud, crimson pooling beneath him.
The scientists whispered frantic prayers, their voices trembling. Macavania stepped forward, contempt etched into his sneer. He spat on the corpse.
"Pathetic piece of flesh." His words dripped venom.
Turning, he leveled his pistol at the trembling men, their terror so complete that urine stained their clothes. "And you, my comrades… Thank you for your service. You've made me rich, powerful." He paused, calculating, savoring the silence. "But your services are no longer required."
Four shots shattered the air.