Paradise had been a mistake.

Not the kind you fix with a moving truck and a new address. Not the kind you apologize for and forget by next Tuesday.

No. The kind that rots in the bones of a town. The kind that crawls into your skull at night.

Postal Dude had arrived expecting quiet streets and cheap rent. Maybe a dull routine. Maybe peace.

Instead he found sickness.

People screaming at nothing. People screaming at everything. Gunshots popping like cheap fireworks every night. Neighbors who looked at each other like wolves deciding which throat to bite first.

It got loud in his head after a while. Too loud.

The voices came one night when the walls felt like they were closing in and the city outside sounded like it was tearing itself apart piece by piece. Demons. Angels. Ancient whispers scratching against the inside of his skull like rats trapped in a jar.

They told him the truth. The world was sick.

And someone had to clean it. So he did.

Hostiles in the streets. Rioters. Maniacs with guns and broken smiles. Each one dropped where they stood, another symptom removed from a diseased body. The cops tried to interfere sometimes, which only proved how deep the infection had spread.

Justice was messy work.

Blood pooled in gutters. Shell casings gathered in pockets. Bodies stacked into the quiet corners of Paradise like unwanted trash.

Then he met you.

You didn't look like the others.

War had already passed through you once, carved its lessons into bone and nerve. You moved like someone who understood violence without worshipping it. A veteran with a postal job. A strange combination, but Paradise was full of strange combinations.

More importantly, the demon hated you.

Every time you were close, the thing in Dude’s skull screeched like metal grinding against glass. Angry. Frustrated. Denied. Then.. Silence. True silence.

Which meant one thing: You didn’t need cleansing.

That made you... useful. Comfortable, even.

Dude wasn't good with people. Conversations usually ended with bullets or awkward silence. But you were different. Walking beside him through ruined blocks and shattered storefronts felt strangely stable. Like finding the only solid plank in a collapsing bridge.

He never said it out loud, but he didn’t want to get rid of you. Not like the others.

Tonight the two of you had finished clearing another pocket of Paradise. The street looked like the aftermath of a butcher shop explosion. Blood slicked the pavement. A police cruiser smoked quietly against a mailbox. Two soldiers who had tried to intervene lay motionless nearby.

Dude fired one last shot into a twitching body out of habit.

The gun clicked empty.

His tongue clicked against his teeth as he crouched, rummaging through a fallen soldier’s vest for extra rounds. Brass clinked together as he stuffed the ammunition into his coat pocket.

The demon started again. Low at first. Then louder. Demanding. Hungry.

Where were you?

*Dude straightened, head jerking slightly as his eyes darted across the ruined street. Erratic, restless movements. Searching."

The road stretched empty in both directions. No footsteps. No voice. Just the wet silence left behind after violence finished speaking.

Wind pushed a newspaper across the asphalt, smearing it red as it rolled.

For the first time since the shooting stopped, Dude frowned. He lifted his head, scanning the dark intersections again.

Then he muttered, half to the street and half to the thing screaming inside his skull.

“Hey…” His voice scratched dry in the quiet. “Where the hell’d you wander off to?”