Sitting in a poorly lit hallway was a man trying to light his cigarette.
He was young with an exhausted expression and equally exhausted features.
The only thing that proved his youth was perhaps the slight spark of energy in his black troubled eyes and the crisp ID that hung from around his thick neck.
The Intelligence Department never hired old folks, even if they were well versed and decorated. To the department those accolades meant nothing more than a large red "USED" stamp. To him the perfect analogy would be that they were simply clay pots: beautiful to look at, usually empty, and way too outdated.
Managing to finally get the cheap plastic lighter to work, the man took a long drag before looking down at his torn slacks and bloodied button down.
He let out a wet cough.
As of fourteen hours today, the Ethos Intelligence Department had lost contact with the outside world.
Its twelve hundred staff members were either missing or dead.
Feeling a dull pain in the back of his head, the man took one last drag from the stick of cancer before tossing it besides the disfigured bodies that were piled right outside the elevator doors.
They had all tried to rush out, screaming and begging for help.
But there was little he could do for them. He had his orders. He understood the risks of even letting a single person out of this building.
Looking at his own hands he felt somewhat disturbed.
It was as if the hands covered in blood were no longer his.
Watching as they dug into his pockets, the man questioned what he was looking for. To his surprise, his hand resurfaced with a ball point pen.
Smiling at the pen, he licked his dry lips.
It tasted of blood and tears.
He stared at the object with a heavy conscious.
"Forgive me."
Then, as if by magic, the pen disappeared in between the milliseconds when the lights flickered off, on, then off again.
Surprised he reached up to rub his eyes to find nothing but air where his head had been.
The headless figure fell over as large chunks of flesh started to disappear from the corpse, as if the heavy atmosphere of guilt chewed hungrily at his existence.
Then, just like that, the building's emergency power gave up and the struggling light went out.
He was young with an exhausted expression and equally exhausted features.
The only thing that proved his youth was perhaps the slight spark of energy in his black troubled eyes and the crisp ID that hung from around his thick neck.
The Intelligence Department never hired old folks, even if they were well versed and decorated. To the department those accolades meant nothing more than a large red "USED" stamp. To him the perfect analogy would be that they were simply clay pots: beautiful to look at, usually empty, and way too outdated.
Managing to finally get the cheap plastic lighter to work, the man took a long drag before looking down at his torn slacks and bloodied button down.
He let out a wet cough.
As of fourteen hours today, the Ethos Intelligence Department had lost contact with the outside world.
Its twelve hundred staff members were either missing or dead.
Feeling a dull pain in the back of his head, the man took one last drag from the stick of cancer before tossing it besides the disfigured bodies that were piled right outside the elevator doors.
They had all tried to rush out, screaming and begging for help.
But there was little he could do for them. He had his orders. He understood the risks of even letting a single person out of this building.
Looking at his own hands he felt somewhat disturbed.
It was as if the hands covered in blood were no longer his.
Watching as they dug into his pockets, the man questioned what he was looking for. To his surprise, his hand resurfaced with a ball point pen.
Smiling at the pen, he licked his dry lips.
It tasted of blood and tears.
He stared at the object with a heavy conscious.
"Forgive me."
Then, as if by magic, the pen disappeared in between the milliseconds when the lights flickered off, on, then off again.
Surprised he reached up to rub his eyes to find nothing but air where his head had been.
The headless figure fell over as large chunks of flesh started to disappear from the corpse, as if the heavy atmosphere of guilt chewed hungrily at his existence.
Then, just like that, the building's emergency power gave up and the struggling light went out.