Screen from Agent Wanda 10 (Patreon)

Close distance shooting anyone?

Story for the pic:

Marked for Suffering

Mila never should’ve come to this house.

The walls seemed to breathe with malice, soaked in the fear and agony of those who had perished before her. She had heard the rumors—dark stories of disappearances, of screams in the night—but curiosity, or perhaps fate, drew her in. Now, she stood cornered, her white tank top shredded, blood oozing from the bullet holes ripped through her skin.

Her attacker, a nameless figure of dread, held the gun like an executioner wielding his axe. The look in his eyes was cold, dead, as if her suffering was nothing more than an afterthought. His hand rested on her shoulder, a gesture as cruel as the bullets that had already torn through her flesh. He didn’t need to rush—there was no escape for her.

Mila's chest heaved as pain coursed through her, sharp and unrelenting. Every ragged breath was a fight, her vision narrowing as the blood loss began to take its toll. She wanted to scream, to beg for mercy, but what good would it do? She knew that no one ever left this place alive. The house had become a prison for the damned, where twisted games of torment were played to the bitter end.

The house, ancient and rotting, seemed to pulse with evil energy. It whispered to her in the cracks of the floorboards, in the flicker of shadows that danced along the walls. She was not the first, and she would not be the last. The man before her was no mere killer—he was something more. Something darker. A predator feeding on terror, feeding on her slow, agonizing death.

With each bullet that pierced her, Mila felt her spirit slipping further from her body, yet there was no release. The pain lingered, raw and visceral. She had no idea why he hadn’t killed her outright, why he seemed to relish every moment of her suffering. The bullets should have ended her quickly, but they didn't. Instead, they tore at her, keeping her balanced on the knife’s edge of life and death.

In the corner of the room stood a grotesque angelic statue, its eyes cold, mocking her from afar. It was said the house had once been holy ground, a place of sanctuary before darkness claimed it. Now, it was nothing but a tomb.

As her knees buckled and she collapsed against the wall, Mila’s mind clung to survival, her fingers trembling, searching for anything to fight back. But all she found was her own weakness, her own fear. She was nothing but prey, bleeding out in the lair of a monster.

The man crouched down beside her, gun in hand, and tilted his head as if admiring his handiwork. “Not yet,” he whispered, voice low and menacing. “You’ll beg for the end soon enough.”

Tears blurred her vision as Mila fought to stay conscious, knowing deep down that the worst was yet to come. This was no ordinary death—this was something far more terrifying. The kind of horror that seeped into your soul, leaving you trapped in eternal pain long after your body was gone.

And in this house, death was just the beginning.