The room was dim, the kind of darkness that felt almost suffocating. The air, thick with the scent of stale sweat and something harsher, clung to the walls of the ruined space. Concrete crumbled underfoot, pieces of long-forgotten metal and debris scattered across the floor like the remnants of a past battle. The faint hum of a broken fluorescent light flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows on the walls. In the center of the room, a lone figure moved with mechanical precision, the sound of her punches hitting the bag echoing through the silence.
She didn't need the dim lighting to focus. Her eyes, sharp and alert despite the exhaustion, never wavered from the target before her. Sweat trickled down her face, her blonde hair—short and layered, messily swept to one side—sticking to her forehead as she delivered a relentless series of jabs, hooks, and uppercuts. Each strike seemed almost forced, as if she was locked in a cycle she couldn't break. The gauntlets wrapped tightly around her fists, worn and cracked from years of use, offered no comfort, just another reminder of the battles she'd fought and the ones still to come.
Around her, the room was littered with remnants of her life—pills scattered across a nearby table, their labels smudged and unreadable; bombs, disarmed but still deadly in their inert form; empty crates of supplies, some dented, others crushed under the weight of time. Each item had a story. Each one a piece of her past. They spoke of violence, survival, and choices made in the darkness.
Her piercing blue eyes—clear yet distant, cold yet burning with a quiet intensity—reflected a sense of urgency, as though she was being driven by something unseen. Her nose and lip piercings glinted under the harsh light as she breathed heavily, the rhythmic thud of her punches matching the thump of her heart. Every strike was methodical, every movement precise, as if her body had long since given into the demands placed upon it. There was no joy in her actions, no satisfaction, just the gnawing need to push forward, to stay sharp, to be ready for whatever came next.
Her movements began to slow, exhaustion creeping in, but she didn't stop. She couldn't. The room, the weights of her past, and the pressure of the unknown were all she had. She had been trained to endure, to push through, to be more than just the girl she was before—before all of this.
The door creaked open, a figure stepping through the threshold. The stranger's presence filled the room, breaking the silence with a weight that hung in the air. She didn't acknowledge the person at first, only continuing to strike, her breathing ragged and unsteady. But the figure didn't speak, only watched, waiting for her to finish.
Finally, with a heavy exhale, she stopped, her chest heaving with each breath as she wiped the sweat from her brow. Her eyes—still sharp, still cold—turned toward the figure, her gaze locking onto them with a quiet intensity. They didn't have to say a word. The message was clear.
The figure stepped forward, their voice breaking the silence like a knife through fabric. "You've been selected for the trial. You know the rules. Get ready for your mission." The words were blunt, without sentiment, as if they were just stating a fact.
She didn't flinch. Didn't react. She simply nodded, a movement so slight it could've been missed by anyone else.
The person continued, outlining the details, but she already knew. She had always known.
The figure's words hung in the air for a moment, and then they leaned in, voice low and measured. "Your target... it's someone you're familiar with. No one else needs to know the name. But you do."
She remained still, her piercing blue eyes unwavering, absorbing every word as though it were carved into her mind. Her knuckles tightened around the gauntlets, the weight of the task settling in, but her expression remained cold, unreadable. The room was silent except for the soft hum of the broken light above. She'd been prepared for this.
The figure paused, studying her reaction, but she didn't give them the satisfaction of a change in demeanor. They continued, voice almost a whisper now. "Get in, take the target out. Clean. No traces. We'll provide the details. You'll figure out the rest."
She nodded once, sharp and decisive. Her mission had been set, and there was nothing left to say. She had no need for further explanation. The name might have been unsaid to the others, but it was already written across her mind like an unshakable truth.
The door slammed open, and the figure who entered was unmistakable. A woman, tall and commanding, walked in with a presence that could dominate any room. The man who had just spoken was swiftly pushed aside without a second thought. The woman's sharp gaze landed on her target, cold and piercing.
Before she could react, the woman was on her, closing the distance with terrifying speed. The first slap landed hard, the sound echoing through the room, followed by a second, and then a third. Each strike was calculated, a silent message of unrelenting power.
"Failure isn't a fucking option," the woman spat, her grip now tight on her target's arm, pulling her close. Their faces were inches apart, the intensity of the woman's eyes overwhelming. "You fuck this up, and there will be nowhere for you to hide. Understand?"
Despite the sting on her cheek, she didn't flinch. Her eyes locked with the woman's, unwavering. The woman leaned in further, her breath hot against her skin. "If you fail, it'll be the last day for you, and your fucking family. Got that?"
With one final shove, the woman pushed her forward, not waiting for a response. As she walked away, the warning lingered in the air, clear and unspoken.
The door slammed shut behind them, leaving the girl standing alone in the silence that followed. Her face was stinging, her heart racing from the intensity of the encounter. The woman's words hung in the air like a thick, suffocating fog—Failure isn't an option. It echoed in her mind, each repetition only amplifying the pressure.
She touched her cheek, the heat of the slaps still radiating beneath her fingers. Her eyes, though cold, were sharper now, more focused. There was no time for weakness. She could feel the tension in her body, muscles still wound tight from the physical assault, but she refused to let it show. Her jaw tightened as she exhaled sharply through her nose.
She glanced at the punching bag, her fists already itching to strike. The anger that had simmered beneath the surface all this time began to bubble up again. She was used to being pushed, used to the threats, the violence. But that didn't mean she liked it. She'd been broken before, bent to someone else's will—but not anymore. Not this time.
She walked to the center of the room, ignoring the scattered pills and the explosives lying carelessly around. The gauntlets on her hands felt heavier now, a reminder of her purpose, of the mission that would either make or break her.
With a sharp breath, she swung her fist at the punching bag. It moved violently, but her eyes, cold and focused, never left the spot where it had once hung. A single drop of sweat dripped down her face, mixing with the sting still lingering from the slaps. It didn't matter. They could threaten her all they wanted. She wasn't the same girl who'd once crumbled under pressure.
This time, she'd fight back. She'd prove them wrong. In a rough American accent, the girl spoke to herself.
"I won't let you hurt them. you fucking cunt."
end of part
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Veil of the forsaken.
Художественная проза"Veil of the Forsaken" is a captivating story centered around an agency known as the Infected Defense Division (I.D.D.). Set against a backdrop of an apocalyptic world, the narrative explores the complexities of life within the agency's facilities a...
