‘Hi from Stockholm’

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One evening, Mighty was walking home, and the city seemed to be slowly falling asleep. The streets were emptying, the streetlights flickered dimly, casting trembling patches of light, and the air was saturated with that lingering, almost mystical tension that always thickens at dusk. Everything looked peaceful — it seemed as if the night itself was carefully guarding his path. That’s what it seemed... right up until he turned into a dark alley where the asphalt was riddled with cracks, and dense, impenetrable darkness nestled in the alcoves of the old walls.

Here, the silence wasn’t just an absence of sound — it became dense, tangible, like a thick fog that wouldn’t let any noise through. It felt as if even the wind was afraid to rustle the leaves. Not a whisper, not a movement — not a single sign of threat. And that’s why the sudden heavy blow to his leg echoed in Mighty’s mind with a deafening roar, louder than any scream. Something hard and weighty crashed into his thigh — maybe a baton, maybe a piece of pipe. A sharp, searing pain pierced his flesh, but it only broke through his usual composure for an instant. Right after came a bitter, acrid wave of frustration: he’d allowed himself to relax, had let his guard down, and this mistake struck him with brutal force.

Mighty spun around sharply, his eyes narrowing into an icy, merciless gaze — there was no fear in it, only cold fury and the honed calculation born of years of training. In the half-light, just three steps away, a vague silhouette took shape — a dark spot slightly denser than the darkness itself, as if a clot of gloom had decided to take on form. He only managed to catch a fleeting glimpse of the figure’s angular lines, the strange curve of a shoulder, and the shadow of a hood before the world before his eyes blurred, dissolving into a whirl of sparks, and his consciousness plunged into a thick, sticky void that swallowed everything around.

When the throbbing pain and hazy dizziness subsided a little, he opened his eyes again. Around him reigned a dull, lifeless silence inside a concrete box — like a forgotten basement turned into a cluttered storage room. Dusty boxes were piled up in the corners, stuffed with old things whose names had long faded from memory; here and there lay scattered tools — wrenches, pliers, rusty hammers — as if they’d been hastily dropped, left mid-task. Along the wall stretched a rusty chain, covered with brown patches of corrosion; its end was firmly fastened to his leg with a heavy, crudely forged padlock.

The silence was shattered by a sharp, grating creak. The door swung open with a long, groaning sound, as if protesting the intrusion. Mighty lifted his gaze — not in fear, but with cold, calculating attentiveness; every muscle in his body was taut like a string, ready to spring into action. A plan was already forming in his head: assess the distance, calculate the angle, find the weak point. At the top of the stairs, by the entrance, silhouetted against the dim light from the corridor, stood a figure. Dark and motionless, it loomed over him, as if the shadow itself had taken shape and was now staring at him with a silent, heavy gaze. But Mighty didn’t flinch: he was used to facing danger head‐on.

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I'll make a few bots to post while I'm resting from some worries. I feel too bad to think about bots and other things in addition to supporting 3 hours daily in ypt, language learning and excellent grades at the university