A Gangster Paradise

The night was still, almost too still, with only the soft rustling of leaves outside his window breaking the silence.

A young man lay sprawled on his bed, bathed in the silver glow of the moonlight that seeped through the thin curtains. The air was still, but his body was not. His chiseled features were twisted in a grimace, his breath uneven, his fists clenched tightly around the phantom weight of weapons he could feel even now, in his sleep. Strands of oceanic blue hair clung to his sweat-drenched forehead, and his muscles twitched with every flicker of the chaos unfolding behind his closed eyes.

The dream tore through him like a storm, vivid and unrelenting. 

A translucent image of a dense jungle, an axe gripped tightly in his hands.

The air was damp and heavy, each breath a struggle as the stench of blood mingled with the earthy aroma of wet foliage. The rustling of leaves surrounded him, an ominous prelude to the figures charging out of the shadows. Their faces were obscured, but their weapons gleamed in the faint shafts of moonlight breaking through the canopy above. 

Without blinking once, he swung the axe, the blade cleaving through flesh and bone with sickening ease. Blood sprayed across his face, warm and sticky, as one body fell, then another. The weight of each strike vibrated through his arms, but he didn't stop—he couldn't stop.

His shoes sank into the muddy ground, now slick with crimson, as he pressed forward. An enemy lunged at him, but he sidestepped, the axe coming down in an arc that split the man's skull with a crack that echoed through the trees. 

Soon, the jungle faded, replaced by the chaos of a port at night.

The salty tang of seawater mingled with the acrid scent of smoke and gunpowder. Waves crashed violently against the docks, their rhythm drowned out by the roar of gunfire. A rifle was seen moving from right to left now, its barrel glowing faintly from the heat of endless rounds. Enemies swarmed from every direction, their shadows illuminated by the flickering flames of burning ships. 

Shots were fired without hesitation, each shot a death sentence. Bullets tore through flesh, leaving gaping, bloody wounds.

A man stumbled forward, clutching at his chest as blood poured between his fingers, before collapsing into the water with a splash. Another rushed him with a blade, but the barrel of the gun pointed at that man, firing point-blank. The man's body crumpled to the ground, lifeless, as his blood pooled beneath him, seeping into the cracks of the weathered planks. 

The carnage was unrelenting, and so was he. His footsteps left red stains on the dock, each step a testament to the path of destruction he carved. 

In the blink of an eye, the port turned to darkness, and a translucent image of inside a building appeared, its sterile walls splattered with blood and littered with the dead. The air was suffocating, thick with the metallic tang of gore.

This time a pistol replaced the rifle and a knife in the other hand, the movements precise and ruthless. 

A man charged, screaming, but a shot was fired in the chest without so much as a flinch. Another lunged but the knife moved with such precision, plunged into the attacker's throat.

Blood erupted like a fountain, splattering his face and hands.

He kicked the dying man aside, his boots slick with blood that squelched beneath each step.

The enemies kept coming—faceless, endless—but he was faster, stronger. He didn't feel fear, only an unrelenting drive to kill. The muzzle flash of his pistol illuminated the grotesque scene: bodies piled in heaps, the walls painted with crimson streaks.

His heart thundered in his chest, his breathing ragged but steady. He was a machine, unstoppable, untouchable. 

And yet, amid the slaughter, the whisper returned! 

It slipped through the cacophony, soft and elusive, pulling at him. He turned, his bloodied hands trembling slightly as he searched for its source. Through the haze of smoke and carnage, a shadowy figure emerged, standing still amid the chaos.

It was featureless, its form blurred and indistinct, yet it held a gravity that drew him in. 

He stepped toward it, his bloody footprints trailing behind him, but before he could reach it, the ground beneath him crumbled. 

He fell, tumbling through darkness, his weapons slipping from his hands as he plummeted into an endless void. The roar of gunfire and the cries of the dying faded, replaced by an oppressive silence.

He was weightless, helpless, drowning in the emptiness! 

He jolted awake. 

His body convulsed as if he'd been struck, his upper torso lurching off the bed. His chest heaved, desperate for air, each breath a shallow gasp. Sweat poured from him, soaking his shirt and plastering his hair to his forehead. His hands trembled violently, clutching at the sheets as though they might anchor him to reality. 

The moonlight spilling into the room felt cold and foreign, casting his shadow against the wall—a hunched, trembling figure trapped between waking and the horrors of his dream. His muscles ached as if he had truly wielded the weapons as if he'd truly carved his way through enemies. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, a relentless drumbeat that refused to slow, the echoes of the nightmare still roaring in his mind. 

And in the quiet of his room, he could still feel it: the weight of the axe, the recoil of the rifle, and the sticky warmth of blood on his skin.

They were memories—fragments from a past he had fought to bury, one he could barely admit was his own. Each night, the blood-soaked images clawed their way into his mind, refusing to fade, pulling him back into battles he wanted desperately to forget.

He clenched his fists, fighting the overwhelming urge to scream. There had been a time when he'd remembered it all too well, when every moment of violence had been etched into his mind, defining him.

But over the years, he had pushed it all away, suppressing the memories so deeply that they felt almost foreign, almost like someone else's life.

Even now, his body bore the faint scars of battles he refused to acknowledge. And as he stared down at his trembling hands, he could still feel the weight of a sword that no longer existed, the ghost of the weapon pressing into his grip.

"Why won't you just stay buried?" He whispered hoarsely, pressing his palms against his eyes as if that could block out the haunting visions.

He'd tried to live a different life, to create something new, something untainted by the violence that had once surrounded him.

But each night, his past found him, creeping back in the form of these "dreams," as if daring him to confront the truth he so adamantly denied.

The sun crested over the city skyline, casting golden light across the crowded, chaotic streets.

It was early morning, and the young man stood on the narrow balcony of his rundown apartment, a chipped mug of lukewarm coffee in hand. He gazed out at the waking world, where the sounds of blaring horns and distant arguments mingled with the chirps of pigeons perched on rusty railings. The view wasn't much to admire: cracked pavement, graffiti-smeared walls, and a maze of power lines sagging under their weight.

Yet, this was home.

The apartment behind him was a one-room disaster, with peeling paint and a water-stained ceiling. His bed was a sagging mattress shoved against the wall, while his wardrobe was little more than a row of shirts and track pants hanging from a bent pipe. But it was his space, earned through hard work and a relentless will to survive.

He finished his coffee and set the mug down, grabbing his gym bag.

Another day, another routine.

The young man never allowed himself the luxury of complacency. It was a life forged in discipline, sharpened by the ghosts of the past. 

An incident that drove him to shed his old identity was one he never spoke of, not even in whispers to himself, as if uttering it aloud would summon shadows from the depths of his past.

The young man was a symbol of his resolve to bury the man he once was. Those who met him sensed there was more to his story—an unspoken truth lurking behind his sharp eyes and guarded demeanor.

What had happened on that fateful day? What had shattered him so profoundly that he cast away his old self as if it were a curse?

The answers lay buried in his heart, locked away where even he dared not tread.

The young man slipped into a worn leather jacket and locked up his apartment. He trotted down the stairwell, nodding at his elderly neighbor, Mrs. Delgado, who always sat outside her door knitting.

"Morning, Rowan," She greeted with a warm smile.

"Morning, Mrs. D. Need me to pick up anything from the market?" The young man named Rowan asked, pausing on the steps.

"Just my usual, if you don't mind," She replied, her needles clicking away. "Milk and bread."

"You got it," He said, tipping an invisible hat before heading out.