Unholy Player

Late at night, a single moon hung in the sky, its pale light struggling to break through the sickly clouds overhead. Those clouds never cleared—like an ancient curse clinging to the world itself, smothering not just the sky, but every lingering trace of warmth or hope.

Adyr walked slowly through the streets.

Crushed cars lined the roads, left abandoned where their drivers had lost control—most likely after collapsing at the wheel while watching the broadcast. Whether they’d fainted or died, it didn’t matter. The result was the same.

The houses weren’t dark. Lights burned inside many of them. From some, the sounds of wailing could be heard—people mourning their dead. From others, there was only silence. A silence heavier than grief.

Streets weren’t truly empty either.

People wandered aimlessly. Shattered by the day’s events, too numb or broken to return to the homes they once shared with loved ones now gone. Some sat quietly against dirty sidewalks. Others drifted without purpose, unable to make sense of what their lives had become.

From time to time, a few would lift their heads and notice the lone figure walking past.

A man in an STF uniform, swords crossed on his back.

Some looked at him with hatred.

Some with awe.

And just as a few of them—driven by desperation or misplaced hope—tried to approach him, his silhouette seemed to vanish, swallowed by the flickering streetlights.

For a moment, they wondered if he’d been there at all.