His last death was the cruelest.
It happened on a Friday the 13th — irony or curse — when Rodrigo, drowned in alcohol more than usual, saw his thirst for blood overflow.
He was no longer guided by any purpose.
Only hatred. Only hunger. Only addiction.
Through the poorly lit streets of the outskirts, his eyes found what he hated most at that moment: happiness.
A family. A couple with a child. Walking together, laughing.
Laughing.
He followed them.
Like a predator.
Waited.
Watched.
And an hour later, jumped the low fence of their home.
Broke down the door.
And entered what would be the final scene of his monstrosity.
There they were: father, mother, and son. Sitting on the sofa. Watching television. An ordinary night. Any night.
But for Rodrigo, it was an insult.
It was as if the world spat on the memory of his family, offering others what he would never have again.
The man stood up, trying to protect his own.
Rodrigo was faster. Stronger. Crueler.
Knocked him down. Strangled him until he passed out. Tied him up.
The woman, desperate, begged for her son.
She was gagged. Tied up.
The boy — who must have been about eleven, the same age Rodrigo was when he lost everything — was immobilized and thrown beside his parents.
Rodrigo approached the boy.
His face bore a grotesque, insane smile. A reflection of the ruin he had become.
— Today… you will feel what I felt when I was your age.
The boy stared at him.
Eyes full of tears. Full of terror.
Rodrigo woke the parents. Placed them face to face.
Tears. Stifled screams. Fear.
None of it moved him.
On the contrary. It excited him.
Rodrigo delighted in the panic.
Agony was his most powerful drug.
He started with the father.
A deep stab in the groin.
The femoral vein cut.
Blood gushed, painting the floor.
He laughed. Laughed like a child with a new toy.
Then he looked at the woman.
She screamed through the gag, powerless, watching her husband agonize.
— How does it feel… to see your husband slowly die? — he whispered, as if it were an intimate conversation.
Then, he slit her throat.
Simple. Cold.
Without hesitation.
Like turning off a television.
Finally, he looked at the boy.
The only one left.
He dragged him to the center of the room.
Threw him on the blood of his parents.
The boy cried nonstop.
His body trembled.
But Rodrigo no longer saw it with human eyes.
His gaze was that of a beast.
A monster.
A demon.
Any of those words would fit.
Except "human."
Rodrigo was no longer human.
After all those disturbing memories flooded his mind like a torrent of acid, Rodrigo felt bile rise in his throat. But in that place — where the physical body no longer existed — all that remained was a bitter taste. A sour taste that made him nauseous inside, not in his stomach, but in his soul.
He fell to his knees, or at least tried to. The ground offered no resistance. It was like falling into the void.
His eyes welled up. He fixed his gaze on the owl, which remained still, impassive, like a living statue, as if an absolute mirror of his conscience.
Then Rodrigo whispered.
Softly. Broken.
— I became what I hated most… I became Lucius himself. Maybe… worse than him.
The owl did not move.
But its silence weighed like a thousand voices.
Rodrigo remained there, silent, for what seemed like minutes or maybe hours — time was no longer a constant in that place. He simply stared at it, and it stared back.
Its golden eyes seemed to read every crevice of his soul.
And then, as if deciding it was time to proceed, the owl spread its wings.
It was no ordinary gesture.
It was an act of revelation.
On the right wing, there was a tree. Its branches stretched into the invisible sky, with ten shining spheres, radiating a pulsating golden light. The tree grew imposing, alive, powerful. Each sphere seemed to contain entire miniature worlds — or souls?
On the left wing, there were roots. They descended, black as coal, intertwined and firm, as if clutching the pillars of something beyond reality.
There, too, were spheres. Ten in total. But these did not shine. They were as dark as the void. Absolute onyx. Like blind eyes that see everything.
Rodrigo did not know what he was seeing, but he felt it.
He felt it was older than the Earth.
Older than time itself.
And then, with a single beat of its wings — a breath that caused no wind, but moved space itself — everything changed.
The infinite gray around dissolved like smoke.
In its place, a temple formed. Silent. Ancient. As if it existed even before the gods.
In the center of the temple, there was a round stone table.
Three hand-carved wooden chairs arranged around it.
The floor was made of black slabs etched with arcane symbols. The walls seemed to breathe, pulsating with a low, vibrant, almost imperceptible but living energy.
Rodrigo blinked several times. His eyes were still trying to adjust to the new scene.
But deep inside, he knew:
a judgment was about to begin.
In the first chair, a human silhouette.
Faceless. Expressionless.
The figure was covered by dark veils that oscillated, even without wind. Just sitting, still, but imposing.
Then, a voice echoed through the temple.
A voice Rodrigo couldn't define — neither male nor female. Not human, but not beastly either. It was between everything and nothing, between childhood and old age, between machine and flesh.
— It represents your victims. — the voice said, sounding inside Rodrigo's very soul more than his ears.
He looked around, trying to find the source of the voice — until his eyes landed again on the owl. It was still watching him, as if saying: Continue.
"My victims?" — Rodrigo thought, his heart tightening in his nonexistent chest.
The voice answered as if reading his thoughts:
— Yes, your victims. There were so many faces… so many names… so many souls shattered by your hands, that it would be impossible to represent them with only one face. That is why this chair is occupied by a collective entity. A sum. A living reminder of what you have done.
Rodrigo swallowed hard. He felt small before that faceless entity. The weight of his deaths echoed around him, like whispers and cries among the temple's columns.
Hesitantly, he then looked at the chair to his right.
And there he was.
Or rather: a distorted, angry version of himself, twisted inside.
The eyes — the same eyes — stared at him with contempt.
It was as if that version shouted: "You killed me. You destroyed me. You turned me into this monster."
Rodrigo tried to say something.
Tried to explain himself.
But before any sound left his lips, his eyes turned to the center chair.
And then… the world collapsed.
— Luciana? — he whispered, voice trembling, like a lost child.
She was there.
Sitting with her hands on her lap, wearing the same simple clothes from when they played in the backyard.
Her gaze was calm. Sad, but calm.
As if she already knew everything she needed to know.
Rodrigo staggered a step forward. Then another.
His first impulse was to run to her. To hug her. To beg for forgiveness.
But… he stopped.
Two steps from the table, he stopped as if hitting an invisible wall.
Shame.
Fear.
Guilt.
All pulled him back.
He couldn't look into her eyes anymore. Not after everything he had done.
His body trembled. His lips parted, but no words came out.
Only the sound of heavy breathing.
Only the sound of a broken man's heart.
Luciana watched him.
In silence.
And that silence was more painful than any scream.
"I thought that when I died, everything would stop.
The pain.
The memories.
The names.
The broken promises.
But she is here.
Luciana.
My heart — or what's left of it — sinks.
She hasn't changed.
Her eyes still have that light.
That purity I never knew how to protect.
She smiles…
Why?
She shouldn't be smiling at me.
I… I don't deserve it.
I'm no longer her brother.
I'm just a shadow of what I promised to be.
I'll protect you, Lu… Nothing will hurt you as long as I'm near."
Remember that?
Lie.
All lies.
You died, Lu.
You… and our parents.
They died while I trembled.
Cursing the world — but doing nothing.
And when I finally stood up…
It was too late.
Then I became what I hated most.
Fed on pain.
On hatred.
On thirst for justice that turned into thirst for blood.
I tortured men.
Killed innocents.
Laughed while they begged.
I thought maybe the world deserved to burn…
Like we burned inside.
But now…
Seeing you…
I realize.
I only wanted to erase the past.
But instead…
I stained it even more.
Luciana…
Stay where you are.
Don't come near.
Don't touch me.
If you knew what I did…
If you could feel what I became…
You'd understand that I'm not even worthy to look at you.
My hands — that once held yours when you were afraid of the dark —
These hands now only know how to crush.
Cut.
Kill.
I don't want them to touch you.
I am a stain, Lu.
A crack in the promise I made.
And even if you forgave me…
I would never forgive myself.
So… please…
Go back.
Back to the light.
Where you came from.
Where I never should have tried to reach.
Leave me here.
With my scars.
With the screams I caused.
With the memory of what I was…
And what I should have been.
For you."
Rodrigo was kneeling on the ground.
— I don't deserve forgiveness…
There was no sky. No ground. Only an oppressive void around him, where time and space seemed suspended, as if the universe held its breath.
The echoes of the screams he caused — the voices of those who begged for mercy — whispered in his ear, even after death. There was no redemption in sight. No promises of peace.
And still, he whispered:
— I'm sorry…
It was not a plea for salvation.
Not to escape what was coming.
It was just… the truth.
For the first time in a long time.
— I'm sorry, Luciana… — his voice broke. — Not for me. I know what I am. But for you. For not being there. For letting you die… For becoming this.
His throat burned, although there was no body left to burn. His hands trembled. Hands that once held hers, swearing to protect her from monsters — but that became the monsters themselves.
And then… he felt.
A subtle scent, a presence.
Something soft, almost unreachable.
He raised his face — slowly, like someone afraid of what they'll see.
Luciana was there.
Standing. Before him.
Her white dress shimmered like mist in the wind. Her hair fell over her shoulders with the same lightness as when she was a child. Her face was serene, her eyes clear. Innocent. Untouched.
She didn't speak.
Didn't judge.
She only approached.
Rodrigo couldn't hold her gaze.
Her eyes…
So pure.
So alive.
So different from the dim eyes he held as her blood drained away.
He wanted to look away. Wanted to run away.
But how do you run from something that's already inside you?
— You should hate me… — he murmured. — You should look at me like I look at myself. With disgust. With contempt.
Luciana didn't answer.
She just slowly knelt down, until she was at his level.
Rodrigo trembled.
— I wanted you to scream at me. To hit me. To spit in my face.
— Please… do it.
— Don't forgive me… don't forgive me…
He cried without realizing it. Tears that seemed endless, coming not from his eyes — but from his soul.
Luciana then reached out her hand.
Gently, she touched his face.
It was a warm touch. Calm. Like a breeze that caresses the skin before rain.
And Rodrigo… broke down.
He let out a sob that cut through the silence like a blade.
And then, he let himself fall. Let himself cry. Like a child.
There, in that no-place, in that court where only shadows and memories existed…
For the first time in years, Rodrigo cried for himself. Not out of hatred, but out of pain. Regret. Loss.
He cried like someone who finally understands they can never go back.
Luciana said nothing.
She just held him.
And even if it was too late…
Even if that moment was a remnant of what was already dead…
For the first time, Rodrigo felt something he hadn't felt since he was a child.
Warmth.
But then, without warning, Luciana's body began to dissolve before his eyes.
First the outlines of the dress, dissolving like mist in the wind. Then, the strands of hair, loosening like threads of light in the darkness. Finally, the features of the face, the eyes, the smile… everything fragmented into tiny golden particles, dancing in the air like sacred ashes.
Rodrigo reached out his hands, desperate, trying to grasp what was left of her. But his fingers passed through the void, as if trying to catch a dream that had already ended.
She was gone.
Again.
Like before.
Like always.
And the silence that followed was crueler than any scream.
Then the sound of beating wings cut the stillness — slow, deep, imposing.
The owl.
Black as the densest night, with golden eyes like those of a god who sees all. It flew over him, and where its wings passed, shadows rose from the ground, dense as tar. Serpents of darkness wrapped Rodrigo's arms, then his legs, his chest… even his soul.
He didn't resist.
He couldn't resist anymore.
There was no more strength, no will. Only exhaustion, guilt… and a void too deep to describe.
As he was dragged into the darkness, a voice — which could be his own or something beyond comprehension — whispered in the absolute silence:
"Not every reunion is allowed.
Not every pain can be healed."
And then, before the end… before complete oblivion…
One last phrase escaped his parted lips, hoarse like the lament of a condemned man:
— If there is a new beginning… may I not forget who I was.
And the rest… was silence.