That elegant, teasing voice from my future wife (okay ignore that shi) still hung in the damp air, a piercing anomaly in the middle of the dead city. Oldred did not reply to the greeting. His patience had run out, drowned in a sea of blood. His impatient steel hand moved, its cold metallic fingers gripping the brass doorknob. "Click! Click! Click!" Locked. Of course, it was locked.
From a small, hidden compartment in his steel forearm, he produced an intricate set of lockpicks, delicate tools that looked strange in his large hands. With the precision of a surgeon, he tried to pick the lock. But something was wrong. The tip of the lockpick hit something inside. It won't go in, he thought, feeling the obstructive metal within the keyhole. Perhaps a key had broken off inside, or someone had blocked it.
Knocking? Maybe knocking would solve everything? Yes, let's just try that.
Oldred began to knock very "politely." He drew his fist back and, with a low grunt, slammed it into the door.
"CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!!"
The old wood screamed before finally splintering apart. The door now had a rough, gaping hole, the result of his steel fist. At least it worked. Though his body was battered, Oldred still held enough power in his arm to send a soul into the future—or straight to the afterlife.
He then inserted his blood-soaked arm through the hole, fumbling in the darkness until he found the lock knob on the other side. He turned it. "CLICK!" The door swung open with a long creak, revealing the house's interior, swallowed by a darkness that felt heavy and full of memories.
In the middle of the living room, he saw them. Two shadows sat side-by-side on the worn-out old sofa. Silhouettes woven from smoke and regret.
Uzha: "So… this is all my fault, Father?"
The voice was an echo from a lost time, the voice of a boy who had not yet become a monster. These weren't strangers. This was just a past that refused to die. For him, illusion and reality had long since become blurred and irrelevant.
Uzha's Father: "No, son. It's not your fault... You were never to blame. No one is truly to blame. I just… I just couldn't hide the truth any longer…"
Oldred stepped inside, walking past them as if they were just another piece of furniture. They were ghosts, his faithful housemates, who accompanied him every day inside the cage of his skull. He flipped a light switch on the wall out of habit. Nothing happened. The electricity had been dead for a long time. His hand then felt along the wall, a map of memory guiding him past the living room and toward the kitchen.
Uzha: "But me! My blood! They, the slaves out there… they suffer because I exist! This cursed blood that flows in my veins tortures them!"
Uzha's Father: "You are not to blame! Listen! You are a victim, Uzha. You are a victim of the consequences of my actions… I was a soldier of Rans Augumm. I was a murderer, and so was everyone else there. I ran from all of that for your mother. I couldn't stay there, I didn't want to be a slave to the consequences of my sins. And in return, the regime condemned me as a traitor, and the Luszha condemned us as slaves. That's why your mother and I ended up here…"
In the kitchen, Oldred finally found what he was looking for. An old flashlight. He switched it on, and a weak, yellow beam cut through the darkness, revealing dust dancing in the air. He opened the refrigerator with a hiss of stale air. Water dripped from the empty shelves. What was on the menu for dinner? A tomato resembling a rotten heart, vegetables weeping wilted slime, and some other formless, unappetizing leftovers.
Oldred took it all without a second thought. In war, healthy food is just a bonus. Delicious food is a myth. An empty stomach is a more real enemy than any army.
He returned to the living room and sat in an armchair facing the sofa, next to the shadowy figures. With a slow movement, he removed his mask. The face beneath was a map of suffering. His one remaining eye stared blankly, a weary lantern in the middle of a storm. The area around his left eye and cheek was covered by a dirty bandage. Slowly, he unwrapped it, revealing a mark carved with a hot iron onto his skin: a branding of a thorny black rose. Not mere ink, but a burn carved into a symbol of eternal ownership.
He began to eat, chewing the wilted vegetables with mechanical movements. What taste could he expect? Well, at least dying full later was better than dying of starvation now.
Uzha's Father: "This is all my fault. I was too naive, leaving everything for an idealistic view. If I had never met your mother, perhaps you would never have been born. Perhaps you would never have been trapped in this hell… I always thought, every action must have a purpose, must have an impact… I thought my act of leaving Rans Augumm would ignite a small flame. A small flame that could change people's minds, a small flame that could burn away the hatred… But look at us now. People hate me. People hate you. We are hated, Uzha. Hated by the slaves we tried to understand, and hated by the regime we left behind…"
Uzha: "...."
Oldred: "....."
He stopped chewing for a moment, before slowly resuming his meal, as if truly listening, trying to gaze back into the painting of his own tragic past.
Uzha's Father: "You are Uzha. That name is proof of my love for your mother. You were my escape from the cruelty of fate… but look what I've done to you. I couldn't give you happiness. I couldn't give you proper food. I couldn't give you a safe life! I was wrong, Uzha! I was naive! You suffer because of my foolish views!... Hah… hah… And in the end, I can only give you one thing… the truth. You are Uzha De Antonio. A Luszha, and at the same time, an Einghanger…"