The scene unfolding right in front of me is the most terrifying thing I have ever witnessed—something my mind had never prepared itself to process. I don't know what exactly triggered this sudden paralysis of my senses, but my brain feels as if it has been thrown into chaos. Everything around me appears hazy, blurred, and distorted, like fragments of a badly edited film playing on repeat. Images overlap, flicker, disappear, then return again in a cruel loop.
My eyes grow heavier with every passing second, as though invisible weights have been tied to my eyelids. A dull dizziness seeps into my skull, spreading downward, numbing my thoughts. My body refuses to move. I stand frozen, statue-like, caught between fear and disbelief, unable to decide whether this nightmare is real or just a hallucination born from exhaustion or shock.
Two black Mercedes stand directly in front of me. Their polished bodies reflect the dim light of the surroundings, gleaming with an unsettling calm, as if they are completely unaffected by the horror they are witnessing. The engines are off, yet their presence feels loud—dominant, powerful, and threatening. These cars do not belong to ordinary people. They never have.
Between the two vehicles lies a man. Or at least, what remains of one.
I hesitate to call him a man. I don't even know if I should refer to him as alive anymore. His body is drenched in blood, so much that it no longer looks human. It reminds me of raw meat left out in the open—lifeless, fragile, and stripped of dignity. His clothes are torn, barely clinging to him, soaked so deeply that their original color is impossible to recognize.
A group of men surrounds him. No—not men. Monsters.
Their faces show no trace of hesitation or remorse. Each one of them is armed with a gun, weapons that could end this scene in seconds. Yet they choose not to use them. That is what makes the situation even more horrifying. Death is not their goal—suffering is.
They move around him like predators circling their prey, slow and deliberate. Every step is calculated. Every pause is intentional. They want him conscious. They want him to feel everything.
One of them grabs the victim by the hair, yanking his head upward. His face is swollen, barely recognizable. His eyes—if they can still be called eyes—are half-open, unfocused, staring into nothingness. There is no scream left in him, only shallow breaths and weak, broken sounds escaping from his throat.
The others laugh quietly. Not loudly—no dramatic villainous laughter. Just soft, cruel chuckles that make my stomach twist. They enjoy this. This is routine for them.
They use a strange weapon—something curved and sharp, resembling a tiger's claw. With it, they tear into him slowly, dragging it across his body, not deep enough to end his life, but painful enough to make every second unbearable. The intent is clear: prolong the agony. They peel away his strength, his resistance, his humanity—piece by piece.
I feel bile rising in my throat. My hands tremble, yet my feet refuse to move. Fear has rooted me to the ground. I know I shouldn't be here. I know I should run. But my body doesn't obey.
At one point, one of the gangsters steps away and returns with a pincer. The metal tool glints under the faint light, cold and merciless. I already know what he intends to do, and the realization makes my vision blur even more.
He kneels beside the victim with disturbing patience. One by one, he uses the pincer to rip away what little strength the man has left. There is no mercy in the act—only control. Each movement is slow, deliberate, designed to break the victim completely before his body gives up.
I can't breathe properly anymore. My chest feels tight, as if someone is pressing down on it. My heart pounds so violently that I'm afraid the sound might give away my presence. I am a witness to something I was never meant to see.
The monsters continue their work, unfazed by the blood, the silence, the life fading in front of them. To them, this is not murder. It is a message. A warning. A display of power.
And I am standing right in the middle of it.
Suddenly, one of them looks up.
For a split second, our eyes meet.
That is when I realize something far more terrifying than the violence itself.
They know I am here.
The laughter stops. The air grows heavy, thick with danger. One of the men straightens his posture and slowly turns his body toward me. His face carries a calm expression—too calm. The kind of calm that only comes from knowing you are in complete control.
In that moment, I understand one brutal truth:
I am no longer just a witness.
I am next.