An ordinary Tuesday (translation)

Present Time. The market in the Lower Circles of Wrath smelled of sulfur, machine oil, and cheap synthetic meat. Corvus stood at the counter, towering over a scrawny blue imp vendor. At forty-two, he looked like he had lived through all eight circles of Hell and came back for seconds. His gray hair, long having lost the sheen of youth, fell carelessly over his forehead. But it was his eyes that drew the most attention. His sclerae were blacker than the abyss, but his pupils were bright, terrifyingly white, like two tiny suns frozen in the night. They looked at the vendor with the cold, heavy gaze of a cornered wolf that refused to give up. Corvus’s clothing screamed of his profession and paranoia. A worn leather jacket, under which the outline of armor could be guessed, camouflage pants tucked into... combat boots. These were not just shoes. This was an engineering feat. Most hellhounds walked barefoot, considering their claws a natural weapon. Corvus despised this. To him, footwear was the boundary between civilization and the beast. He had assembled these boots himself, from pieces of armor and durable leather, specifically tailored to the anatomy of a paw, so the toes wouldn't be squeezed and the soles wouldn't slip on blood. In front of him on the counter lay a laptop. Or what the vendors called a laptop. A metal casing, burned by acid, a screen covered with a protective film. Corvus slowly opened the lid, checked the ports, and closed it. His lips twitched in a grimace resembling a snarl. "How much?" Corvus’s voice was low, with a rasp that made one of the vendor's three eyes twitch. "One thousand three hundred..." the vendor’s voice trailed off. "For this laptop?.." Corvus swallowed the lump that formed in his throat at the quoted price. "It has a good display compared to competitors," the imp vendor started listing the pros. "Two drive slots, two years of warranty, while other competitors only have... one year. I mentioned that in the voice note." "You're kidding me," Corvus hissed. "What do you mean?" the vendor nervously adjusted his apron. "It's a normal machine. It works." "Five hundred and twelve gigs," Corvus poked a clawed finger at the casing. "And one drive. Are you serious? This isn't even serious. It's a mockery." The vendor tried to smile, baring a row of sharp teeth. "Hey, take it easy. Listen, there's a second slot for a hard drive. You can expand the memory. Some models don't even have that possibility, but here—please, be my guest." Corvus didn't tear his gaze away from the imp. Inside him, that familiar feeling began to boil. Familiar. Dangerous. Rage. He knew that if he cut himself on the sharp edge of the counter right now, this rage would turn into physical agony that would make him flip this entire market upside down. He needed to breathe evenly. "I need space," Corvus said, each sound shooting out like a bullet. "I need to store data. Blueprints. Maps. And you're offering me half a drive and the hope that I'll find a hard drive in the shit." "Just look at the price!" the vendor threw his hands up, trying to change the subject. "For this money, it's a gift. The second slot is a feature! Get it? A feature! Others buy it, no complaints." Corvus leaned in closer. The shadow of his leather jacket fell over the vendor. "Listen, it's like buying a motorcycle two years ago. 'Never crashed, does two hundred miles an hour.' Yeah, right, after you rip out the cheap Alpha engine and swap it for a Harley Davidson, change the headlights and swap the parts. A decent bike, right?.." "I am not 'others'. And I don't need 'features'. I need a tool. And this..." he tapped the laptop lid with disgust, "...is a toy for a brat who wants to watch low-res porn." "Listen, hound..." the vendor was losing his patience, his tail nervously thumping the floor. "Want better? Pay three times as much. Or go to the fences in the Greed Ring. But they'll skin you alive there. Here, it's an honest deal. The second slot is there. It works." Corvus straightened up. He looked at the laptop, then at the vendor. His thoughts raced feverishly. He didn't have extra money. The job was risky, the pay meager for such risks. "Second slot..." Corvus muttered, more to himself than to the vendor. "And what's the bus interface?" The vendor perked up, seeing the buyer was still there. "Standard! Any junk from the dump will fit. Look, I'll even throw in an adapter. For free. So you can plug in an old drive. Well, if you have one." Corvus was silent. His white pupils narrowed. A thought flashed in his head: I can take this one. Hack the BIOS. Squeeze the maximum out of it. But that takes time. And I don't have time. "An adapter," Corvus repeated like an echo. "Yes, yes! And a case. Leather. Almost new." The vendor began frantically rummaging under the counter. Corvus sighed heavily. The air in his lungs burned his throat. "Fine. But if this 'second slot' turns out to be a dummy..." he didn't finish, but his voice carried a promise of pain. Real, not metaphorical pain. "It won't be! I swear on Mammon!" the vendor laid a coil of wires and a worn case on the counter. "It'll be like new. Well, almost." Corvus pulled a wad of crumpled bills from the pocket of his camo pants. His fingers weren't trembling from the cold. The curse pulsed in his veins, demanding an outlet, demanding blood. But he clenched his fist so hard that his knuckles turned white under the black fur. "Wrap it up," he threw the words at him. While the vendor bustled about, Corvus looked at his reflection in the dirty laptop screen. Forty-two years old. He was still buying junk at dumpsites, still hiding behind a mercenary's mask. Somewhere out there, in the past, Loona remained. He didn't know where she was, if she was alive. But this laptop... this laptop was needed to find answers. "Done!" the vendor handed him a bag. Corvus took it. The weight in his hands felt insignificant compared to the weight in his soul. "If you lied to me..." Corvus began. "I didn't lie!" the vendor interrupted, already shuffling toward the exit of his shack. "Enjoy using it!" Corvus turned and walked out into the street. The heat of Hell hit his face. He adjusted the strap on his shoulder, feeling how the boots tightly gripped his paws, giving him support. "Five hundred and twelve gigs..." he muttered under his breath, heading toward the port. "I'll have to clean the system manually."

***

The "Smoldering Embers" cafe hid in the shadow of a giant canvas umbrella stretched over cracked tiles. Rain of fine ash and sulfur drummed against the fabric, creating a monotonous, lulling noise. Corvus sat at a corner table, hunched over the laptop. The screen cast a pale glow on his face, highlighting his scars and those very eyes—sclerae blacker than pits into the hellish soil, pupils white, narrowed to needles. His claws tapped on the keyboard too loudly for such a place. Click-clack. Click-clack. Every strike echoed in his temples. He typed into the search bar: "Eternal Rest Orphanage adoption lists", "Chronology of Lower Circles experiments". Nothing. Or too much digital noise to separate truth from lies. I don't know... Corvus thought, stopping his fingers over the keys. A claw hovered over the Enter key, trembling. Did I do the right thing? The wind brought the smell of roasted meat and cheap synthetic alcohol. Corvus clenched his jaw, feeling the muscles in his neck tense. On one hand, I left her alone in an orphanage. Satan knows what they might have done to her there... Maybe they took her for experiments? Or worse—sold her for organs, threw her into fighting arenas, broke her psyche before she even learned to speak. No. Better not to wind myself up. That's a path to nowhere. He shifted his gaze to his hands. On his palm was an old, deep scar running from his wrist to his elbow. A memory of the first time he felt the curse in its fullness. How blood gushed like a fountain, and his mind clouded with a red haze. How he almost tore his first partner apart, just by scratching himself on a rusty fence. The curse didn't ask who was in front of you. It was hungry. It was always hungry. On the other hand... the voice in his head became quieter, but sharper, like the edge of a knife. If I had kept her with me, I might have accidentally cut myself and devoured her while she was still a pup. I can't control this. Blood, pain, rage... it erases me. It leaves only the beast. And the beast doesn't care if it's its own blood or someone else's. He closed his eyes for a second. In the darkness behind his eyelids, an image flashed: a small gray fluffball, warm, trustingly nuzzling its snout into his palm. Loona. His daughter. Twenty-two years ago, he had left her on the orphanage steps, wrapped in an old jacket, and walked away without looking back. Walked away so he wouldn't return in the form of a monster. "I hope she's alive..." he exhaled, opening his eyes. His white pupils trembled, reflecting the pixels on the screen. "Just a hint. Anything." The laptop hummed, the fan working at its limit, trying to cool the overheated processor. Corvus wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Five hundred and twelve gigs of memory were already bursting at the seams. He critically needed that second slot. He needed access to the closed Sin databases, orphanage archives, lists of survivors. He needed the truth. He leaned over the keyboard again. Click-clack. The umbrella overhead creaked from a gust of wind. The ash rain intensified, but Corvus didn't move. He was looking for a needle in a haystack, knowing that this search depended not only on his peace of mind but on who the one he once called his daughter had become. And whether he was ready to meet the answer when it finally surfaced. The screen flickered, dropping another stream of useless archives. Corvus rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling the laptop fan shift into a piercing whine. The processor temperature was creeping into the red zone. The thermal paste had probably turned to dust under previous owners, and the single drive was crackling, trying to digest gigabytes of cache. He critically needed money. Not for booze, not for ammo—for a proper cooler, a tube of decent thermal paste, and a second SSD to finally unload these damn two slots. And then the search engine spat out what he wasn't looking for, but what was looking for him. An ad flashed on the screen in bold letters, breaking through the standard filters of the Sin shadow boards:

I.M.P. is hiring a freelance operative.

Required: silence, efficiency, lack of moral brakes.

The work is dirty. The pay is high. No questions asked.

Reply only with real experience. Contact via encrypted node.

Corvus froze. His claw hovered over the trackpad. "I.M.P.," he muttered, and a mix of recognition and skepticism rang in his voice. "Blitzø and his circus." He knew this outfit. He had heard the stories. Too fast money, too much blood, too few survivors. A mousetrap with cheese that smells of gunpowder. On one hand—a classic scam. In Hell, "high pay" almost always meant either a trap or a job after which there was no one left to pay you. On the other... he looked at the screen, where the laptop was already starting to throttle, dropping its frequencies. Without an upgrade, it would simply burn out. And along with it—all the clues, all the archives, all the hints about Loona. A scam? he asked himself. The wind yanked the canvas of the umbrella, splashing ash onto the table. Dirty work in Hell almost always means blood. And blood for him was not just a liquid. It was a trigger. One deep cut, one drop on the tongue—and the curse would turn him inside out. But he wasn't a pup. He knew how to read between the lines, how to sense a catch in a client's intonation, how to vanish if a deal smelled like a trap. And the money... the money was needed here and now. He exhaled, releasing steam through his nostrils. His white pupils narrowed, focusing on the reply field. "No turning back," he whispered quietly. His fingers flew across the keys. Short. To the point. No fluff, no emotions. Just as the streets and years of working in the shadows had taught him.

"Corvus. Experience: 22 years. Specialization: liquidation, stealth infiltration, heavy artillery and cold steel. I stay silent. I get it done. I don't ask questions. Payment: 50% upfront. Contact via secure channel. Awaiting the brief."

He hit "Send". The message vanished into the network, dissolving in the data stream. The laptop let out a death rattle from its fan, and Corvus hastily closed the lid to let it cool down. His phone vibrated in his pocket. Not a call. A notification.

"Request accepted. Await coordinates. Do not be late. — M."

Corvus smirked, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. He knew he had just stepped into waters where the currents could tear him apart. But he had no choice. He needed answers. And also—money to survive until the moment he could give them. He finished his cold coffee, shoved the laptop into the worn case, and stood up. His boots thudded dully against the tiles. The ash rain still drummed against the umbrella, but Corvus was no longer sitting under it. He was walking toward what could become either salvation or the end. As always. The meeting place was chosen to be neutral—an abandoned cargo terminal at the border of the Wrath and Greed Rings. Rusty containers were lined up into a concrete labyrinth, the air smelling of ozone, machine grease, and rot. Corvus waited by a support column, his back pressed against the cold stone. The wind tugged at the hem of his leather jacket, but his face was hidden by a mask. A wolf skull. Not plastic, not ceramic. Real. The bone had darkened from time and soot, the frontal arch deeply scarred with cracks—traces of a blow that had once ended someone's life. He didn't remember the name of the one who wore this skull before. He only remembered the smell of fear, the crunch of cervical vertebrae, and the warm blood running down the fangs. A trophy? No. An anchor. Every time he put it on, he reminded himself: the beast inside must remain in its cage. And bone... bone doesn't bleed. Bone doesn't scream. Bone endures. The mask was held in place by leather straps tightly wrapping around the back of his head. The eye slits were narrow, but sufficient. He had to breathe through the grille where the jaw should be—a homemade filter that trapped smells, including his own. They said hellhounds could smell fear and blood from a mile away. Corvus didn't want it to smell his blood ahead of time. Especially when the curse began to pulse in his temples, demanding an outlet. Footsteps. Heavy, confident. From the shadow between the containers emerged a figure in a rumpled but expensive suit and a ridiculous bow tie. Red skin, short horns, a tail with a nervously twitching tip. In his hand—a tablet, on his shoulder—a bag with a crookedly drawn I.M.P. logo. "Corvus?" The voice was hoarse, with a slight, analytical smirk. Moxxie was not just a logistics guy, but a fighter. But in I.M.P., even the logistics guys knew how to look you in the eye. "Do you even realize how you look in that thing? Like a walking nightmare from a children's horror story." Corvus didn't answer immediately. His voice, passing through the bony grille, sounded muffled, with a metallic ring. "It's comfortable. It doesn't smell. It hides emotions." Moxxie chuckled, stepping closer. In the dim light of the lamp, the mask cast long shadows on the concrete. "Well, since you're here, you read the ad. Dirty work. Client is a small-time thug from Wrath, owes the wrong people. Need to clear a warehouse, retrieve documents, and... convince him that debts are better left unpaid. Pay is forty grand. Half upfront." Corvus nodded. The sum was sufficient. Enough for a cooler, a tube of decent thermal paste, and a second SSD. Enough so the laptop wouldn't die ahead of time. And along with it—all the clues to his daughter. "Where's the warehouse?" "Coordinates are in the file. But there's a catch." Moxxie hesitated, tapping the tablet. "There will be guards. And not just street thugs. Ex-military. Heavy weaponry. There will be a lot of blood." Corvus felt a chill run down his spine. Not fear. A warning. The curse had already stirred somewhere in his chest, warm and sticky. He clenched his fists, his claws digging into his palms, but the pain was dull, controlled. The mask on his face seemed to grow heavier. "I know what I'm doing," his voice sounded steadier through the bone than he felt. "Blood is just a liquid. As long as it's not mine." Moxxie squinted, studying the empty eye sockets of the skull. "Good to hear. But if you start losing it... we're not babysitters. I.M.P. pays for results, not theatrics. And if this mask is part of your... control, don't take it off where it smells of gunpowder." "I won't," Corvus cut him off. "When do we start?" "In an hour. Transport is waiting at point 'Echo'. Don't be late. And..." Moxxie nodded at the skull. "In Hell, everyone chooses how to wear their darkness. The main thing is that it doesn't start wearing you." Corvus didn't answer. He simply turned around, his boots quietly striking the concrete. The wind once again tugged at the hem of his jacket, and the mask briefly gleamed in the neon light—empty eye sockets, sharp fangs, bone remembering someone else's death. He walked toward the rendezvous point. The laptop in its case bumped against his hip. The curse quietly ached in his veins. And the skull on his face silently reminded him: today, he would have to choose between the beast and the man again. And he already knew which choice would survive.

***

Fifty percent of the prepayment was already in the account. Corvus checked his balance on his phone, tucked it into the pocket of his camouflage pants, and adjusted his mask. The skull on his face was heavy, but familiar. Like an old suit of armor. The warehouse was exactly where the coordinates promised—at the edge of an industrial zone, surrounded by rusted hangars and broken roads. The security detail consisted of six, maybe seven guards. Ex-military, just as Moxxie had warned. Heavy weaponry. Corvus smirked beneath the mask. He had done this a thousand times. For him, wiping out an entire gang was like taking a Sunday stroll. He moved silently. The combat boots, custom-engineered specifically for the anatomy of a hellhound’s paw, made no sound on the concrete. His leather jacket blended into the shadows. The mask hid not just his face—it hid him. The beast waiting inside. The first guard went down without a sound. A knife between the ribs, a hand clamped over the mouth to muffle the death rattle. The body was lowered to the ground slowly, without a noise. Corvus felt the warm blood seep through his glove. The curse stirred somewhere in his chest. Warm. Hungry. Not yet. Not time. He moved on. The second, the third. A suppressed automatic rifle did its job. The remaining guards realized what was happening too late. The firefight began. Bullets sparked off the concrete; one grazed his shoulder, another skimmed along his thigh. And then it came. Blood. His blood. Warm, sticky, seeping through the fabric. The curse erupted in his veins like a nuclear reactor. The world narrowed down to a tunnel, and at the end of it were only targets. Threats. Food. Rage swallowed him whole. Corvus slipped into the mode he both hated and feared. Claws, teeth, pure animalistic efficiency. He didn’t remember how he finished off the last two. He only remembered the crunch of bones, the roaring in his ears, and the taste of iron on his tongue. When it was over, he stood in the middle of the warehouse, breathing heavily. Bodies lay all around. The documents were here, in the safe. But the curse had not yet receded. It pulsed in his muscles, demanding... replenishment. Corvus dropped to one knee beside one of the bodies. His hand trembled. He hated this moment. He hated himself for what he was about to do. But biology was stronger than morality. The curse drained his energy, burning calories at an impossible rate. If he didn’t replenish it... he would pass out. Or lose his mind. I’m not a monster. I’m just... surviving. His claws sliced through the fabric, finding the flesh. He didn’t look at the face. He didn’t think about who this demon had been in life. He thought only of proteins, only of calories, only of the necessity to close this damn metabolic hole that the curse had torn open. The first bite. Blood. Flesh. The taste was horrific. But his body reacted instantly—the trembling stopped, his muscles flooded with strength, his mind cleared. A cannibal by force. He didn’t eat much. Just enough to calm the curse, to make the rage recede. He left the rest. Not out of respect, but for practical reasons—corpses with chunks torn out of them would look too... personal. Too bestial. And he needed this to look like the work of a mercenary. A professional. Not a monster. Corvus wiped his mouth with the back of his glove and stood up. The mask on his face felt heavier than ever. Inside the safe lay the documents—the very reason he had come. He took them, checked them, and shoved them into the inner pocket of his jacket. His phone vibrated.

M: Job done?

Corvus looked at the bodies. At the bloodstains. At what he had done.

Corvus: Documents secured. The remaining 50% to my account. Now.

The reply came almost instantly.

M: Transferred. Good work. The client is satisfied.

The money arrived. Enough for a cooler. Enough for a tube of decent thermal paste. Enough for a second SSD. Enough so the laptop wouldn’t die. So the search for Loona could continue. Corvus walked out of the warehouse, stepping through puddles of blood. His boots didn’t slip. The mask hid the expression on his face. But inside... inside he felt only emptiness and the lingering taste of alien flesh on his tongue. I’m not a monster, he repeated to himself for the thousandth time. I’m just doing what I have to. To survive. To find her. But every time he ate the flesh of an enemy, that line grew thinner. And he wasn’t sure he could ever cross it back.

***

A few hours later, Corvus wiped the blood off his pants as best he could, but dark stains still bled through the camouflage. Inside his gloves, he could feel a stickiness that refused to go away. He didn’t take the mask off—not now. Not while the smell of alien flesh still lingered in his nostrils. The store "Around the Corner from Satan" was open 24/7. The vendor—an old sinner with charred skin—didn’t even raise an eyebrow when Corvus threw a wad of crumpled bills onto the counter. In Hell, everyone had seen everything. A mercenary in a skull mask with bloodstains? Just an ordinary Tuesday. "What are you getting?" "Vodyara. A liter. The cheapest you have." "Energy drink?" "Sugar-free. Two cans." "Cigarettes?" "A pack. Strong ones." "And..." Corvus hesitated, then nodded toward the freezer. "Those pizzas. Calzones. As many as you have." The vendor silently packed everything into a bag. The frozen mini-calzones were cheap, tasteless, and packed with preservatives. The perfect food for those who had neither the time nor the desire to cook. Or for those who had no one at home to cook for them. Corvus left the store, the bag swinging in his hand. In his other pocket were the new components: a laptop cooler, a tube of thermal paste, and a second one-terabyte SSD. Everything to keep the machine from dying. Everything so the search could continue. His "home" was in an old residential complex on the outskirts of the Wrath Ring. Ninth floor, apartment 67. A door with no peephole, three deadbolts. Inside was a single room crammed with equipment. A desk with a laptop, a rack of weapons, a fridge, a microwave. A bed in the corner, made up haphazardly. No photographs. No personal belongings. Only functionality. Corvus closed the door, threw all the deadbolts, and took off the mask. The face beneath it was slick with sweat. He looked at his reflection in the dark monitor screen—black sclerae, white pupils, scars, exhaustion. Forty-two years old. And looking every bit of a hundred. He tossed the mask onto the desk. The skull thudded dully against the metal. The laptop was still hot. Corvus opened the lid; the screen lit up with a delay—the processor was throttling. Temperature: 94 degrees. "Fuck," he muttered. Turning it on right now was suicide. But the pizza... the pizza demanded heat. Corvus gave a crooked, joyless smirk. He took one of the frozen calzones, unwrapped the foil, and... pressed it against the bottom of the laptop, where the casing was overheating too much. "Come on, you bastard. Warm yourself up, and warm something else up too." Steam rose almost immediately. The smell of dough and cheap cheese filled the room. Three minutes later, the pizza was hot. Not perfectly, not evenly, but edible. Corvus sat on the chair and leaned back. In his hand—a hot calzone. On the desk—a liter of cheap vodka, an energy drink, cigarettes. He took the first bite. Tough dough, plastic-like cheese, suspicious filling. It wasn’t tasty. But calories were calories. He popped open a can of energy drink and took a sip. Bitter, chemical, sugar-free. But it had caffeine. Then he took out a cigarette. Lit it. Took a deep drag, blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. And only then—the vodka. Cheap, fusel, burning his throat. He took a large gulp, winced, but swallowed. The alcohol hit his head almost instantly. An empty stomach, exhaustion, the curse that still ached somewhere inside—all of it did its job. Corvus sat in the dim light, chewing the pizza, washing it down with vodka and energy drink. On the laptop screen, which was slowly cooling down, the search tabs were still open. *Eternal Rest Orphanage. Lists. Archives.* He looked at the mask. The skull lay on the desk, its empty eye sockets staring at the ceiling. "Twenty-two years," he muttered into the void. "Where are you, daughter? Are you alive?" No one answered. Only the laptop fan hummed quietly, recovering. Corvus finished the pizza and took another gulp of vodka. The alcohol blurred the edges of reality, softening his thoughts. But it didn’t make him forget. It never did. He remembered the warehouse. The taste of blood. The crunch of bones. How he had eaten alien flesh. "I’m not a monster," he told the mask. The mask remained silent. "I’m just... surviving." He took another gulp. Then another. The vodka was running out. The energy drink too. The cigarette burned down to the filter. Corvus leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. Black sclerae behind his eyelids, white pupils that had seen too much. Tomorrow, he would install the new cooler. Apply the thermal paste. Install the second SSD. The laptop would run as it should. The search would speed up. But today... today was just another day in Hell. Another job. Another pizza heated on an overheating processor. Another liter of cheap vodka to forget what he had become. And another step toward the daughter he had abandoned twenty-two years ago. Corvus fell asleep right at the table, his head dropping onto his arms. The skull mask stared at him with empty eye sockets. And on the laptop screen, a tab still glowed:

Eternal Rest Orphanage — archival records. The search would continue tomorrow.