Chapter Text
The hallway reeked of industrial cleaner mixed with the faint,
sweet smell of crayons. Bright paper stars had been taped along the walls by small hands, some already peeling and curling at the edges. A crooked banner hung over the entrance, its cheerful letters spelling out Have a Nice Day!
Devesto stood just inside the doorway, the weight of the gun in his hand grounding him in a way nothing else could. The silence pressed in on him, thick and unnatural, broken only by the shuffle of small shoes and the whisper of uncertain voices. Several children stared openly at him, their expressions confused rather than afraid, as if they were waiting for someone to explain the situation to them.
He lifted the weapon.
The trigger clicked uselessly beneath his finger. He pulled it again, harder this time, his pulse roaring in his ears. Still nothing. No sound, no recoil—just the hollow failure of a world refusing to respond. His breathing grew erratic as the walls seemed to bend inward; colours blurred and stretched until the room felt too small to contain him. Somewhere, someone screamed, and the sound tore through his skull like glass.
Then everything came apart.
.
.
2 years ago, Paradise, Arizona.
“Population pressure and the stress of modern life may cause an increase in violent tendencies. The urban environment is the incubator for all sorts of undesirable behaviours. However much his atrocities disgust us, he may actually consider himself a hero. This is common among those referred to by the popular slang, ‘going postal.’
In his tortured mind, he may feel he was battling against impossible odds. It is not unusual for some individuals to believe that their actions have a profound impact on the fate of the world. In the end, our subject displays all the classic symptoms of a paranoid delusional.”
“We may never know exactly what set him off, but rest assured—we will have plenty of time to study him.”
.................
The beeping dragged him back to consciousness.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“Fuck…”
Devesto opened his eyes slowly, exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin. He lay sprawled on a cheap, uncomfortable bed, the kind that never quite supported your spine, no matter how you shifted. It had been two years since he’d crawled out of the psychiatric ward, and to this day, he still had no idea how that had happened. He had killed a lot of people. An entire city, really. The thought settled heavily in his chest, followed by the familiar justification that always came after. They were infected. They had been dangerous. He still believed that, no matter how many times the doctors had tried to pry the idea out of his head.
“Get moving. You’ve got a lot to do today.”
The woman’s voice cut through his thoughts. Devesto stared ahead for a moment before pushing
himself upright, running a hand through his messy blond hair and releasing a slow, tired sigh.
Right. That bitch was his wife.
…Wasn’t she?
Fantastic.
He kept forgetting that part, just like he kept forgetting how he had ended up here in the first place, or why no one had decided to execute him yet. The gaps in his memory felt deliberate, as though his mind had locked certain doors and thrown the keys away. He didn’t remember. And you, dear reader? You wouldn’t find out either. This city was a shithole, filled with people who weren’t all that different from the ones back in Arizona. Different streets, different buildings, same rotten core. Paradise was no longer an option after what he’d done, and even if it had been, he doubted he’d be welcome. Devesto sat up fully and exhaled. “Yeah, yeah… I’m up,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. She was outside the van, smoking yet another cigarette. That rusted piece of shit was their home now. A van parked somewhere between nowhere and worse. Fucking life. “Christ, it’s hot as hell out here,” he said, glancing around. “When did we start living in hell?” Probably always.
“You’re the one who insisted on relocating for that stupid video game job,” she shot back. Devesto sighed again and looked toward the barely functioning ventilation system. The A/C unit looked ancient, its plastic yellowed with age. “Yeah, well, crack doesn’t buy itself, you know.” He grabbed the remote and aimed it at the unit. “Why isn’t the A/C on?”
Click. Click. Click.
“Broken.”
He growled under his breath, irritation flaring briefly before he shrugged it off. He had a better solution anyway. Reaching for his beloved pistol, he raised it and fired. Bang. The unit sparked. “Works,” he said with a grin, a short bark of laughter escaping him. As he stood, he nearly tripped over something soft and unpleasant on the floor. There was a lot of that lying around...they hadn’t exactly been taking care of themselves. “Aw, shit—” He swore and pulled on his favourite jacket while she spoke again from outside. “When you’re done screwing around, I made a list of errands for you. It’s on the fridge."
“Fuck,” Devesto muttered, smacking his palm lightly against his face before turning toward the fridge and grabbing the list.
“Jesus, woman…” He opened the fridge out of habit. It was empty.
“Where’s the milk?” ....“It’s on the damn list!” Something in his eye twitched. “I’ll put you on a damn list,” he whispered under his breath, the familiar urge to kill rising uncomfortably fast. How had he even married her? When the hell had that happened?
He shoved his feet into his boots and stepped out of the van. The day was bright and beautiful—at least, that was the joke he told himself. He inhaled the polluted air deeply, only to feel something warm splash against his shoe.
“What the fuck—?” He looked down just in time to see the dog finishing its business on his boot. Without thinking, he kicked it aside. The animal yelped and bolted. “STUPID DOG!” Devesto snarled, stomping forward. “Don’t let the dog out!” He froze as he realised it was already gone, sprinting off toward nowhere in particular. “…Shit.” Shoving his hands into his pockets, he started walking. No time to waste. It was Monday, and he had a job to get to.
He reached his car—a wreck barely pretending to be functional—and slid into the driver’s seat. With a grin sharp enough to cut glass, he muttered, “Let me guess…” He turned the key. Nothing. The engine coughed weakly, producing a sound that felt almost comforting in its misery. “Great.” Devesto stepped back out and unfolded the city map. He didn’t remember the city’s name, and frankly, he didn’t care. Paradise was gone, and this place didn’t deserve one either. “Okay,” he muttered to himself. “Meeting with Vincent… milk… whatever else.”
He marked the locations quickly, folded the map, and sighed. “…Alright.” Then he started walking.
And everything already pissed him off
Walking forward with no real destination in mind, Devesto let out another long sigh. The city was… awful, putting it politely. The people here were assholes—world-class ones at that. Everyone seemed ready to kill everyone else at any given moment, which honestly wasn’t the biggest issue, all things considered. Devesto, after all, was more than qualified when it came to mass murder, and his own safety wasn’t something he worried about. If anything, maybe someone would be kind enough to kill his wife for him. That would be nice.
Using the map, he eventually made his way to the location of his shitty job. Some weird protesters were ranting about something outside, but he didn’t give a single fuck. He went inside and glanced around, first to the left, then to the right.
Where the hell was Vincent’s office? “Uh…” Devesto scratched the back of his head, suddenly aware that he had no idea where he was supposed to go. He didn’t want to ask anyone either—it just felt pathetic, the kind of thing that made you look stupid in front of employers and workers alike. So instead, he wandered the corridors until he finally found the right door.
“Ah, voilà,” he muttered to himself, kicking the door open and stepping inside with his hands still buried in his pockets. Vincent—his supervisor- looked up at him with a smug smile.
“Ah, Devesto… I’m sorry to say this, but you’re fired.”
…What?
“The fuck?” Devesto snapped. “I started yesterday!” He stormed up to the bastard, barely restraining the instinct to kill him on the spot. Vincent remained calm. “Your paycheck is on the desk.” Devesto glanced at it and sighed deeply. No point arguing. The money was there—and money meant more cocaine. He grabbed what was his and turned to leave, but then—
“EVERYONE ON THE GROUND!”
Shouting. Another protestor attack. Of course. Video games cause violence, blah blah blah.
Devesto raised an eyebrow and looked back at Vincent, who had gone pale.
“If I save your ass,” Devesto asked calmly, “do I get paid more?” Vincent stared at him for a moment, then laughed.
“I’d rather die.”
…
“Alright,” Devesto said with a shrug. “Everyone for themselves, then.”
He smiled, kicked the door open hard enough to rip it off its hinges, and stepped out.
“Let’s get started, you fuckers.
Gunfire erupted the moment Devesto stepped into the hallway.
The first shot took one of the protesters in the chest, the impact knocking him backwards into another man who hadn’t even finished shouting yet. Panic spread instantly. Someone fired wildly in his direction, the bullets chewing into the wall just inches from his head. Devesto ducked behind a corner, heart steady, movements automatic. He leaned out just long enough to put two clean shots into the shooter’s torso, then pulled back as glass shattered nearby. Alarms began to wail somewhere deeper in the building, their shrill noise cutting through the chaos.
“Fucking amateurs,” he muttered, ejecting the magazine and slamming in a fresh one.
He pushed forward, boots crunching over broken glass and dropped signs. One of the protesters rushed him, screaming something incoherent, swinging a blunt weapon as if it would somehow make a difference. Devesto sidestepped, shoved the barrel into the man’s gut, and pulled the trigger. The body folded instantly. Another one tried to flee. Devesto shot him in the back without slowing down.
Someone else fired from behind a desk, bullets ripping through cheap wood. Devesto dropped low, slid across the floor, and came up firing, putting an end to it in seconds. Blood splattered across the wall, warm and dark, painting the room in something almost familiar. His breathing was calm. Too calm. He reloaded again, checked his surroundings, and advanced room by room, methodical and efficient. Any resistance was dealt with quickly. Any hesitation was punished even faster. When it was finally over, the building was quiet again—save for the distant alarm and the ringing in his ears.
Bodies lay scattered across the floor, twisted in unnatural positions. Smoke hung in the air, heavy and bitter. Devesto stood there for a moment, chest rising and falling, then relaxed. He lowered the gun and glanced around as if inspecting a finished job. “Yeah,” he murmured. “That tracks.” He turned and walked out of the building, stepping over the mess without a second thought, leaving behind the place where he technically no longer worked
Devesto inhaled deeply as he pulled out a cigarette and lit it, savouring the smell.
“These can’t be good for me,” he muttered, “but I feel great.” He walked on, checking off the paycheck from the list. Groceries next, right? Alright.
Ding dong.
Was that Arabic music?
Devesto sighed heavily as he walked through the aisles, grabbing what he needed. Milk—right. He picked up a carton, feeling his existence slowly become a massive pain in his ass. Standing in the long, as fuck line, he began tapping his foot against the floor. “….” Some weird Arab guy was talking to every customer. “Good to see you, goodbye.” Or maybe it was “Allahu akbar balala.”
Something like that. Devesto sighed again when he noticed the guy in front of him—some disabled dude with a speech impediment. The lisp grated on his nerves immediately. Don’t kill him, Devesto. He’s just a little disabled. He started counting in German in his head to calm himself down. He was German by nationality, which probably explained his aggressive tendencies.
For those easily offended—
That was a joke.
Devesto let out a deep sigh as he stood trapped in what felt like the longest,
most unnecessarily massive line he’d ever seen. His foot tapped against the grimy floor, patience thinning by the second.
“Maybe we could move it along a little?” he snapped, not even bothering to sound polite. “I don’t have all fucking day. I’ve got shit to do.” The guy in front of him stiffened, shoulders drawing up like a scared animal, then shuffled forward just a step. It was subtle—but unsettling. Devesto frowned. The hell was that about? …fuck. After a few painful minutes, it was finally his turn.
“Please place items. I scan,” the cashier said in a flat, robotic tone.
Jesus Christ, Devesto thought. Are we living in some underdeveloped hellhole?
Who the fuck talks like that in 2026?
He muttered a curse and dropped his purchases onto the counter: milk and a couple of cans of beer. That was it.
“That will be fifteen dollars.”
Devesto stared at him as the man had just confessed to murder.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he scoffed. “Dude. It’s milk and beer.”
Still, he handed over the cash, glaring as if that alone might set the place on fire. Robbing bastard. The moment he stepped outside, he cracked open one of the beers and downed half of it in a single swallow. “Yeah,” he muttered, wiping his mouth, “I’m getting absolutely wasted today.” He walked on, eyes drifting to the crumpled list in his hand. What now… what now… He scanned it once more and snorted. “Oh. That’s it? Fucking perfect.” Grinning faintly, he headed toward his beloved van. On the way, he caught bits of gossip from a pair of random hookers leaning against a wall.
“Apparently someone’s coming tomorrow. All the way from Europe!”
Europe? Huh. Not bad. He’d been from Europe once, too—back when family meant something. Or at least pretended to. Didn’t exactly end well.
NPCs, he thought bitterly. All of them.
He rolled his shoulders, bones popping as he stretched. A ginger cat darted past his legs, and instinctively, he bent down to pet it. The cat hissed, fur bristling, then bolted.
People said cats could sense death.
And Devesto, when you really got down to it…
was death
.
.
He climbed into the van with another heavy sigh. His wife was probably
screwing some random asshole again, and honestly? He couldn’t give less of a fuck. Probably had AIDS by now.
He collapsed onto the small bed in the back, letting out a low groan of exhaustion. He didn’t want to live. Really, he could’ve just put a bullet through his skull and been done with it—but something, some stupid little voice, told him to stick around just a bit longer. Maybe Jesus would decide tomorrow was the day something good finally happened. His gaze drifted to the collection of drugs on the table. “Alright… what do we have here?”
Weed? Nah.
Heroin? Please.
Cocaine?
“…Yeah. That’ll do.”
He poured out the white powder, shaping neat lines with practised ease, rolled up his usual bill, and inhaled. Being high was the only thing that helped anymore. He groaned softly and flopped back onto the bed, heart pounding faster, louder. When he opened his eyes again, the world wasn’t right. “Fuck… hallucinations again?” The room around him looked wrong—fleshy, warped, like some organic nightmare. “Yeah, no,” he laughed dryly. “Ever since I crawled out of the psych ward, this shit doesn’t scare me anymore.” Then it appeared—the figure that had guided him years ago, back during his great slaughter. It stood tall, proud.
“When will you stop?” it asked. “This isn’t for you. It’s not your style. You were made t—”
“For murder,” Devesto cut in calmly. “Yeah, I know. It’s the only thing I’m actually good at.” He lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply.
“You won’t live long if you keep doing this,” the creature warned.
Devesto laughed. “Already shaved off, what—four decades? Maybe tomorrow I’ll finally derail completely. At least I won’t have to go through a divorce.”
Darkness.
When he woke up, it was night. Thick, heavy, dark. His wife lay beside him, naked, unpleasantly so. He didn’t remember touching her—he was still fully clothed.
He sat up slowly and wrapped his arms around himself.
Tomorrow was a new day.