CHAPTER 127: Hell in Berlin-20

CHAPTER 127: Hell in Berlin-20

Alex's flight became, for a moment, a intertwining of dream and nightmare: the tunnel blurred and, as if the night were playing a cruel joke on him, he found himself running in a snowy forest. The snow crunched under his feet with each stride; the air burned his airways. The shadows of the pine trees formed dense gloom, and something—or someone—was watching him from among the trunks.

The cold seeped into his bones, and the feeling of being stalked became unbearable; the pounding in his ears was a death drum. He tripped over a root hidden beneath the snow, twisted his ankle, and fell face-first. Turning his head, he saw a motionless figure in the distance on the white plain. The figure advanced without haste.

Phoenix was there, standing like a statue that knows no respite. The snow at his feet turned gray; his breath came out in short clouds. His eyes, cold, cut through the air like a blade.

"You always thought you were different," Phoenix said in a deep voice, amplified by the unreal landscape. "You believed you could laugh at pain, that you could play with others' lives and emerge unscathed. But here we are. You and I… equal in something fundamental."

Alex tried to get up, his smile broken, his former laughter now a thread; fatigue and fear were evident.

"Equal?" he stammered. "How can you say that? You… you are the hunter. I am the art, the beauty of chaos."

Phoenix took a step toward him, and the clarity of the frozen forest seemed to intensify.
"Don't be mistaken," he replied. "You are the prey. That won't change. You can turn a thousand times, you can create traps and puppets, you can kill me in dreams… but on this ground, I was and always will be the one who hunts."

Alex, for the first time without masks, dug his hands into the snow, pleading:
"Please... please, no... don't kill me, have mercy…"

The plea sounded like a rock on the plain. Phoenix said no more: a single, sharp movement swept him away, a blow that sought not to kill but to humiliate. Alex flew through the air, his face and body hitting the snow until he was lost among the slowly falling flakes.

The dream shattered. The snow dissolved into dust and rubble; the forest transformed into a Berlin street torn apart by flames and violence. Smoke on the horizon, spilled glass, overturned cars like broken toys. Alex fell face-first onto the cold asphalt, vomiting from the impact; the retching shook his whole body. He swallowed saliva with disgust, moaned, and crawled, weeping, along the crack in the roadway.

His hands, scraping the asphalt, reached the boot of someone standing firm amidst the disaster. It was an elegant boot, of dark leather, with the dust of ruin stuck to its sole. Alex touched it with a final gesture of supplication: the boot of Darem.

"Please… please, I need you to get me out of here," he babbled, clutching the boot of the man who dominated the ruin as if he were his only refuge.

Darem leaned slightly toward him and let out a dry laugh, the kind of laugh without warmth that churns the stomach. There was no compassion in his eyes; only cold satisfaction.

"Help you?" he asked, sarcastically. "You served me well, boy. Do you think you deserve more than the shadow of a memory now?"

Alex, driven by the last remnant of pride and madness, attempted a clumsy, violent move: he lunged at Darem with what little he had left, seeking a final blow, a gesture to justify his existence. But Darem was faster. With a sharp gesture, he grabbed him by the neck, lifted him easily, fixing an expression of contempt on his face.

In the ensuing struggle, a bayonet appeared in Darem's hand as if it had always been there. The movement was clean, brutal, and definitive: the blade found its target. Alex collapsed without a prolonged scream; his body faded until it dissolved in an instant that seemed eternal, as if the wind had carried his presence away. There was no spectacle of blood or glory: only the abrupt certainty that Alex had ceased to be.

Darem let the body drop. He looked at Phoenix without asking for any gratitude, with the same indifference one sometimes has for a job well done.

"Don't thank me," he said, his voice sharp. "I'm not here to fight you. I had other matters."

But those words ignited something in Phoenix that was no longer just pain: it was savage euphoria, cutting rage. He lunged at Darem with the brutality of one who has lost all balance and has nothing left to lose.

Darem, cold as a machine, reacted with impeccable cruelty. He drew not one but several bayonets: quick, calculated, lethal movements. Four blades crossed Phoenix's torso with terrible precision. Each impact was like stopping his blood and resistance at once; the force pierced his chest and threw him backward violently. A kick closed the gesture, a final shove that left Phoenix falling against the ground.

He barely had time to get up: Darem stood erect, watching him calmly and without hurry. From his pocket, he extracted a mobile phone; the screen flickered and, with a deliberate gesture, he pressed play.

Viktor's voice emanated from the speaker, deep and distant, like a message from beyond the noise:

"Rogers… you are the reincarnation I was waiting for. I have you in my sights. We will meet again. What is coming will be even greater."

The name, the cadence, the way Viktor called him—"reincarnated"—were like a blow to Phoenix's chest. His eyes, bloodied and wavering, tried to reach the man speaking in the recording. The final phrase hung in the air when the audio cut off, leaving a silence vibrating with threat.

Phoenix, his breath shattered and his fury tempered in his gut, turned again toward Darem and let out a scream:

"Damn son of a bitch!!!!!!!"

The words were lost in the smoke, and Darem, without haste, began to withdraw. Before disappearing into the shadows, he cast a final look not without amusement: he knew he had ignited something that would not be extinguished.