The Reluctant Reaper

Prologue - Echoes of Sarajevo

The night air bit cold against Darius's face. Sarajevo stretched out below, a sprawl of dim lights and long shadows. The city slept, unaware of what was about to unfold.

He checked his watch: 0200 hours. Right on schedule.

"Alpha Team, sound off," Darius whispered into his comm.

"Stevens, ready." His voice was steady, reliable as always.

"Martinez, in position." A hint of excitement there. Kid was on his first major op.

"Wong, good to go." Cool as ice, their sniper.

"Johnson, set." A slight tremor. He felt it too, the weight of what they were about to do.

Darius took a deep breath, tasting dust and distant gunpowder. "Remember, this is a precision strike. We go in, eliminate the target, and extract. Clean and quick."

Affirmatives crackled through the comm. They trusted him. God knew why.

They moved like shadows down the empty street. Their intel said the target—a war criminal with more blood on his hands than a slaughterhouse floor—was holed up in a nondescript apartment building. Third floor, second window from the left.

Darius raised his fist, and the team halted. A stray dog barked in the distance. His heart pounded, blood rushing in his ears. Focus, Thorne. Lives depend on you getting this right.

"Wong, cover the rear exit. Johnson, with me. Stevens, Martinez, take the fire escape."

They moved without a word. They'd drilled this a hundred times. It should have been perfect.

It should have been.

The lock on the front door was child's play for Johnson. They were inside, climbing stairs that creaked no matter how carefully they stepped. Third floor. Darius held up three fingers, then pointed to the door.

Johnson nodded, planting the breaching charge. Darius took a breath, steeling himself.

"Execute."

The door exploded inward. They rushed through the smoke, weapons ready.

Empty.

The room was empty.

"Sir," Stevens' voice crackled through the comm, tight with tension. "We've got movement on the—"

The world erupted.

Glass shattered. Bullets whizzed past Darius's ear. He dove for cover, shouting orders that were swallowed by the chaos.

"It's a trap!" Johnson yelled, unnecessarily.

Gunfire was everywhere. How many shooters? Too many. They were outgunned, outmaneuvered.

Darius heard a scream. Martinez. God, he was just a kid.

"Man down!" Stevens shouted. "Martinez is hit!"

Darius peeked around the corner, squeezing off shots at muzzle flashes. "Wong, we need cover fire!"

Silence.

"Wong, do you copy?"

Nothing.

His mind raced. How did they know? Who leaked their intel?

A grenade clattered into the room.

"Get down!"

The explosion rocked the building. Darius's ears rang. Smoke burned his eyes. He tasted blood.

He saw Johnson, sprawled motionless by the door. His eyes stared at nothing.

"Stevens, status!" Darius barked into the comm.

"Pinned down, sir," he gasped. "Martinez... he's gone. I'm hit bad."

No. No, this couldn't be happening.

Another explosion, bigger this time. The floor buckled.

Darius crawled to the window. The street below was swarming with hostiles. They were surrounded.

His hand went to the detonator in his pocket. Their last resort. The bomb planted in the basement, meant to cover their escape if things went south.

If he triggered it, the whole block would go up. Them, the hostiles, civilians...

But if he didn't, his team would die for nothing. The target would escape.

Stevens' labored breathing filled the comm. "Sir... what are your orders?"

Darius closed his eyes. Faces flashed through his mind. Johnson's little girl. Martinez's mom. Wong's fiancée.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

He pressed the button.

The world went white.

Heat.

Pain.

Then darkness.

And then...

The night air bit cold against Darius's face.

He blinked, disoriented. Sarajevo stretched out below, a sprawl of dim lights and long shadows.

What...?

He checked his watch: 0200 hours.

No. It couldn't be.

"Alpha Team, sound off," he said, his voice shaking.

"Stevens, ready."

"Martinez, in position."

"Wong, good to go."

"Johnson, set."

Darius's heart raced. This wasn't possible. He'd seen them die. He'd felt the explosion.

But here they were, about to walk into hell again.

He opened his mouth to warn them, to call off the mission. But the words that came out were: "Remember, this is a precision strike. We go in, eliminate the target, and extract. Clean and quick."

No! That wasn't what he'd meant to say!

They moved down the street. Every shadow, every sound was familiar now. Darius wanted to scream, to tell them it was a trap. But his body moved on autopilot, giving the same orders as before.

"Wong, cover the rear exit. Johnson, with me. Stevens, Martinez, take the fire escape."

Please, he thought. Let this be different. Let me save them this time.

But it all unfolded the same. The empty room. The ambush. The grenade.

Darius saw Johnson die again. Heard Martinez's scream cut short.

"Stevens, status!" His voice cracked this time.

"Pinned down, sir. Martinez... he's gone. I'm hit bad."

The detonator felt heavy in his pocket. He didn't want to do this. Not again.

"Sir... what are your orders?"

He pressed the button.

White light. Pain. Darkness.

And then...

The night air bit cold against his face.

0200 hours.

No, please. Not again.

But it happened again. And again. And again.

Darius tried to change things. He gave different orders, took different routes. Once, he even shot himself before they entered the building.

It didn't matter. They always ended up in that room. He always ended up with that detonator.

He always killed his team.

How many times? He'd lost count. Dozens. Hundreds. Each time, he remembered more. Each time, the guilt cut deeper.

He should have seen the signs. The intel was too good, too clean. He'd been so focused on taking out the target, he'd missed the red flags.

His fault. It was all his fault.

The night air bit cold against his face.

This time, he didn't even try to fight it. Darius went through the motions, numb. He'd memorized every word, every movement.

They entered the building. The ambush happened.

He saw Johnson's body, his blood pooling on the floor. He heard the wet, gurgling sound of Martinez's last breath over the comm. He imagined Wong, probably dead before he even knew what hit him.

Stevens was still alive. Barely.

"Sir... what are your orders?"

Darius closed his eyes. He couldn't do this again. He couldn't kill them again.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, not for the first time, not for the last. "I'm so damn sorry."

He pressed the button.

The explosion came.

But this time, the darkness didn't fade. The cold night air didn't return.

Darius opened his eyes to a new kind of hell.

The room he was in was vast, stretching beyond what he could see. The walls, floor, and ceiling writhed with twisted, fleshy shapes. The air was thick with the smell of sulfur and burning meat.

He was strapped to a chair made of what looked like fused bone. Beside him stood a figure that his mind refused to fully comprehend. Its skin shifted between scales, fur, and naked flesh. Its face was a blur of features, never settling on one form.

"Welcome, Darius Thorne," it said, its voice a chorus of whispers. "We've been waiting for you."

"What..." His throat was dry, raspy. "What is this place?"

The figure's mouth—or what Darius thought was its mouth—twisted into a smile. "Why, it's Hell, of course. Your new home."

"Hell?" Darius laughed, but it came out as more of a sob. "I was already in Hell. Reliving that night, over and over..."

"Oh, that?" The figure waved a hand dismissively. "That was just the welcoming committee. A little taste of what eternity has in store for you."

Darius slumped in the chair. "So that's it? I'm damned?"

"That's up to you, Darius." The figure leaned in close. Its breath smelled of rot and sweetness. "You see, we have a proposition for you. A way to... alleviate your suffering."

He looked up, meeting its shifting gaze. "What kind of proposition?"

"Simple. You've shown quite a talent for inflicting pain, guilt, and torment. Why not put those skills to use for us?"

Darius's stomach churned. "You want me to torture others?"

"We prefer the term 'soul refinement specialist'." The figure chuckled, a sound like breaking glass. "But essentially, yes. You hurt others, we ease your pain. It's a fair trade, wouldn't you say?"

Darius closed his eyes, seeing the faces of his team. Johnson. Martinez. Wong. Stevens. He heard their voices, saw their bodies broken by his decision.

"And if I refuse?"

The figure's form rippled, growing larger, more monstrous. "Then you go back to that night in Sarajevo. Forever."

Darius swallowed hard. The thought of reliving that hell for eternity... But the alternative? Becoming a torturer, inflicting that kind of pain on others?

What choice did he have? What choice did he deserve?

He opened his eyes, meeting the figure's gaze. "When do I start?"

The figure's smile widened, literally stretching beyond the confines of its face. "Excellent choice, Darius. I think you'll find that Hell can be quite... accommodating to those who embrace their role."

As the straps holding him to the chair released, Darius felt a shift within himself. A hardening. An acceptance of what he'd become.

Darius Thorne, the soldier, the leader, the man who got his team killed—he had died in Sarajevo.

What rose in his place was something else entirely.

And Hell, it seemed, was eager to forge this new creation in its image.

***