curzekez omniverse...
The screams finally tore free, raw and utterly involuntary, ripping through the fragile silence of Nolan's small apartment. It wasn't the controlled roar of an MMA fighter, honed and measured in the octagon. This was the sound of a man being vivisected from the inside out. His hands, calloused and scarred from countless victories, clawed at his chest, then his face, as if trying to tear away the invisible agony that had just ignited in his bones.
"AHHHHHH WHAT THE FUCK!" he bellowed, thrashing against the sheets, his body arching off the mattress like a bowstring drawn taut. The world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of shattering glass and piercing ice. Every nerve ending felt as if it were simultaneously freezing and burning, a thousand tiny needles jabbing into his marrow, then twisting. He tasted copper and fear.
A small, terrified gasp cut through the madness. "Daddy! Daddy! What's wrong!"
His daughter, Lily, stood frozen in the doorway, a tiny figure clutching a worn teddy bear, her eyes wide saucers of fear in the dim light. Her voice, usually a bright, melodic chime, was now a choked whimper, like a small bird caught in a storm. He wanted to tell her to run, to close her eyes, to not see this monstrous unraveling of her father, but the words were lodged somewhere behind the firestorm in his skull.
"AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHGGHHH FUCKKK," Nolan choked, rolling off the bed and hitting the worn carpet with a thud that shook the floorboards. The pain intensified, focusing behind his eyes, then radiating outwards, threatening to explode his skull. He saw impossible colors, heard whispers that weren't there – a symphony of madness conducted by agony.
Then, a heavier tread in the hallway, followed by a familiar, worried voice. "Nolan! What's wrong, man?! Nolan!" His brother, Marcus, burst into the room, shirt untucked, eyes wild with alarm, taking in the scene: the overturned lamp, the thrashing form of the former champion, and Lily's trembling figure by the door.
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The Echo of Her Scream
The physical agony, as sudden and fierce as a viper's strike, began to recede, replaced by a cold, insidious dread. As his body stopped writhing, Nolan's eyes, wide and bloodshot, fixed on a point beyond the wall, beyond his room. He wasn't seeing the chipped paint or the faded posters. He was seeing *her*.
His wife, Sarah. The screech of tires, the impossible crumple of metal, the way her head snapped against the dashboard even before the glass burst inwards. Her final, silent scream, frozen in his memory, played out with chilling clarity, projected onto the very air of his bedroom. The suffocating helplessness he'd felt then, pinned in the driver's seat, unable to reach her, now enveloped him entirely.
It wasn't just the memory. It was a *replay*. A vivid, horrifying hallucination, smelling of burning rubber and fresh blood, tasting of salt from the tears he hadn't cried in years. He could almost feel her last breath on his cheek.
Then came the whisper. It wasn't a sound in the air, but a voice in his skull, cold and clear as a mountain stream.
"Kill...1...person..."
The whisper echoed, not once, but repeatedly, each iteration tightening a knot of ice in his gut.
"Nolan, answer me! What the hell was that?" Marcus was at his side now, trying to grip his shoulder, but Nolan recoiled, the spectral image of Sarah still burning in his mind's eye.
"Kill...1...person..."
Lily, having moved from the doorway, whimpered, "Daddy, are you sick?"
The nightmares, the hallucinations – they hadn't stopped since the accident. They had merely intensified, evolving from fleeting glimpses into full-blown sensory assaults. He'd tried everything: doctors, therapists, even shady spiritualists his brother had found. Nothing worked. And now... this. The explicit command. The chilling requirement.
"Go back to bed, Lily-bug," Nolan rasped, his voice raw, tearing his gaze from the phantom of his wife and forcing it onto his daughter's tear-streaked face. His muscles still throbbed, a dull ache that lingered like a phantom limb, but the maddening pain was gone. Replaced by a far deeper, more terrifying understanding.
"Marcus," he said, pushing himself to his feet, swaying slightly. His brother's hand steadied him. "I need to... I need to get out of here. Just for a bit."
Marcus frowned, his brow furrowed with concern. "Out? Nolan, you just had some kind of seizure! You're not thinking straight."
"I am," Nolan insisted, the voice in his head, now softer, but more insistent than ever, laying out its chilling ultimatum. "Kill...1...person...or it will only get worse..."
The Unseen Predator
Nolan stumbled out into the humid night air, the lingering phantom of Sarah's scream still echoing in his ears, the cold whisper a constant hum beneath his consciousness: "Kill...1...person..." The vibrant sounds of the late-night city, the distant karaoke, the hum of mopeds, all felt muted, distant, as if he were moving through a world just out of sync with his own fractured reality.
He walked without purpose, the gnawing dread a compass pointing him toward something he didn't want to find but knew he must. The air was thick with the scent of salt and diesel, a familiar aroma of the bustling coastal city, but tonight it carried an undercurrent of something darker, something predatory.
Then he heard it – a muffled sob, quickly followed by a sickening thud and a child's whimper cut short. Drawn by an instinct he didn't understand but felt compelled to obey, Nolan turned down a narrow alleyway, the shadows clinging to the damp concrete walls like grasping hands.
What he saw made the blood in his veins run cold, a different kind of cold than the curse. A large man, easily six-foot-six and carrying the weight of too many beers and too much bad food, stood over a small, frail boy huddled on the ground. The boy, no older than seven or eight, his clothes ragged and dirty, lay unnaturally still, a trickle of blood seeping from his lip. The man's face was contorted in a mask of ugly rage, sweat beading on his forehead in the humid air. In his hand, he hefted a jagged rock, the size of a man's fist.
"You filthy little street rat!" the man snarled in English, his voice thick with drunken fury. "Look what you did to my pants! You'll learn to stay out of my way!" He raised the rock, his intent sickeningly clear – a final, brutal act of petty violence.
Something snapped in Nolan's chest, a primal fury eclipsing even the fear of the curse. The image of Lily, small and vulnerable, flashed through his mind. Without conscious thought, his legs moved, carrying him down the alley with a speed that would have been impossible just days ago. The pain in his limbs from the earlier onslaught was forgotten, replaced by a surge of cold, terrifying strength.
He reached the man in a handful of strides. The man didn't even register his approach until a hand, moving with impossible speed, clamped down on his wrist like a steel vise. The rock dropped to the ground with a dull thud. The man, startled, turned his head, his eyes widening in disbelief as he looked up at Nolan.
"What the fu—?" he began, but the words died in his throat. Nolan's grip tightened, the man's thick wrist feeling fragile and insignificant in his grasp. Without a word, using a strength that felt alien yet undeniably his, Nolan effortlessly lifted the larger man off his feet. The man, despite his size and weight, felt as light as a child's doll in Nolan's grip. He dangled in the air, his feet kicking uselessly, his face turning a mottled shade of red.
Terror flooded the man's eyes. He stammered in English, a jumbled mess of fear and confusion. "Hey! What are you doing? Put me down! Who the hell are you?"
Nolan's gaze was fixed on the unconscious boy, his small, still form a stark accusation. The cold whisper in his head intensified: "Kill...1...person...it will only get worse..." The choice, horrifyingly, was clear.
Without another word, Nolan turned and began to walk, dragging the struggling, now-sobbing man with him as if he were no more than a sack of rice. The man's pleas and curses echoed in the narrow alley, but Nolan was deaf to them, his focus locked on the unseen command that thrummed in his skull. He needed to get the man away from the boy, away from any witnesses.
He reached the end of the alley and stepped out onto a darker, less frequented side street. The man's struggles had weakened, his cries reduced to panicked whimpers. Nolan stopped, his grip still unyielding. He looked down at the man, his face devoid of emotion, a terrifying stillness in his steel-grey eyes.
The cold whisper intensified, becoming almost a shout in his mind: "KILL!"
With a sudden, brutal motion, fueled by the unnatural strength surging through him, Nolan swung the man's body with sickening force against the brick wall of a deserted building. The impact was sickening, a wet, crunching sound that made Nolan flinch despite himself. The man went limp, his body slumping in Nolan's grip.
But the whisper didn't stop. It was still there, a cold, demanding presence. Nolan knew, with a sickening certainty, that one blow wasn't enough. The curse demanded a life extinguished.
He lifted the man again, the weight still negligible, and with another, even more brutal swing, slammed his head against the unforgiving brick. This time, there was no doubt. The man's body went completely slack, a horrifying doll broken beyond repair.
The cold whisper finally subsided, replaced by a chilling silence within Nolan's mind. The adrenaline began to recede, leaving behind a nausea that had nothing to do with the lingering phantom pain in his limbs. He looked down at the broken form at his feet, the taste of copper returning to his mouth, sharper this time, mixed with the bitter tang of bile.
He had killed. He had saved a child, perhaps. But he had also succumbed to the curse. The relief in his head was quickly overshadowed by a profound, gut-wrenching despair. What had he become?