Kill, burn, repeat. Kill, burn, repeat. Stro no longer remembers how long he's been following this cycle for, ever since that fateful day when Double D fucked him over and destroyed everything he held dear. He's grown numb to the feeling, the pain of seeing his hands coated in ichor and the corpses below his feet. Even now that he's standing under the cold rain in a shitty hallway, he feels nothing. The smell of the substances often surrounding him make him want to throw up, to rip his nostrils out so he can no longer breathe, but the scent clings to his skin like a viper, strangling him metaphorically until he can no longer feel anything else. The moon man exhaled, as he took a puff from the cigarette in his hand. Showering no longer removes the stain on him, so he has stopped trying to pretend that it'll clean his soul.

He's so beyond exhausted of everything, but he has to report whatever he's done to Double D. So, he takes his burner phone, dials the number he knows well and exchanges a quick set of messages."He's dead. Done as you asked. Muthafucker didn't get to resist. Yeah, burnt him up. No longer a problem to you. No witnesses." With that, he tore the phone and tossed it in a nearby trashcan, wondering just why fate decided to torment him like this. It was a hard life, a life devoid of enjoyment. The only joy he used to get was his sports, his fiance who's currently in prison for murder.