BOOK 2
Trapped within the iron grip of the notorious Morroto family, Veronica Garcia's fate hangs precariously in the balance. Days bleed into nights in the suffocating darkness of her prison, where despair threatens to consume her spirit. Each pass...
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ANOTHER LOUD BANGING noise shatters across the room, the sound reverberating off the brick walls with a sickening echo. With each strike, the walls seem to pulse with a macabre rhythm, as if the very building itself is alive and pulsating with the violence within.
Red crimson stains the brick walls, painting grotesque patterns of death and despair. The once pristine surface is now marred with streaks of blood, splattered in chaotic frenzy. The smell of iron fills the air, thick and metallic, invading my nostrils with every breath.
The ground is littered with bodies, piled on top of each other in a grotesque display of death. Limbs are twisted at unnatural angles, bones protruding through torn flesh, and viscera spilling out onto the ground like macabre confetti.
Faces frozen in silent screams of agony stare back at me, their lifeless eyes pleading for mercy that will never come. Some are missing limbs, others are mutilated beyond recognition, each one a testament to the brutality of the conflict that rages on.
The air is thick with the stench of decay, a putrid cocktail of blood, sweat, and death. It clings to my skin, seeping into my pores and filling my lungs with its foulness.
"Again," a calm voice mutters behind me as the two guards push the next victim in front of me. His blindfold is soaked with tears, the fabric clinging to his face in a macabre display of anguish. His croaky voice is muffled by the gag in his mouth, the desperate pleas for mercy barely audible beneath the stifling cloth.
The guards shove him forward with brutal force, causing him to stumble and fall to his knees before me. His hands are bound tightly behind his back, his wrists raw and bleeding from the rough treatment. His clothes are torn and stained with blood, a stark testament to the horrors he's endured.
I raise the gun and shoot the man without hesitation. The impact sends him sprawling backward, blood and brain matter splattering against the wall in a grotesque display of violence. His body convulses with the force of the shot, limbs twitching uncontrollably as life drains away from him.
The sound of the gunshot echoes through the room, a deafening reminder of the brutality that surrounds us. The other prisoners flinch at the sound, their faces contorted in terror as they await their own fate.
But I feel nothing. No remorse, no guilt, only a cold emptiness that threatens to consume me. I am a soldier in a war I never signed up for, a puppet dancing to the whims of those who hold power over me.
The guards watch with twisted satisfaction, their faces alight with cruel amusement at the spectacle before them. They relish in the violence, in the suffering of others, their sadistic grins a stark reminder of the darkness that resides within us all.
As the man's body lies motionless on the ground, a sense of numbness washes over me. Another life snuffed out in the blink of an eye, another casualty in this never-ending cycle of violence.
