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Into The Labyrinth

4 2… The number of people Azazel has killed in the past four weeks. In that time, he had painted the town red, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake as he scoured every inch of the city in search of Cherrie. Azazel is a man possessed with fear, anger, and hopelessness. During his relentless quest, Azazel's psycho tendencies shine brighter than ever, and he becomes more unhinged with each passing day. His love for Cherrie knows no bounds, and the thought of her suffering at the hands of their unknown enemies fuel his dark impulses. Azazel takes a certain, twisted pleasure in the art of killing, ensuring that each of his victims suffer a unique and painful death–their lifeless eyes bear witness to his merciless nature. Yet, despite his blood-soaked path, Azazel's focus never wavers.

Azazel jolts awake, his heart hammering against his ribcage like a prisoner, desperate to escape. The air is thick with the silence that follows a storm, but inside his mind, the chaos rages on. The nightmare clings to him like a second skin, vivid and unrelenting. He sees himself as a child, no older than eight, cowering in the corner of a dimly lit room. The walls are a dull yellow, peeling at the edges, and the air is heavy with the stench of cheap whiskey and desperation. His father’s voice, slurred and venomous, echoes through the memory.

“You’re nothing but a waste of space,” his father snarls, the words slurring as he staggers closer. Azazel, the boy, presses himself further into the corner, his small hands trembling as he tries to shrink into the wall. The man’s breath is foul, a mix of alcohol and bitterness, while he looms over the child. “Worthless. Just like your mother.”

The sound of shattering glass punctuates the air, followed by his mother’s cries. Azazel, the man, winces in the present, his hands clenched into fists as the memory claws at his sanity. He remembers the sting of his father’s belt, the sharp crack against his skin, the way the pain seems to go on forever. He remembers the helplessness, the overwhelming sense of being trapped, of being too powerless to stop the storm that raged around him.

“Stop it!” he hears himself scream in the memory, his child’s voice thin and desperate. But the plea falls on deaf ears. His father’s laughter is cruel and mocking as he raises the belt again.

Azazel, the man, gasps for breath, his chest heaving while he attempts to ground himself in the present. The room around him is familiar—the sleek furniture, the muted tones of gray and black, the faint scent of leather and cologne. This is his sanctuary–the place he’s built to keep the ghosts at bay. But tonight, they’ve found their way in. He sits up, his tall frame moving with a grace that belies his profession. He’s a man who deals in death with precision and detachment. But in this moment, he feels anything but in control. The ghost of that terrified child refuses to let go, its presence a constant reminder of the wounds that never fully healed. He runs a hand through his short black hair, the strands coarse against his palm. His eyes scan the room, searching for something—anything—to anchor him. “I’m here,” he whispers, the words more for himself than anyone else. “I’m not that kid anymore.” But the words feel hollow, a mantra he’s repeated a thousand times before.

The nightmare has a way of stripping away the layers he’s built, leaving him raw and exposed. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet touching the cool hardwood floor. The silence of the hotel is oppressive–a stark contrast to the chaos in his mind. He stands, his muscles tense beneath his skin, and walks to the window.

Lights flicker in the distance, a reminder that the world keeps turning, oblivious to his pain. He presses his palm against the glass, feeling the slight chill against his skin. “You’re not him,” he says aloud, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. “You’re not that man.” But the words do little to ease the ache in his chest. The memory of his father’s face, twisted with rage, lingers in his mind. He remembers the way the man’s eyes would narrow, the way his lips would curl into a sneer.

“You’ll never amount to anything,” he’d say, his voice dripping with disdain. “You’re just like her.” Azazel closes his eyes, the weight of those words pressing down on him. He’s spent his life proving his father wrong, building a life of power and control. But in moments like these, the old wounds resurface, a reminder that some scars never truly fade.

A week later, Azazel meets with his informant, a sniveling man by the name of Lyle. Battered and bruised, Lyle cowers before the hitman, knowing full well the consequences of failing to deliver useful information. "They have her, I swear it! They’ll be at this underground art exhibit, but I don't know the exact location. All I know is they have eyes and ears everywhere." Lyle's voice quivers, his face pale with fear.

Azazel grabs the man by his collar, his eyes flashing dangerously. "You will find out, Lyle. Or so help me, I will make your death slow and painful. I will descend upon you like the very embodiment of vengeance. You know I have the skills and the appetite for it." He pulls the man closer, their noses nearly touching. "Do. Not. Fail. Me." Lyle nods vigorously.

Azazel paces the dimly lit hotel room. The air is thick with his restless energy as he grapples with the recent events that have shaken his world. Cherrie’s absence weighs heavily on his mind, her vibrant laughter and captivating presence, now just a memory. He can’t shake the image of her being taken.

I should have protected her. How could I let this happen? Cherrie, where are you?

His eyes, usually piercing and intense, now hold a haunted look. The normally composed hitman is unraveling, his sanity hanging on by a thread. He mutters to himself, a constant stream of thoughts and fears swirling in his mind. His voice echoes in the small space, a tormented plea for answers.The room is a mess, a stark contrast to Azazel’s usual meticulous nature. Crumbled papers and half-empty bottles lie scattered on the bedside table, evidence of his sleepless nights. He hasn’t eaten in days, his once-defined jawline now sharp and pronounced. The only thing keeping him going is the burning desire to find Cherrie and bring her back safely. Azazels’ hands clench into fists. He needs to find who did this. He needs a plan, a strategy to outwit the captor who has taken her. .

In a sudden burst of frustration, Azazel kicks a chair across the room, sending it crashing into the wall. The sound of breaking wood echoes, a physical manifestation of his inner turmoil. He sinks to the floor, his back against the wall, and buries his face in his hands.

“I can’t lose her, I can’t do this without you, Cher.”

The silence that follows is heavy, interrupted only by Azazels’ ragged breathing. He knows he must pull himself together, but the weight of his emotions is crushing him. Just then, a faint sound catches his attention. A soft, almost imperceptible noise, like a whispered plea.

“Azazel … Help me…”

“Cherrie? Is that you?”

“Azazel, I’m … I’m scared.”

“You’re in my head, not real… I’m losing my mind. I can’t let them win. I’ll find you, I’ll bring you home.”

“Azazel, please … Don’t let him…”

He springs into action, his survival instincts kicking in. He knows he must act quickly, but he needs more information. Azazel grabs his laptop, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he searches the dark web for any clues about the artist's whereabouts. His research leads him to a network of underground art galleries–a dark web of creativity and depravity.

Hours turn into days as Azazel delves deeper into the seedy underbelly of the art world. He discovers a hidden community of artists who thrive on the extreme, pushing the boundaries of art and morality. Among them, he finds whispers of a notorious figure, known only as ‘The Muse Master’.

This artist is renowned for his unique and disturbing creations, often involving unwilling subjects. Azazel’s heart sinks as he realizes this must be Cherries’ captor. The more he learns, the more he understands the depth of the man’s obsession. The Muse Master seeks, not just a muse, but a partner in his dark creative endeavors–someone to inspire and suffer for his art.

As he delves further, Azazel discovers a hidden exhibition; an exclusive event where The Muse Master will unveil his latest masterpiece. The location is undisclosed; a closely guarded secret among the art world’s elite. But Azazel is determined to find his way in–to confront the man who has taken Cherrie.

Using his connections with the organization, he secures an invitation, a golden ticket to the heart of the artist’s lair. He dresses in a sleek black suit. His tall, imposing figure is a stark contrast to the eccentric crowd. The exhibition is held in a vast warehouse, its walls adorned with bizarre and unsettling artwork.

As he navigates the room, Azazel’s eyes scan the crowd, searching for any sign of Cherrie or her captor. The atmosphere is electric, a mix of excitement and unease. He spots a group of artists huddled together, their eyes alight with anticipation. Among them, stands a man–his face hidden beneath a dark hood. Azazel’s instincts kick in. This is him, The Muse Master. He feels a surge of rage, but he knows he must remain calm. The artist is surrounded by his followers–a protective circle of admirers. Azazel weaves his way through the crowd, his eyes locked on his target.

Just as he’s about to approach, a voice echoes through the warehouse, announcing the unveiling. The crowd parts, revealing a large canvas covered in black cloth. The Muse Master steps forward, his hooded figure commanding attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight you bear witness to the birth of a masterpiece. A creation born of pain and pleasure …a fusion of art and life itself.” His voice is deep and gravelly, filled with an unsettling fervor.

With a dramatic flourish, he pulls the cloth away, revealing a stunning painting. The crowd gasps as they take in vivid colors and intricate details. It’s a portrait of Cherrie, her beauty captured in exquisite detail. But there’s something more … a hint of anguish in her eyes.

Azazels’ blood runs cold as he recognizes the truth. This isn’t just a painting; it’s a window into Cherries’ captivity. The artist has captured her essence, her very soul, on canvas. He has made her a part of his art, a living, breathing muse.

“Behold, the culmination of my greatest work. She has inspired me, driven me to new heights. This painting … 80% of it contains my muse’s blood.” He bends down and slowly licks the painting. “But the masterpiece is not yet complete. For the final touch, we must embrace the ultimate sacrifice.” The Muse Master enthuses.

Azazels’ heart pounds in his chest when he realizes the artists’ intention. He’s going to sacrifice Cherrie, right here in front of this twisted audience. He knows he must act fast. With a swift movement, Azazel draws his concealed weapon–a silenced pistol. The crowd, caught up in the spectacle, doesn’t notice his approach. He pushes through the circle of artists, his eyes locked on The Muse Master.

“Let her go and I promise to make your death quick!”Azazel yells.

“Ah, the lover ... come to rescue his precious muse. But you’re too late, my friend. The masterpiece is already in motion.”

Azazels’ finger tightens on the trigger, but he hesitates. He knows killing this man won’t help him find Cherrie. He needs information–a way to save her.

“Where is she?”

“She is safe … for now. But the final act awaits. You see Azazel, your beloved is the key to my masterpiece. Her pain, her pleasure, brought my masterpiece to life” The Muse Master says with a smile.

Azazel slowly approaches The Muse Master, keeping his hand on the trigger and his eyes on the victim, “You must think I’m asking you. You will take me to her and then I will kill you and watch as your blood flows into the streets of this town”

“It’s you, my friend, you are the final piece. Your love, your obsession, will complete the picture. Join me, and together, we’ll create something truly extraordinary.”

Azazels’ world spins. The artist wants him to join in this madness, to become a part of his sick creation. But something in his words sparks a realization.

“You need me. You can’t finish without me.”

The Muse Master grins as a glint of twisted passion sparks in his eyes “Indeed, your love for Cherrie is the final ingredient. Join me, and I promise, you’ll experience a fusion of pleasure and pain like no other. It will be our masterpiece, a collaboration of the heart and the mind.”

Azazels’ mind whirls with conflicting emotions. He wants to refuse, to reject this offer of twisted collaboration. But the thought of Cherrie, of saving her, drives him to consider the unthinkable. What if this is the only way to reach her?

As the artist’s followers watch with eager anticipation, Azazel makes his decision. He steps forward, his eyes locked on The Muse Master.

“I’ll do it. I’ll join you. But on one condition: I need to know she’s alive.”

The Muse Master takes a step forward, “She’s alive … for now.”

Azazel’s heart is heavy when he realizes the path he’s chosen. He’s stepping into the unknown, a world where art and life blur, and pleasure and pain intertwine. But for Cherrie, he’ll do whatever it takes, even if it means losing himself in the process.

As the crowd erupts with applause, Azazel’s mind is already racing, planning his next move as he steps closer to the master with a smile of agreement. In one swift move, he pulls his blade from his waistband and stabs The Muse Master in the side of his stomach and steps behind him to whisper in his ear.

“My bitch only bleeds for me, take me to her.”

“Okay… Okay… Let’s take a moment…” The Muse Master hesitates.

Azazel digs the knife deeper. “Now.”