EASRS: The Cycle of Hatred I
Chapter 3
South of Franta City
The south side did not sleep.
It rotted.
The night pressed low over the district like a damp, suffocating cloth, clinging to every surface, every breath, every inch of exposed skin. The sky above was a dull, colorless mass—clouds layered thick enough to swallow the moon whole, leaving behind only a faint, sickly glow that barely reached the ground.
Rain had passed hours ago.
But its presence lingered.
It seeped into everything.
The streets were slick and uneven, coated in a thin film of water that reflected the dim, flickering streetlights in broken fragments. Each puddle trembled faintly under the occasional drip from rusted gutters above, the sound echoing in the silence like a slow, irregular heartbeat.
Old brick buildings loomed on either side, their surfaces cracked, swollen, and overtaken by moss that spread like a quiet infection. Some walls leaned just slightly—subtle, but enough to make the entire street feel unstable, as if it could collapse inward at any moment and bury everything beneath it.
There were no walls here.
No fences.
No barriers.
And yet—
it felt more confined than any prison.
Because there was nowhere to go.
And nothing waiting beyond it.
Bodies littered the edges of the street.
Not dead.
Not yet.
Men lay curled against lampposts, their backs pressed against cold metal poles that flickered weakly above them, casting unstable halos of orange light. Others collapsed near the sidewalks, half-hidden beneath torn jackets, their limbs pulled inward, their fingers twitching in restless, unconscious motion.
They looked like something abandoned.
Something left behind by a world that had already moved on.
Their breaths came shallow.
Uneven.
Some muttered in their sleep—broken fragments of thought slipping past cracked lips, voices too dry to carry meaning. Others simply lay still, their chests rising and falling so faintly it was almost imperceptible.
They were not resting.
They were waiting.
For what—
even they no longer knew.
A faint wind moved through the street, dragging with it the stale scent of wet concrete, rotting fabric, and something sharper beneath it—
something chemical.
Something wrong.
Through that silence—
Jones walked.
His footsteps were soft, almost swallowed by the damp pavement beneath him, yet each step felt deliberate, measured—as if stopping, even for a moment, would allow something unseen to catch up to him.
His black shirt clung slightly to his back, soaked with moisture that had long since lost its warmth. The mask covering his face dampened with each breath, sticking faintly against his skin. The leather strap of his crossbody bag dug into his shoulder, its weight constant—familiar.
Grounding.
Or perhaps—
binding.
His eyes moved slowly across the street.
Heavy.
Not just tired—
exhausted in a way that sleep could not reach.
Last night had not left him.
It lingered.
In flashes.
In fragments.
The sound of something tearing—
Wet.
Violent.
The way the scream had twisted halfway through, becoming something else before it ended.
He blinked.
Once.
Hard.
The images didn't disappear.
They only sank deeper.
His jaw tightened slightly beneath the mask.
He kept walking.
Because stopping meant thinking.
And thinking—
was dangerous.
Unlike the others scattered across the pavement, Jones still had movement.
Still had purpose.
But not choice.
Not anymore.
Even if he knew it was wrong.
Even if he knew every step pulled him further into something he couldn't escape.
He had already crossed that line.
A long time ago.
And now—
there was nothing left on the other side.
He slowed as he approached a body lying near the edge of the road.
An old man.
If he could still be called that.
His body was wrapped in a torn leather jacket, stiff with dirt and age, barely holding together around a frame that had long since lost its strength. His face was hollow—skin stretched thin over bone, darkened unevenly, patches of stubble growing in rough, neglected clusters.
His lips trembled.
Even in sleep.
His body shook faintly, a constant, involuntary motion that never fully stopped.
Cold.
Withdrawal.
Or both.
Jones stood over him for a moment.
Watching.
Listening to the faint rasp of breath escaping the man's throat.
Then—
he nudged him with his foot.
Once.
Twice.
The man flinched.
His body reacting before his mind could follow.
---
Jones
> "Hey… wake up, old man…"
His voice came low, rough around the edges, carrying a faint trace of exhaustion that no mockery could fully hide.
> "Poorest guy on the block…"
A dry, humorless chuckle slipped through.
> "You look like a damn corpse… Want something to wake you up?"
---
The man stirred.
Slowly.
Like something dragging itself up from deep water.
His eyes opened halfway, unfocused at first—then snapping abruptly toward Jones as awareness forced its way in.
Bloodshot.
Wide.
Desperate.
His arms shifted weakly, revealing skin marked with countless needle scars—some fresh and inflamed, others faded into dark, permanent bruises. His fingers scratched at his own forearm without pause, nails digging into flesh as if trying to reach something beneath it.
Something that would not stop moving.
His breathing quickened.
His lips parted.
Dry.
Cracked.
---
Buyer #1
> "I'm… out…"
The words barely formed.
> "No money… I don't have anything…"
A pause—then desperation surged.
> "Let me owe you… please… I'll pay tomorrow… I swear…"
---
Jones didn't answer immediately.
He just looked at him.
For a second longer than necessary.
Then—
a faint crease formed between his brows.
Not sympathy.
Not anger.
Just irritation.
His hand moved into the bag.
The zipper slid open with a soft, dragging sound that seemed unnaturally loud in the silence.
Inside—
small white plastic bottles.
Clean.
Sealed.
Out of place in a world that had already fallen apart.
He took one.
Held it loosely between his fingers.
Then shook it.
Click—clack… click—clack…
The sound was small.
Dry.
But it cut through everything.
The addict's reaction was immediate.
His pupils dilated.
His entire body tensed, as if pulled forward by an invisible string.
Breathing—faster.
Sharper.
Hungrier.
Jones tilted his head slightly.
Watching.
Measuring.
---
Jones
> "You want it, old man?"
A faint laugh escaped him, low and edged with something hollow.
> "Fifty bucks. Five rocks. Good quality."
His fingers rolled the bottle lazily.
> "And don't even think about paying me with trash. My boss would skin me alive."
---
The man's hands moved frantically.
Pockets—one after another.
Inside out.
Again.
Again.
Coins slipped through his fingers, clattering weakly against the wet pavement.
Crumpled bills followed.
His face twisted, muscles tightening under the strain of need that had long since replaced dignity.
Around them—
movement.
Other bodies stirred.
Heads lifted.
Eyes opened.
Drawn not by sound—
but by instinct.
The promise of relief.
The possibility of escape.
They watched.
Silently.
Waiting.
Finally—
the old man gathered everything he had.
Pushed it forward with shaking hands.
Jones took it instantly.
No hesitation.
No pause.
His fingers moved through the money with practiced ease.
---
Jones
> "Thirty-nine… forty-one… forty-six…"
The numbers came out flat.
Mechanical.
> "Forty-seven… fifty-three…"
A brief pause.
> "USD. That's enough."
His gaze flicked over the coins.
> "Where the hell did you even find this much change…?"
---
He dropped the bottle in front of him.
The plastic hit the ground with a dull, final sound.
Transaction complete.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Jones turned.
Stepping toward the others who had already begun to gather—
their bodies drawn closer, their eyes fixed, their breaths shallow.
But before he could reach them—
A sound tore through the street.
A siren.
Sharp.
Violent.
Too loud.
Too sudden.
It split the air open.
For a moment—
everything froze.
Then chaos erupted.
Bodies scrambled.
Men who had barely been able to move now dragged themselves forward with desperate, animal urgency. Some fell. Some crawled. Some vanished into alleyways so narrow they seemed to swallow them whole.
The street broke apart.
Scattered.
Fractured.
Jones stood still—
for half a second.
Then moved.
Fast.
His foot slammed against the nearest door.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Harder.
The wood rattled violently under the impact.
His breathing sharpened.
His eyes flicked back—
the flashing red and blue lights were already cutting through the darkness, growing larger, closer—
Too close.
The door opened.
Abruptly.
An old Black man stood there.
Still.
Solid.
A shotgun rested in his hands, angled slightly downward—but ready.
Jones didn't think.
Didn't speak.
He stumbled forward—
his body giving in to momentum—
falling into the dim interior beyond.
The door slammed shut behind him.
The outside world—
cut off.
Silenced.
Only his breathing remained.
Loud.
Unsteady.
The old man didn't react.
Didn't question.
Didn't hesitate.
As if this—
had happened before.
Many times.
---
Old Man
> "You'd better keep quiet."
His voice was low.
Calm.
Unshaken.
> "If they find you…"
A slight pause.
> "I go to prison too. Harboring a criminal."
---
The words settled into the air like dust.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
And for the first time since entering—
Jones realized—
The space inside felt even tighter than the streets outside.
Harder to breathe.
Harder to escape.
As if the walls themselves had already decided—
no one leaves clean.
---
The moment his body hit the floor—
something inside Jones broke.
Not a bone.
Not flesh.
Something deeper.
Something quieter.
The impact itself wasn't loud, yet in his mind it rang out like a gunshot echoing endlessly through a hollow chamber. The damp wooden boards beneath him felt colder than anything he had touched that night—colder than the rain, colder than the air outside—like the surface of something that had never once known warmth.
His cheek pressed against it.
Moisture seeped through his skin.
Not water.
Not entirely.
The faint smell rising from the floor was wrong.
Old.
Stale.
A mix of mildew, rust… and something that lingered beneath it—
a faint, metallic sweetness.
The kind that clung to the back of the throat.
The kind you couldn't quite place—
but your body recognized immediately.
Blood.
Not fresh.
But not completely gone either.
Jones didn't move.
He didn't even dare to breathe fully.
His chest rose in shallow, fragmented motions, each inhale scraping painfully against the inside of his ribs as if the air itself had turned heavy.
Above him—
the shotgun.
He didn't need to look.
He could feel it.
The presence of it pressed against his existence like an invisible weight, hovering just above the fragile line separating him from nothingness.
It wasn't just a weapon.
It was a decision.
Waiting.
Patient.
Silent.
One twitch.
One wrong word.
One second too slow—
and everything would end before he even understood what had happened.
His heartbeat pounded violently.
Not just in his chest.
Everywhere.
In his skull.
In his throat.
In his fingertips.
It felt too loud—
like it was leaking out of his body, filling the room, betraying him.
He can hear it.
The thought came uninvited.
Sharp.
Absolute.
He knows.
Jones clenched his jaw, forcing his breathing to slow, to shrink, to disappear—
but the more he tried to control it, the more his body resisted.
His fingers twitched.
Barely.
But it felt like an explosion.
Across from him—
the old man stood.
Still.
Immovable.
A figure carved out of something older than time, wrapped in shadows that seemed to cling to him rather than fall away. One hand held the shotgun with an ease that did not come from strength—but from familiarity.
The other rested against the door.
His head tilted slightly.
Ear pressed against the wood.
Listening.
Outside—
sirens screamed.
But here—
inside—
the sound was warped.
Distant.
Distorted.
As if it had to force its way through layers of something unseen just to exist.
The noise vibrated through the walls, through the floor, into Jones's bones. It felt like the world outside was tearing itself apart—
and yet this room remained untouched.
Isolated.
Sealed.
Like it existed somewhere slightly… off.
Closer—
Closer—
Then—
passing.
The sound stretched thin, dragged away into the distance, leaving behind a hollow absence that felt heavier than the noise itself.
Silence returned.
But it was not relief.
It was pressure.
A suffocating, invisible force pressing down on everything inside the room.
The old man did not move.
Not immediately.
Seconds passed.
Or minutes.
Time lost its meaning here.
Jones's thoughts began to blur at the edges, his awareness narrowing into a single, suffocating point:
Don't move.
Don't breathe.
Don't exist.
Then—
the old man moved.
Without warning.
Without buildup.
One second he was still—
the next—
his hand shot down.
A violent grip locked onto Jones's collar, fingers digging into fabric, into skin beneath it, and then—
jerk
Jones's body was ripped upward with brutal force.
The world spun.
Air vanished from his lungs.
His feet barely found the ground before—
THUD
The shotgun slammed into his stomach.
Hard.
Not enough to fire.
Enough to dominate.
The impact sent a shockwave through his body, forcing a broken gasp out of him, his entire frame locking instantly under the pressure.
He couldn't straighten.
Couldn't step back.
Couldn't escape.
The distance between the barrel and his organs—
nonexistent.
He could feel it.
The shape of it.
The coldness of it bleeding through his clothes, pressing against his flesh like something alive.
His mind screamed.
Run.
Move.
Fight.
But his body—
did nothing.
The old man's voice came.
Low.
Flat.
But it carried something heavier than anger.
Certainty.
---
Old Man
> "You deal drugs?"
---
The words didn't ask.
They confirmed.
Before Jones could even form a response, the old man's hand moved again—grabbing the strap of his bag, yanking it forward with enough force to shift his balance.
The zipper slid open.
Slow.
Deliberate.
The sound stretched unnaturally long in the silence.
Inside—
white.
Clean.
Ordered.
Dozens of small plastic bottles lined up with almost surgical precision, their surfaces catching the dim light in faint, sterile reflections.
They didn't belong here.
Not in this rotting space.
Not in this suffocating air.
The old man didn't react.
Didn't need to.
He had seen enough.
The bag closed.
A soft click.
Final.
His eyes rose.
And when they met Jones's—
something shifted.
Not outside.
Inside.
Jones felt it.
Like being opened.
Like something was reaching into him, peeling away layers he didn't even know he had.
His throat tightened.
His tongue felt too heavy.
Too dry.
The shotgun pressed deeper.
Not violently.
Just enough.
A reminder.
Always there.
Always waiting.
---
Old Man
> "Alright."
A pause.
> "Name."
> "Age."
> "School."
> "Why you're doing this."
> "Which gang."
---
No gaps.
No breathing room.
Each word fell like a hammer, striking faster than his mind could process.
Jones raised his hands.
Slowly.
As if sudden movement would trigger the end.
His palms faced outward.
Empty.
Harmless.
A lie.
Sweat slid down his temples, cold and sharp, tracing along his jaw before dripping from his chin. His fingers trembled uncontrollably now, small, rapid movements he could no longer suppress.
He swallowed.
It hurt.
His voice came out fractured.
---
Jones
> "H-Hey… wait… just… calm down… we can— we can talk…"
---
Nothing.
No response.
The old man's eyes didn't blink.
Didn't soften.
Didn't shift.
Only watched.
Measured.
Waited.
The silence stretched until it felt like it would snap.
Then—
a slight tilt of the head.
Permission.
Or command.
Jones inhaled sharply.
Air burned.
His chest tightened.
And then—
he broke.
Words spilled out of him in a rush, chaotic, desperate, tangled over each other as if speed alone could save him.
---
Jones
> "Jones— Jones Cooper—"
> "Seventeen— I'm seventeen— I study at FCMaH—"
> "I do this because I'm broke, I don't have anything else, I swear—"
> "221Th Riders— that's the gang— I work for them—"
His voice cracked violently.
> "That's everything— I told you everything— please— just let me go— please—"
---
Silence.
Again.
But now—
it was unbearable.
Because this silence carried judgment.
A decision forming.
The old man stared into his eyes.
Not searching.
Not questioning.
Confirming.
As if truth was not in the words—
but in the reaction.
Jones couldn't look away.
His vision blurred at the edges.
His heartbeat slowed—
not from calm—
but from something closer to dread.
A cold realization creeping upward:
This is where it ends.
Then—
movement.
The old man's hand left him.
Just like that.
The pressure vanished.
So suddenly it felt unreal.
The shotgun lowered.
The absence of it was almost more terrifying than its presence.
The hand moved to the door.
Click.
The sound was small.
But it shattered everything.
The door opened.
A thin blade of outside light cut into the darkness, dragging cold air along with it—real air, sharp, wet, alive.
The world—
still existed.
The old man spoke.
---
Old Man
> "Get out."
A pause.
> "And don't come back, you little rat."
His voice hardened slightly, like steel dragged slowly across stone.
> "If I see you here again—with that bag—"
A slight lift of the shotgun.
> "I'll blow your head off."
Another pause.
Longer this time.
> "You're still young."
A breath.
> "Go study. Get a real job."
---
Jones didn't process the words.
Not fully.
Not correctly.
His body had already decided.
Hands dropped.
Legs moved.
Unstable.
Uncoordinated.
Desperate.
He stumbled forward, nearly collapsing as he crossed the threshold, his shoulder slamming lightly against the frame as he forced himself outside.
The cold air hit him like a shock.
His lungs expanded violently, dragging in breath after breath as if he had been drowning and only now reached the surface.
He ran.
Not straight.
Not steady.
But fast.
Too fast.
His shoes slipped against the wet pavement, his body leaning forward as if trying to outrun something that was no longer chasing him—
or perhaps never stopped.
Behind him—
the door closed.
Softly.
Quietly.
A final, indifferent sound.
Like a grave being sealed.
Inside—
the old man stood.
Unmoving.
The shotgun resting in his hands.
The silence returning.
Thick.
Heavy.
Endless.
As if Jones had never been there at all.
---
[To be continued]