White Hell : Chapter One

He tightened his loosening grip on the knife held close to his heaving chest. His raven hair was damp, matted with perspiration. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead and slid through the stitched scar on his temple. The healed scar still stung; reminding him of how he met her.

He could feel their gazes on him. It bore scorching holes on his back. His shirt stuck to his back like a second skin; sweat glistened on his skin. The thumping of his heartbeats and muffled pants resonated clearly. Tension wrapped itself around him like a serpent. His unrealized widened brown eyes blinked.

He could see death started greeting him and welcoming him from afar. Thousands of thoughts messed his mind up like a hurricane, visions of him dying surfaced in his mind. He pursed his lips together. Was he going to die now and here?

With his head bowed down, he was staring at his feet; his bare, torn and blistered feet. No shoes were put on to supposedly cover and shield them, because he'd abandon them seconds ago, hoping it would lead them away; to the deceiving trap he had set. But his hard work has paid no avail; the sounds of them yelling around for his name were proof enough. It was futile.

He dragged in a deep breathe, his senses were growing numb. Mere seconds felt like agonizing years.

Patter of rapid footsteps that sounded like bullets hitting the ground shattered the daze he was in. Unwillingly, he returned to the reality and heightened his senses.

They are close.

He narrowed his eyes, and grunted lowly at the fact. He lowered his knife to the side of his body only to hold it close again by his chest, again and again. For a second there, he wanted to just step out of his hiding spot, drop his weapon and surrender to them. He considered giving in; get captured and lose his freedom rather than getting tortured by the tension and fear. Anywhere is better than staying in this situation. That's just how torturous this place is to be in.

He'd have chosen that, if not for them. And she's still waiting for him.

He shut his eyes tightly and shook his head as he emptied his mind, calming the hurricane inside of him.

What stupid thoughts he just had.

Taking in a slow and shaky breath as the cold air rushed into his air-deprived lungs, he stole a glance over his shoulder at the three men in identical black uniforms with guns in their possession. Subconsciously, he tightened his grip; his breath hitched and waves of calmness washed over him.

It's going to be a few days of pain and suffering but he was going to be fine; he was used to it; he knew he was born to do this.

He held out his palm as cold metal touched his skin; a trail of line already forming. Sharp end of the knife dug into him as the line start to get dyed by the blood oozing out.

He shook his thoughts away. Here goes––

He slashed his left palm with the knife as sharp pain was felt. Blood flowed out like water from a broken tap. He frowned at the pain he felt but shrugged it off and turned around swiftly without any hesitation. The liquid splattered around him a little.

Lifting his arm in midair, he opened his bloody palm. It stung a little as it come in contact with the air. The blood didn't drip down anymore, but instead started to move upwards, defying gravity.

The men went wide-eyed but quickly snapped back to reality and fired their bullets towards him.

The blood droplets turned jelly-like and he directed them towards the direction the spot the men stood. He held his arm for support and with high speed, the blood orbs flew at the men, engulfing the bullets and rendered them useless. He took a step back, clearly staggered from the impact. The bullets fell to the ground and bounced off like bouncy balls. Seconds later, the orbs broke down into liquid.

The men's gazes were glued to the ineffective bullets in the pile of blood on the ground as they got frostbitten by fear.

Shock swept them off their feet and they were sent scrambling on the ground. Seeing this, he took the chance and fire smaller blood orbs at them. With a bang, all the men fell backwards, with a large bloody mark painted on their chests like a flower.

Only, it wasn't red in color.

It was white.

He let out a long, relieved sigh as all the tension left him at once. He didn't realize he had been holding his breath. His ragged breaths slowly hitched as cold air entered his lungs and satisfied the need for air.

With slightly trembling hands, he pressed pressure on his wound and staggered to the side of the alley, using the wall as support.

He was hit by waves of dizziness as he slid down the wall and sat himself down. His vision were getting blur. Sunlight dappled through the trees that was out of his reach, creating mosaics of brightness and shadows.

The sky was a perfect mix of blue and orange; the colours fit together like they were meant for each other, producing such a beautiful scene. He had realized that dawn broke out. Smiling lightly and soft, he closed his eyes completely.

Dawn was his favourite time of the day.

Just when he was about to get eaten away by the darkness, a voice rang—one he's familiar with.

"You're looking really pathetic, Alva," She said. "How unsightly."

He didn't even looked up at her as he knew exactly who is it. Who couldn't if it's the only voice following around you every single day?

"Shut. Up." He said through gritted teeth with a meek voice, pushing away every ounce of pain he was feeling. It felt like the world is spinning to him, but he forced the feeling away and with another throb to his head, he said, "Leave me alone."

"—Nope," She walked closer to him with light steps, her albino hair fluttering behind her back gracefully. "I don't want you dying such a pathetic death." She leaned down and strung one of his arms over her shoulders. Blood smeared her shoulders but she paid no mind to it. He groaned before she lifted him up without any difficulties. "You should and you will die only in my hands."

"Yeah, yeah," He said. "I will be very sure to die in your hands."

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①. Alva is pronounced as [Aru·Fah].

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