I just don't believe

Mark, the neighborhood cop, trudged through the bustling market, his head bowed low. The cacophony of commerce surrounded him—the haggling, the bartering, the exchange of goods. Vendors shouted their offers, children darted between stalls, and the smell of fresh produce mingled with the earthy scent of the ground. But Mark's world was different. He had stepped on what the villagers deemed "holy ground" in the village square, and that single misstep had set off a chain reaction of brutal abuse.

Weak, pathetic, loser, disgusting—these were the words hurled at him, both physically and verbally. Mark had grown accustomed to the venomous slurs. They clung to him like a second skin, a constant reminder of his alienation. Why? Because he dared to publicly declare his disbelief in the gods revered by the entire town, even the whole world. His pagan beliefs set him apart, marked him as an outcast.

The market, with its vibrant life, was a daily reminder of everything he was not. The villagers moved with purpose, united by their shared faith, while Mark drifted among them, a ghost in uniform. As a neighborhood cop, Mark was no stranger to adversity. His colleagues despised him, and the feeling was mutual. Rigorous training hadn't earned him respect or appropriate cases. Instead, he was relegated to the fringes, a pariah within the department. The whole town echoed their disdain. Mark was their public enemy, a living contradiction to their faith.

The townsfolk worshipped their deities, clinging to ancient traditions even in a modern world with cars and gadgets. But Mark? He scoffed at their rituals, dismissing them as mere superstitions. To them, he was cursed—a walking blasphemy. His badge weighed heavy, a symbol of duty he never chose. Policing wasn't his passion; it was survival. Broke and lonely after losing his family, Mark had retreated to his paternal home, where his grandmother's temple stood.

Every day, he swept its floors and dusted its altars. The temple was his refuge, a sanctuary from the relentless persecution and insults. The ancient stone walls, worn smooth by generations of believers, offered a strange comfort. But it didn't make saving money any easier. Escape seemed impossible, and Mark remained trapped—a lone pagan in a sea of believers, yearning for a way out.

Mark often cast a backward glance at his life, wondering if perhaps he was truly cursed. Despite his disbelief in superstitions, the weight of misfortune clung to him like a shadow. His mind drifted as he walked, replaying moments from his past. His mother's gentle voice, urging him to respect the old ways, clashed with his father's harsh dismissal of them. The memory of his family was both a balm and a wound, one he could never fully heal.

He arrived home, his footsteps echoing in the quiet street, where the evening shadows lengthened. The small, weathered house stood at the end of the lane, its once bright paint now faded and peeling. The old temple loomed behind it, its presence a constant reminder of the heritage he could not escape. Mark paused at the gate, taking a moment to compose himself before stepping inside.

The familiar creak of the door greeted him as he entered the small living room. The sparse furniture, the worn rug, and the faint scent of incense from the temple all spoke of a life lived in the past. Mark moved through the house with practiced ease, his thoughts still tangled in the events of the day.

As he changed out of his uniform, his mind was elsewhere. The mirror in his bedroom reflected a tired, worn man, his face lined with the stress of years. Mark barely recognized himself anymore. He had been strong once, confident. But now? Now he was just a man trying to survive in a world that had no place for him.

At 8:12 PM, the usual humdrum of life persisted—the mundane rhythm of existence. But today, the mundane gave way to the extraordinary. His phone buzzed, startling him from his reverie. The caller ID revealed his usual self-esteem destroyer: his boss, Commissioner Don. Mark sighed, anticipating the verbal onslaught that awaited him.

"Oi, Mark,"

The boss's voice crackled through the line.

"I need you at a location immediately."

Mark's eyes widened. Surprised by the urgency in his boss's tone, he changed into his uniform with lightning speed. A heavy heart accompanied him as he stepped out of his home at 8:32.

Meanwhile…

Outside, a congregation of officers had assembled. Twenty-three cops, each carrying their own burdens, circled a three-story building. The tension hung thick in the air, sparking tiny arguments like flint against steel.

"Hey, commissioner, when's he arriving?" Nigel's voice cut through the charged atmosphere.

"Oi, Nigel, you made it," the commissioner acknowledged, his tone clipped. "Almost every cop was called to this scene, what would I be if I didn't come"

Nigel smiled brightly as he spoke

"Don't worry," the commissioner replied. "I just called him. He should be here soon.

As the well-badged officers deliberated over the vague situation, a determined female officer stepped forward, her eyes locking onto the commissioner. "Sir, I'm afraid the situation is spiraling out of control," she said, her voice firm but tinged with urgency. "I think it's time we consider a more proactive approach— we should storm the premises."

The commissioner's expression softened momentarily before hardening again. "Remember what happened to the two officers who tried storming in." He pressed the chain wrapped around his palm, a silent reminder of past failures. The building loomed before them—a shadowy monolith hiding unspeakable horrors.

Mark stood among his peers, an outsider in a sea of believers, steeling himself for the cursed secrets within. Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted—every officer's gaze zeroed in on one spot. There, amidst the tension thickening the air, stood Mark. The commissioner's fist clenched as he barked, "Mark, over here!"

Mark's heart pounded as he locked eyes with the commissioner. He sprinted forward, ignoring the waves of revulsion emanating from his fellow officers. Their hushed conversations buzzed around him, each word cutting into his soul like shards of glass.

"Mark, don't do it!"

A voice cried out, halting him in his tracks. He turned to see Sofia, the only person who'd ever stood by him. They had endured the grueling police exams together, and her urgent text messages had warned him to stay away. But the thrill of the unknown had drowned out her caution.

"Sofia"

he whispered, her name a lifeline in this sea of hostility. Her dark eyes pleaded with him, filled with fear and worry.

"Mark, over here!" the commissioner barked again, his tone now laced with impatience.

"Sir," Mark addressed him formally, hoping to mask the storm of emotions churning inside him. "What's the mission?"

The commissioner's brow furrowed, his confusion mirroring Mark's own uncertainty. How could he be so confident when his insides felt like they were unraveling? The usual disgust and pity on the commissioner's face intensified Mark's self-loathing.

Then, without warning, the commissioner's expression twisted into a cruel smile. He clapped a hand on Mark's shoulder, but the gesture offered no comfort. Mark's gaze swept over his colleagues—their faces drained of color, their fear palpable. Something was terribly wrong.

"What's with all these gloomy faces?" Mark's voice dripped with sarcasm, a weak attempt to dispel the tension.

The commissioner's response was a knife to the gut. "Mark, we're dealing with a hostage situation. The mayor and his two kids are trapped inside. The body of his wife was thrown out as a warning. They want money—fast."

Mark's brief sense of relief was shattered by the weight of their collective dread. The deeper truth was yet to surface, pressing down on him like a leaden cloud. As the minutes ticked by, Mark felt the crushing burden of his duty. The lone pagan cop was on the brink of something terrible, something that threatened to devour them all.

The commissioner's voice cut through the silence like a blade. "We need you to take the money in there and give it to the criminals. You're the best person for this job."

Mark's world spun. "What?" he muttered, memories of every insult, every dismissal by this man flooding back. The air seemed to grow thinner, the weight of expectation suffocating.

Mark's shoulders slumped as despair clawed at him. The commissioner's rage erupted.

"Get him a bullet-proof vest—now!"

A vest was shoved into Mark's hands, the fabric rough and unforgiving. The commissioner's twisted smile returned as he extended the protective gear, mocking the very notion that it could shield Mark from what awaited him.

But something inside Mark snapped. A low chuckle escaped his lips, the sound foreign even to his own ears. His fist clenched, driven by a surge of defiance. Before he could stop himself, he swung—his knuckles connecting with the commissioner's face.

The collective gasp from the surrounding officers was deafening. Their eyes, wide with shock, bore witness to the moment when judgment gave way to something else—respect, perhaps, or fear.

"Weak, pathetic," Mark's voice quivered with rage as tears streamed down his face. "That's all you ever say to me. There are lives on the line in there, and all you can think about is sending me in to die like I'm expendable." His hands, trembling with fury, seized the commissioner's collar.

Mr. Don, bloodied and breathless, looked back at him with a mixture of shock and disdain.

"I can't believe you dragged me up here for this."

The room fell into an uneasy silence. Mark let go, his gaze dropping to the floor, the weight of shame heavy on his shoulders. The constables around him avoided his eyes, their expressions tight with discomfort. Among them was Sofia, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, her voice trembling as she pleaded,

"Mark, don't do it."

He managed a bitter smile, his voice hollow.

"If I die, at least I won't be treated like garbage anymore."

With a gentle push, he disentangled himself from her grasp, his heart hardened as he turned toward the building.

Each step he took up the wooden stairs felt like a condemnation, his mind seething with anger and grief. He cursed the gods that his town revered and the twisted fate that had brought him to this point. Mark, the lone pagan cop, was stepping into the darkness, ready to confront whatever waited for him behind those walls.

"Hey, you there."

An unfamiliar voice snapped Mark back to reality, its sharpness cutting through his thoughts. "Are you the one with the money?"

Mark's eyes locked onto a masked man standing a few feet away, the glint of a gun catching the light. The temptation to smash the man's head against the wall surged through him, but he forced himself to stay calm.

The masked man's voice was menacing,

"Put the bag down."

Mark hesitated, the cold steel of the gun pressed to his temple making his blood run cold. "Don't try anything," the masked man warned, his voice dripping with threat. Mark slowly lowered the bag, his eyes never leaving the gun.

The masked man grabbed the bag, keeping the gun trained on Mark as he made a phone call. The conversation was brief, curt. Moments later, a group of men descended the stairs, their eyes fixated on the bag. They rifled through its contents, their expressions growing darker as they inspected the money.

"OHHHHH these idiots tried to trick us!"

One of the men shouted, his voice laced with fury. Mark's heart sank. They hated him, but would they really send him to his death like that, Confusion and fear twisted in his gut.

"What the hell,"

Mark whispered to himself, realizing that this might be the end. His earlier bravado about dying now felt like a cruel joke. He wasn't ready—not to die and leave his great-grandmother alone.

Meanwhile, outside, Commissioner Don's calm exterior had shattered. The phone call had confirmed his worst fears. He motioned for Nigel and Sofia to join him, his voice taut with tension. "Hello?" he said, answering a second call.

"How much did we agree on?"

The masked man's voice was sharp, demanding.

Mr. Don hesitated, his carefully laid plans unraveling. "I don't under…st…and."

"You don't?"

The voice on the other end sneered. "We agreed on fifty million, didn't we?"

"Yes, but…" Mr. Don stammered.

"Shut up!"

The command was a whip-crack of anger. Mr. Don's mind raced, the full extent of his blunder hitting him like a sledgehammer. The criminals hadn't just wanted the money—they'd wanted Mark to be the one to deliver it.

"So why am I looking at this weak, pathetic excuse for a man over here?" the voice seethed.

"And the money you sent—this pathetic fifty thousand? Who the hell do you think I am?"

The line went dead, leaving a tense silence in its wake. Nigel turned to the commissioner, his face a mask of disbelief and disgust. "Sir, is it true?" he demanded.

Ignoring Nigel's question, Mr. Don grabbed a gun from the seat of a nearby car, his face set with grim determination. He moved swiftly toward the building, keeping out of sight of the criminals.

Inside, Mark's breath came in shallow gasps. The sight of a man being executed and thrown from a window had driven home the reality of the situation. The stakes were higher than he could have ever imagined.

"Why do you look so pale?" The masked man's voice dripped with mockery as he sneered at Mark. The abyss yawned before him, and Mark teetered on its edge, his options narrowing to nothing.

His world blurred into a haze of panic and sweat, each droplet trickling down his face like a malfunctioning faucet. Gunshots echoed from the lower floors, the sharp cracks cutting through the tense silence. A bleeding man—one of the criminals—staggered into the room, his face twisted in fear.

"They're here—the cops!" His voice trembled, betraying his terror.

The leader of the gang rushed to the window, his eyes darting over the dwindling police presence outside.

"Shit!"

Panic spread through the room like wildfire.

"Kill them all! Kill them now!"

His command rang out, and chaos erupted as hostages crumpled to the ground, mowed down by a hail of bullets.

In the chaos, the boss seized the bag of money, desperate to flee. But Mark entered a heightened state, where everything slowed down. He caught his reflection in a sweat-smeared mirror, seeing a face contorted with bitterness and self-loathing. "I'm even more pathetic than they say," he thought, anger simmering beneath the surface. That self-loathing solidified into resolve. As the boss staggered past, clutching the money, Mark lunged, grabbing the man's legs. The boss's eyes widened in surprise.

"Let go, you bastard!" he snarled, striking Mark across the back with a metal rod.

Pain exploded in Mark's spine, but he held on, his grip tightening as tears mixed with the blood on his face. He had steeled himself for any pain-except for the sudden crack of a gunshot. The bullet tore through his back, causing a primal scream to escape his throat.

Mark's scream echoed through the room, raw and full of anguish. His heart raced as he spun around, eyes wild, searching for the shooter. He spotted Don, the man who had betrayed him. Don's face was twisted with satisfaction, their eyes locking for a brief, charged moment before Don shifted his gaze to another target. Then, everything fell silent. The air turned unnaturally cold, and a sense of something far more dangerous than the gunmen settled over the room. The criminal boss, desperate moments before, suddenly dropped to his knees, the bag of money slipping from his grasp. His men followed suit, their bravado crumbling into fear. Even the officers in the firefight hesitated, lowering their guns as they sensed the change.

Then came the smell-thick, suffocating, and putrid like decay and death. Mark recoiled covering his nose with trembling fingers.

He wasn't alone; the other cops staggered, some collapsing under the weight of the nauseating odor. Mark's gaze shifted to the criminal leader, from whom the stench seemed to emanate. Shadows twisted around him, growing darker and more solid. This wasn't something from their world. The darkness formed into a monstrous, alien shape-a creature born from the abyss, its eyes glowing with a ravenous hunger. In that chilling moment, Mark realized that Don was merely a pawn.

The true enemy was something ancient and malevolent, far beyond human evil. As the shadows closed in, Mark wondered if he would survive this nightmare or become another lifeless body, contributing to foul stench now filling the room.